The gossip columnists know the score. Grayson Ashford would sooner crash on a bottle service girl’s futon than touch his own wife. Me. Sloane Reed. The only thing keeping the tabloids in business is the countdown to the day Mrs. Ashford finally stops being the city’s highest-paid virgin. Gray was ruthless when the cameras flashed. His eyes, cold and direct, drilled into mine. “Go have your own fun,” he’d said, his hands tucked casually in his trouser pockets. “If you can’t stand it, the door swings both ways.” He turned and strolled away. That night, when his latest conquest—a socialite-turned-wannabe-model—hit the front page, I didn’t cry. Instead, I called my contact at The Gazette and scheduled a headline. Then, I shredded my lace slip, tangled the Italian-thread sheets, and took a grainy, first-person-view shot of myself in the aftermath. The ultimate setup. I sent it to Gray anonymously. Text: Hey, man. Your wife smells incredible. Let me know when the papers are signed. 1 Watching the headline I bought shoot straight to number one, I smiled, satisfied, and prepared for sleep. Less than an hour later, the heavy, urgent sound of Gray’s footsteps echoed through the penthouse. “Sloane Reed! Is this how you retaliate? Who the hell was he!” A stack of photos hit my face. One was my staged, ambiguous bedroom shot. The other, the real kicker, was a smaller photo: Gray pressing Piper against a window, mid-passion. It was the headline I had arranged: ASHFORDS STRIKE NEW DEAL: OPEN MARRIAGE, NO INTERFERENCE. I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling the silk robe tighter around me. “Isn’t this exactly what you wanted?” I looked him straight in the eye. “You could have picked anyone. But you didn’t. You crossed a line when you decided to humiliate me with my father’s bastard daughter!” Gray’s sharp breath hitched, but he didn’t address the Piper of it all. His jaw tightened. “Who. Was. He?” “You don’t need to know. That’s what makes it fair.” There was a time I would have hired a private investigator to dig up every piece of information on his latest mistress. I was young then, naive, with a heart that couldn’t stand a speck of dust. But I learned quickly. Every time I thought I had a rival, he had already moved on to the next. I stopped asking. Gray let out a sudden, chilling laugh. “You have some nerve, I’ll give you that.” His eyes, black and savage, landed on a faint bruise at my collarbone—a fading mark from my imaginary lover. A flicker of something crossed his face. He pinned me to the mattress. I struggled, screamed. A sharp object—a slim pocket knife—plunged into my skin just above the bone. I gasped as the warmth of blood bloomed over the mark, erasing the bruise. He erased it. “You’re insane! Let go of me!” Gray’s eyes were bloodshot, the veins in his forehead throbbing. “First and last time,” he hissed. “I’ll kill the post. You will get back to normal before I completely lose it.” His version of normal: his conquests were front-page news, and I remained outwardly unbothered. They sent me used contraception and soiled clothes, and I would graciously accept the packages. He stared down at me, his gaze cold and desolate, until my tears were streaming down my face. He finally released me and moved to the dresser drawer for the first-aid kit. I shoved his hand away. “Don’t touch me!” Gray stood up, his face hardening into an expression of cold contempt. “You played this entire theatrical game just to provoke me. Why the sudden innocence act?” He gestured to my bleeding arm, accidentally nicked by the knife. The silk sheet absorbed the fresh stain. I was slick with sweat from the shock. My arm bled, but my heart felt like it had ruptured a thousand times over. His eyes were unblinking, devoid of feeling. “My mother was right. Women who claw their way up from the gutter always resort to trashy tricks just to get attention,” he sneered. “Why bother staging this play? If you have the guts, really file for divorce! Your sister is ten thousand times better than you!” He stormed out. Moments later, a divorce agreement with his signature flashed across my phone screen. The property settlement was skewed 70-30 in my favor. He was so certain I would never leave that he made it easy for me to stay. But I signed it. Then I picked up my phone, dialed a number, and confirmed my exit strategy. You think this man isn’t real, Gray? Watch me. The second I ended the call, the tears I had been hoarding finally fell.

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An hour before the D&C procedure, a post popped up on my phone. [What’s your definition of a ‘living the dream’ life?] One comment was pinned to the top, flooded with likes. [I have the perfect answer for this. I’m the spoiled, beloved fake daughter.] [I not only enjoyed eighteen years of luxury that belonged to that idiot, but the man she married now? He was my sloppy seconds, my devoted lapdog.] [The moment she came home, I developed ‘depression.’ To keep me calm, my parents have yet to legally acknowledge her. To the outside world, she’s still just their adopted girl.] [She worked herself to the bone to climb to a CEO position. But because I said ‘I want that, too,’ her husband—who just happens to be her biggest client—started making her life hell. My parents, of course, just handed the job to me.] [The kicker? The night before their wedding, I told him I was feeling ‘lonely,’ and we celebrated in her new marital bed.] The text was dripping with self-satisfied glee. While other commenters tore into her, she only grew more brazen, posting a photo: several blurred tickets for a trip. [Just because I mentioned I didn’t want her to have a baby, her husband is forcing her to have an abortion.] [The funniest part? She’s sitting in the waiting room alone right now. Her parents, and her husband, are all with me, taking a relaxing trip to Miami.] [I was born under a lucky star. What does she have that could possibly compare?] I stared at the image on my screen. It matched the recent vacation photos Savannah Wilde had posted on social media. The hospital hallway was vast and empty. I was completely alone. The idiot she was talking about. It was me. 1 Faced with a deluge of angry internet comments, Savannah Wilde wasn’t shamed; she was emboldened. [Yell all you want. The angrier you are, the more it proves how much they love me. I am the Stones’ darling. I am the one his heart belongs to.] Below, she attached another photo. A slender hand, a diamond band on the ring finger. I knew that design intimately. It was identical to the ring Owen Miller wore daily. Her next reply jumped up, the tone thick with boastful contempt: [See? I casually mentioned, ‘It’s disgusting to touch me while wearing someone else’s wedding ring,’ so he tossed out their cheap little matching set.] [This one? We went and picked it out together. Engraved couple’s rings.] [In this world, the unloved one is the outsider. I’m the real wife.] My gaze locked onto that ring. A chill began to spread from my core. A three-year-old memory stabbed me. That day, I’d noticed Owen’s wedding band was missing. He’d frantically checked all his pockets, then pulled me into a hug, full of remorse: “Honey, I must have lost it on a business trip. I’m such an idiot.” He’d cooed softly, “Punish me, however you like.” I believed him. I gave him my complete trust. A week later, a strange, new ring appeared on his finger. I pursed my lips and asked, “Where did this one come from?” He’d held up his hand for me to see, his expression a mixture of feigned frustration and ingratiation. “I accidentally put it on when sampling a new design at the office. Now I can’t get it off. If you hate it, Eliza, I’ll take a wrench to it, I swear. Just say the word.” My heart had softened. I held his hand. “Don’t be silly… Just wear it for now. If it’s uncomfortable, we’ll figure out how to take it off. It’s actually quite handsome.” Their couple’s ring. The wedding band he’d discarded, and the nascent life inside me, were nothing more than ugly, laughable roadblocks on the path of their true love. The comment section was boiling, angry replies streaming in. Savannah’s original post remained the top hot comment. Countless kind strangers were desperately trying to sound the alarm. [Spread the word! Let the real daughter see this! Get out now!] [Hugs to the true daughter. Be strong. He’s not worth it!] Tears streamed down my face. Finally, I signed the consent form for the termination. Owen Miller didn’t deserve for me to bear his child. Stepping out of the operating room, the hollow, dull ache in my body forced me to clutch the railing just to move. My phone vibrated. It was Owen. I answered. His voice came through the receiver immediately. “Honey, did you… did you go through with the procedure?” “We have Finn. That’s enough. You absolutely have to get rid of this one, don’t let Finn get upset.” 2 “Honey? Can you hear me?” Owen’s voice was relayed through the earpiece, carrying a trace of deliberately suppressed urgency. After a brief silence, he raised his tone. “Hello?” “I can hear you.” The moment I spoke, a sharp pang shot through my lower abdomen—the specific, heavy ache of being emptied out. I had to bend over, pressing my arm tightly against my stomach. But compared to the physical pain, the place in my heart that was being repeatedly shredded was far more suffocating. “So… is it done?” he asked, his impatience no longer hidden. I gritted my teeth, fiercely suppressing the heat and sting welling up in my eyes, forcing two words out from between my teeth: “It’s done.” On the other end of the line, I could distinctly hear his sigh of relief, even a faint, easy laugh. “Good girl, honey.” His voice returned to its usual softness, laced with the gentle, practiced tone he always used to coax me. “I’ll bring you a gift when I’m back from my business trip.” I managed a tight, cynical smile, but offered no reply. My silence made him mistake my anger for missing him. He went on, “Oh, honey, I know you had it tough. I’ll go the extra mile to make it up to you when I get home. How does that sound?” But his patience lasted less than two seconds. Before I could respond, his tone quickened. “Gotta run, I have to hop on a call. My wife is the most understanding woman in the world. Gotta hang up now.” Beep— The dial tone was abrupt, uncompromising. After that call, Owen Miller vanished completely. Three whole days, zero contact. In the past, I would have immediately concocted excuses for him: He’s too busy, I shouldn’t bother him. Then I would have left a few nervous, sweet messages in his chat every day—Remember to eat, get some rest—and felt moved by his supposed dedication to our little family. Now, I realized how utterly ridiculous that was. Busy? He wasn’t busy. He had merely removed an “inconvenience,” and he was now, undoubtedly, sharing the “good news” with the woman who held the center of his heart. Three days later, I was in the living room, building blocks with our son, Finn. He strode in, suitcase in tow, first giving a quick, affectionate hug to Finn and handing him a toy the boy had been begging for. “Be a good boy, Finn. Go play in your room. Daddy needs to talk to Mommy.” He turned to me, his eyes carrying that familiar, suggestive spark. Before, that hint of intimacy would have made my cheeks flush. Now, all I felt was a wave of nausea. Finn, holding his new toy, obediently went upstairs. Owen immediately wrapped his arms around me from behind, rubbing his chin on the back of my neck, his voice full of flattery. “Still mad at me, honey? I messed up, I know. I was a jerk for not being there when you needed me most. I promise, never again.” I pulled free from his embrace and turned to face him. “Owen Miller, how many times have you promised that this month?” His face stiffened. I didn’t give him a chance to speak. “The eighth. Our anniversary. You promised to spend the night with me, then one call pulled you away. You didn’t show up for two days.” “Mid-month. I wasn’t feeling well. You promised to take me to the doctor, but you ditched me halfway there.” “And then, this procedure…” Tallying them up, I was stunned to realize how transparent his lies and excuses were. He hadn’t been a good liar; I had simply blinded myself. A flash of annoyance crossed his eyes, quickly suppressed, replaced by a helpless smile. “Honey, let’s not drag up old fights. I work for us, for our family, don’t I?” Seeing I wasn’t moved, he pulled a small box from his pocket. He opened it—it was a necklace. “Look, a peace offering. I got it just for you. Let me put it on…” I stepped aside, avoiding his touch. His hand froze mid-air. I looked up, my voice steady. “I just had a miscarriage, I need rest. You should sleep in the guest room tonight.” Leaving him staring in shock, I turned and walked upstairs. The moment I entered the bedroom, my phone buzzed. I opened it. It was a photo Savannah Wilde had posted on the forum. When I saw the contents, a trembling rage overtook me. 3 Savannah’s latest update was a photo of a pet. A dog, wearing a necklace. Below it, her smug explanation: [That idiot is actually throwing a tantrum. I was generous and gave her husband my little Prince’s old collar. Let him use it to calm her down. Ha, I wonder if she’ll cry with gratitude when she sees her ‘gift’?] I stared, transfixed. The necklace on the dog’s neck was the exact one Owen had tried to give me moments ago. Eight years of marriage, and in his eyes, I was worth less than a dog. A huge wave of disappointment gave way to a towering, blinding anger. A rage so complete that, paradoxically, it made me feel cold and calm. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly forced the anger down. “Honey, stop being mad. I genuinely messed up.” Owen pushed the door open, a playful look on his face. He held out a slightly faded pink card, as if performing a magic trick. “Here. A one-time ‘No-Fuss, No-Fight’ card. Please accept it, my queen.” I took it, confused. The card’s edges were slightly yellowed, and the date was ten years ago. I hadn’t even met him then. The small, trailing red heart at the bottom was exactly the way Savannah always signed her notes. The last warmth in my heart died. I heard my own voice, dry and thin. “Get out. I don’t want to look at you right now.” He frowned, a flicker of displeasure crossing his face. “Eliza Harrison, that’s enough. Dragging this out only makes me tired.” He slammed the door shut and left. I stood there, clutching the flimsy card, my fingers ice-cold. My phone rang abruptly. I answered, and my mother’s voice immediately hammered me with blame. “Eliza Harrison! Can you please start acting like an adult? Owen already made a sacrifice to marry you. Why are you making such a scene? He’s so busy with work. Can’t you be more understanding?” “Mom,” I cut her off, my voice so steady it surprised me. “I just had a miscarriage.” The other end was silent for two seconds. Her tone softened slightly. “A miscarriage… it’s not the end of the world. Owen only did it for your own good, for Finn’s sake.” “I called you a dozen times,” I said. “Owen was busy on a business trip. Where were you?” Without waiting for an answer, I hung up. Immediately, texts from several mutual friends started trickling in—all the usual advice: Couples shouldn’t let the sun set on a fight, Owen is so sweet to you, we’re all jealous, he posted an apology for you on social media, go check it out. I opened Owen Miller’s social media. The latest post, ten minutes ago: [Kicked out of the bedroom after a long night of work. Guess the gift will keep me company tonight.] The photo was of that hideous necklace. It already had several likes and comments, teasing him as a “Wife Guy.” He replied uniformly: [I have to spoil my queen. Going to the auction tomorrow. I’ll go to any lengths to get her that rare Buccellati Filigree Cuff. Otherwise, I might be sleeping alone for good…] The comments section was full of good-natured laughter and encouragement. I scrolled up, expressionless. Every single one of his posts seemed carefully designed to cultivate the image of a devoted husband. But how could a man who couldn’t remember his wife’s taste be devoted? I detested ornate, attention-grabbing pieces. That loud, statement cuff? That was Savannah Wilde’s favorite style. I calmly screenshotted his post, putting it side-by-side with Savannah’s photo of the dog collar. Just then, Savannah’s forum post updated again: [Looks like the idiot is really mad. Tsk. I’m having Mom arrange a family dinner. Time to put her in her place. She really doesn’t know how good she has it.] A curious commenter asked: [If you hate her so much, why not just make her leave? With your family’s status, you could easily kick her out. Why drag this on?] Savannah instantly replied: [She will leave eventually, but not yet. She’s still useful. I haven’t dropped my ‘big move’ yet. Why let her off easy? Just thinking about the look on her face when she finds out the truth. Ha! I’m too excited to sleep.] “Big move”? I stared at the words, a sudden coldness creeping up my spine. My phone vibrated again. A text from my mother: “Family dinner tonight. You must be here.” I gazed at the screen for a moment, then calmly replied: “Okay.” I was actually quite curious about Savannah Wilde’s ‘big move.’ 4 After picking up Finn, I drove straight to the Wilde estate. Just outside the door, I saw a small figure huddled in the corner of the steps—Savannah’s son, Leo. He was wearing clothes that were clearly too small and faded, sitting alone and staring into space. Calculating the time… But a mother like Savannah was clearly unfit. Regardless, I shouldn’t involve children in adult drama. I pushed down the slight discomfort in my heart, took Finn’s hand, and walked over, leaning down and softening my voice as much as possible. “Why are you sitting out here? It’s cold. Auntie brought some snacks. Would you like one?” Leo lifted his face. His pale eyes, remarkably similar to Owen’s, held a sadness far beyond his years. He rubbed his hands together and whispered, “Mommy said I’m not allowed inside… Mommy gets mad.” Just as I offered him a pastry, Savannah rushed out like a whirlwind and slapped it from my hand! The pastry rolled onto the mud. “Who said you could take that? Huh? You little brat, are you asking for a beating?!” Her sharp voice cut through the air. Leo immediately covered his head, his body curling into a defensive ball, a gesture that spoke of routine. “Mommy, I’m scared…” Finn clutched my trouser leg, his voice trembling. At the sound of Finn’s voice, Savannah’s expression instantly flipped. She plastered on a gentle smile and scooped Finn up in a hug. “Don’t be scared, Finn. Auntie wasn’t yelling at you. Auntie bought you the newest remote-control car. Let’s go play.” She turned and carried Finn inside. As she passed me, she threw me a look of contemptuous triumph. A fleeting idea zipped through my mind, but before I could grasp it, Owen’s voice sounded behind me. “Honey! I knew you’d wait for me.” His tone was light as always, as if nothing unpleasant had happened between us. He hurried over and held out a velvet box. “Look, the Verdura Filigree Cuff. I won the auction for you! Do you like it?” I forced a small smile. “No need. I never liked that style.” I didn’t look at his frozen face. I gently took Leo’s cold little hand. “Let’s go inside with Auntie.” The moment we stepped into the living room, Savannah called out to Owen, who was following close behind. “Owen! Finn is just too much fun!” “Come help me! I can’t handle him!” Savannah giggled, hiding behind Owen, who had walked over. Finn, holding a water gun, was gleefully spraying them. Owen, smiling indulgently, shielded her. Water splashed his expensive shirt, but he laughed joyfully. The three of them were a picture of a close-knit, intimate family. I sat on the sofa, watching Leo beside me. He was staring down, his fingers anxiously picking at his pants seam. He was secretly glancing at the noisy trio, his eyes filled with undisguised envy and longing. That fleeting thought from earlier suddenly crystallized, sharp and piercing, slamming into my head. Panic seized my breath. I quietly pulled out my phone, switched to the burner account I’d prepared, and opened Savannah’s private message window: [Girl, saw your post. I feel your pain. But I was ‘smarter’ than you. I swapped the kids.] [She can be the real heir all she wants, but in the end, the assets, the husband, they all go to my son, right?] [Just a heads-up: you have to throw the lapdog a bone occasionally. My ‘Owen’ is starting to get restless. And the kid… you have to make sure he knows who to love.] Send. A few meters away, while playing with Finn, Savannah’s phone screen lit up. She looked down. The smug smile on her lips tightened slightly. Soon, my burner account received a reply. Reading the message on my screen, a sudden, sharp pain flared in my chest. Rage nearly overwhelmed me. 5 [OMG! Sister, you are my soulmate!] [She IS raising my son! I got someone to swap ours too!] [She can be the true heir all she wants, but the money, the shares—it’s all going to my son. Her son will have nothing, unloved and penniless!] Seeing her reply, I felt a dizzying surge. Although I had suspected it, the confirmation nearly shattered my composure. Savannah, drenched, leaned against Owen. Her thin top clung to her, revealing her curves. Finn, my son, was tucked to her right, still clutching the water gun. She looked up at me, a victorious smile she couldn’t suppress spread across her lips. “Sister, you’re just too high and mighty,” she said, deliberately elongating her words. “Look how much fun we’re having. Owen is still the best at protecting me, just like he always was.” She stroked Finn’s head. “Finn is so attached to me, too…” “Do you love Auntie, Finn?” she asked my son, watching me with triumph. Finn, excited, chirped happily, “I love Auntie!” I remained expressionless, turning to look at Owen beside them. “The child doesn’t know any better. But you don’t either?” “You are her brother-in-law,” I reminded him, enunciating every word. Owen’s face flashed with embarrassment, and he let out a dry laugh. “Honey, I just wanted to play with Finn. I wasn’t thinking anything of it…” My calm gaze swept over the three of them, finally resting on Savannah’s face, which screamed, What are you going to do about it? I ignored her taunt and beckoned to Finn, who was standing right next to her. “Finn, come to Mommy. You’re soaked, you’ll catch a cold.” I spoke to him gently. He immediately let go of Savannah’s hand and ran toward me. I stroked his hair, smiling as I asked, “Who does little Finn love most?” The next second, his clear, childlike voice rang through the living room. “Mommy! Finn loves Mommy the most!” I let out a soft laugh, my eyes flicking to the darkening face of Savannah. The smile on Savannah’s face instantly froze. Her fingers, still gripping Owen’s arm, tightened. I met her eyes, a hook in my own smile. “A child’s deepest love is always for their mother. Everyone else… is just a momentary distraction.” Savannah’s face contorted, her eyes turning bloodshot. “Eliza!” Owen snarled, his face sinking into a scowl. “Time to eat,” my father’s low voice cut in, having stayed silent until now. Everyone took their seats. Savannah “naturally” sat beside Owen. I sat across from them, with Leo on my left and Finn on my right. Savannah clearly didn’t intend to let the last scene drop. Her eyes gleamed as she sighed softly. “Honestly, Sister, your temper is getting worse. You should worry less about yourself and more about Mom and Dad, they’re not getting any younger.” She glanced at me, then continued. “Owen works so hard outside the home. Can’t you be more considerate? Throwing temper tantrums like a schoolgirl won’t get you anywhere.” My mother immediately frowned and scolded me. “Eliza, Savannah has a point. Owen is busy and stressed. You, as his wife, need to be gentle and understanding. Stop being so spoiled.” My father didn’t speak but shot me a look of disapproval. I quietly put down my chopsticks and began to speak, slowly. “That day, when I had the procedure, there was no one outside the operating room. Were you all really busy? Or…” I deliberately drew out the sound, just as Savannah had done earlier. I smiled, finally looking at Owen. His knuckles, gripping his chopsticks, were white. “And you, Owen? Were you really going to a ‘meeting’?” The air froze instantly. Owen’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He opened his mouth but produced no sound. My parents looked awkward, their voices gone. Savannah shot me a look of pure hatred, but, uncharacteristically, didn’t immediately retort. The only sounds in the dining room were faint breathing and the occasional clink of cutlery. As the meal neared its end, a quiet Savannah spoke again. This time, the smile at her mouth was unrestrained. She looked at my father. “Dad, I remember the merger agreement between the Harrison and Miller families stated that once we had a son, both families would contribute forty percent of their corporate shares as a gift to the child, correct?” Her gentle gaze swept over Finn, who was sitting next to me. “Finn is getting so big now. Isn’t it time to transfer the shares into his name?” My mother immediately nodded. “It should be taken care of immediately.” My father looked thoughtful. He looked at Owen, then at Finn, nestled against me, his eyes weighing the matter. I slowly scooped a spoon of soup, acting as if the matter didn’t concern me. Yet I took in every expression: the flash of excitement in Owen’s eyes, the expectant, hidden smugness on Savannah’s face, and the hesitation of my parents. “Sister, you don’t look happy? You’re Finn’s mother, after all.” Savannah noticed my silence, her smile deepening. I looked up, meeting her gaze, my voice calm and even. “Why the rush?” “The agreement, written in black and white, specifies the ‘lawful, marital son of the Harrison and Miller families.’” “You’re an imposter. Why are you in such a hurry?” I deliberately slowed my pace, clearly articulating the final words. The smile on Savannah’s face completely shattered.

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Three years into the marriage, Aria Beaumont had fallen for another vulnerable art-school type. On our anniversary, Aria pulled a divorce agreement from her purse. “Let’s get a divorce.” “Kai Miller can’t be saddled with the reputation of a homewrecker.” I tipped back the glass of Cabernet, swallowing the heat behind my eyes. “Fine.” 1 The terms of the divorce settlement were far from restrictive; in fact, they were exceedingly generous. If I were to view our three-year marriage as an investment, there was no asset on earth with a greater return. I scanned the pages line by line. Beyond the substantial cash, trust funds, jewelry, and real estate, the most crucial part was the intellectual property: she was gifting me all the patents under the Beaumont family name that my animation studio could possibly use, and those she couldn’t gift, she signed over generous long-term licensing agreements for their use. A woman who divorces her husband only to continue lifting him up and providing him a foundation is rare, a unicorn. I took my time, and Aria didn’t rush me. In the reflection of the glass-walled restaurant, I could see her constantly checking her phone, replying to messages. But even the thickest contract has an end. I signed my name, deliberate stroke after deliberate stroke. This was likely the last time the names Leo Sullivan and Aria Beaumont would appear together on the same document. Aria finally pocketed her phone. She accepted the contract, and a look of profound relief settled on her face, softening her mouth. “We did know each other well. If anything ever comes up and you need assistance, you can reach out to Mr. Preston, my assistant.” I managed a slight, slightly cynical jest. “I’ll be sure to hold tight to the Beaumont family’s coattails.” Aria raised an elegant eyebrow, stood up with a decisive movement, and walked away, leaving me with her disappearing silhouette. I sighed. She hadn’t touched her food. Taking the signed divorce papers and leaving so quickly, she must have been in a hurry to let someone know the path was cleared. She didn’t look like the cunning, formidable CEO the business pages talked about; she looked like a woman madly, recklessly in love. She had been the same three years ago when we first married. She hadn’t wanted to be separated from me for a moment, in public or in private. During those first months, we were practically inseparable. Her devotion was so obvious that even the older members of the Beaumont clan didn’t dare give me any trouble. An orphan who relied on student subsidies throughout college, yet I married into a top-tier family and somehow managed to avoid even a sliver of condescension. In the marriage with Aria, she’d walked ninety-nine steps, and then she’d held my hand and pulled me through the last one. From my paralyzing fear of intimacy to my acceptance of her proposal, she had cleared every obstacle and silenced every critic. Aria’s love was always a generous, obvious offering. I just never expected such an intense, profound feeling to have an expiry date as short as three years. Yesterday, her warmth was scorching me, and today, she could turn and shine just as fiercely on someone else. I called the waiter to order a fresh table setting. We were at the exact same exclusive restaurant where she had proposed. Every bite I would now take would be a bite of memory. Let it be this way. Three years of friendship, three years of marriage, and now this sudden, clean break. Yet, I couldn’t find the capacity to truly hate her. We’ll part ways. We’ll both find happiness. Aria, I wish you well. I will always wish you well. 2 I had barely stepped outside the restaurant when my phone buzzed with a notification. I pulled it out. It was a new post from Kai Miller’s profile. [The real talent is in the trenches. The most incredible street food is at the Night Market. Tonight, I brought a very special guest. Welcome to my world, Her Royal Highness!] [Can you believe some people have never been to a street fair? Glad to initiate her into the life of the common folk tonight.] The accompanying nine-grid photo collage was artfully composed. In every picture, Aria wore a look of indulgent resignation, letting Kai guide her hand as she sampled different skewers and snacks. This was the first time she had been explicitly pictured on his profile. Before, it was only a fleeting shadow or a close-up of a wrist. This was Aria Beaumont’s efficiency. Moments after signing the divorce agreement, here she was, in all her dazzling glory, all over another man’s social media. I almost wanted to laugh. Maybe in Aria’s mind, Kai wasn’t a home-wrecker. Maybe he was the innocent party, a young man who accidentally fell for a woman who happened to be married. But to pursue a married woman without any attempt to cover it up—that was its own contradiction. The first time I heard Kai’s name was in a casual chat with one of my old professors. “We have a new transfer student this year, Kai Miller. Reminds me a lot of you, Leo. That same hunger, that competitive spirit.” I hadn’t thought much of it then. The second time, however, it came from Aria herself. “I was at a board meeting at the Museum today, and I ran into a student working a volunteer gig. Turns out he’s your schoolmate, a few years behind you. What a coincidence.” She’d wrapped her arms around me and swayed. “Honey, he reminded me of the first time I saw you. Middle of a summer heatwave, you were wearing this heavy, ridiculous costume, handing out flyers at the amusement park. You have no idea how much my heart ached for you then.” I smiled and didn’t say anything. I knew. Of course, I knew. A few months into my freshman year, my luck had turned freakishly good. I kept running into “benefactors.” An older student council member got me a highly paid tutoring job. My department head constantly pulled me into paid research projects. The school suddenly created a generous meal subsidy program specifically for low-income students… I wasn’t an idiot. The moment Aria showed up at my dorm with a top-of-the-line Wacom tablet and a new iPad Pro, I knew she had been pulling the strings. In my first year of college, plenty of wealthy girls had tried to throw money at me. The poorer I was, the more desperately I held onto my small amount of dignity and self-respect. Aria’s help and her pursuit were like a slow, steady tide, incredibly respectful. She never put any psychological pressure on me. And, to be honest, I needed a girlfriend to fend off the more obnoxious, entitled rich guys who viewed me as a challenge. So, I didn’t outright reject her. I was mostly conflicted about what to do with the expensive gifts. I had no idea about the etiquette of dating, let alone accepting gifts from a wealthy woman who was actively pursuing me. No one had ever taught me these social rules. My father was an alcoholic. He died in a car crash when I was in middle school, drunk behind the wheel. He drank because he missed my pretty mother, who had run off with a rich man. He used to hit me, especially my face. He’d shout that I was destined to be just like her, a bitch’s destiny, serving the rich… His death gave me a $20,000 settlement. Other than that, it only gave me peace. Aria had seen my confusion. She said, “I don’t just use pretty words to court someone. My friends would laugh me out of the city if I did.” “Leo Sullivan, I like you. If you’re willing to give me a chance to pursue you, please accept these gifts, alright?” How could anyone not fall for Aria, when she was like that? 3 Because Kai Miller reminded her of me, because he was my schoolmate, Aria had immediately arranged for Mr. Preston to set him up with a good-paying flexible job. When she told me about it, she was curled up in my arms, expressing regret that we hadn’t met earlier. “I wish I had been your next-door neighbor,” she mused. “That way, I could have brought you home to my family right after your father died.” She’d giggled, lost in her fantasy. “How could that not be a childhood sweetheart story, right?” I thought that would be the last I heard of the name Kai Miller. But over the next six months, Aria mentioned him constantly, casually. “I can’t believe there are still people as genuine as Kai Miller in 2025. He came to the office today with a huge sack of potatoes, said they were from his family farm, a gift to thank me for the job.” “Kai is just tragic. Can you believe he has three older sisters and a younger one? And despite that struggling family, he still got into Georgetown.” “His parents are trying to force him to go home and marry some local landowner’s daughter. They’re monsters, how could parents be so shortsighted?” “Kai brought me another one of those homemade chicken pies today… I have to admit, the chicken was actually pretty good.” “Kai’s little sister is doing well in school, too. Even if the parents are clueless, at least his sisters love and support him.” Kai Miller, Kai Miller, Kai Miller… For half a year, I watched, clear-eyed, as her heart slowly drifted toward him. I couldn’t stop it. Because Kai was everything I once was, but amplified: more pitiful, more fiercely resilient, more genuine, more broken. He was the perfect new project. As someone who climbed out of the mud, I didn’t have the right, nor the perspective, to look down on someone still struggling through it. So, I began running a mental simulation: What if Aria asks me for a divorce? I spent countless sleepless nights creating fictional scenarios, and I settled on my final strategy. I would not be hysterical. I would not beg for affection. At my core, I was still that poor kid, and I would fiercely protect my dignity. Aria, if that simulation ever comes true, let us separate with grace. We walk our own paths now. From now on, our roads do not cross. 4 The news of our amicable divorce set the entire social circuit on fire. Back when we married, all the local heirs and heiresses couldn’t get enough of us. We were the ultimate ship: the gender-flipped fanfiction of the Brooding Artist and the Heiress Dynamo. My contact list still had a few die-hard Aria-and-Leo shippers, including the biggest one, my old college roommate and best man, Dustin Shaw. Dustin was sending me a frantic series of texts. [Wait? You guys actually did it?] [Did Aria get a terminal illness? Is the Beaumont empire going bankrupt?] [I was going to be the godfather to your children, man!] [Is the rumor true that Aria traded up for the newer, angstier college boy model?] I replied to that last one: [Yeah. It’s true.] The screen showed “Dustin is typing…” for a full ten minutes before he finally sent: [I NO LONGER BELIEVE IN LOVE.] I managed a slight pull at the corner of my mouth. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Maybe there never was any love. Maybe it was only Aria’s Savior Complex. Dustin was still spiraling. He had witnessed every step of my journey with Aria. [My OTP is officially sunk!] [Holy cow! She’s moving fast! She cheated?] Dustin then sent me a screenshot and a link. It was a still image of Kai and Aria running through the rain, their intense eye contact radiating a palpable, cinematic romance. It was gorgeous, moving, and instantly ready for a movie poster. It had been posted by a popular street-style blogger. [The world is a giant rom-com, and this NPC got to witness the leads’ rainy rendezvous.] The comment section was filled with enthusiasm. [I ship it! Take my money!] [Is this a new movie? Where did Hollywood find these two? They’re gorgeous!] [Some people are falling in love in the rain, some are just sitting on the toilet trying to stand up.] … I refreshed the feed, and the video was already gone. The Beaumont machine was fast. Aria was the sole heir, and her information couldn’t be public fodder. This meant the entire family knew the divorce was final. And given Aria’s personality, she would never have been this openly affectionate with another man while married. Right as I thought that, my phone rang. I looked at the screen. It was Vivienne Choi, Aria’s mother. The phone instantly felt hot in my hand. She was a global figure, the sole daughter of the Choi family, the overseas shipping magnates. Aria’s father was practically the one who married up. I felt a primordial fear rooted in my own low birth. I slid to answer. “Mrs. Choi…” The voice on the other end was clipped and furious. “Leo Sullivan, did you get plastic surgery recently?”

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I took a personal day for Christmas, boarding a three-hour train to give my boyfriend a surprise. The second I stepped out of the rideshare, a heavy rain broke. I dashed into a corner store to buy an umbrella. While I was looking at the selection, a girl nearby was chatting with her friend about her own boyfriend. “He is such a stage-five clinger, seriously. If I don’t text him back for an hour, I get ninety-nine new messages.” “And today, of all days, he whined and practically demanded I come down to the studio to keep him company.” “I’m only going because the Christmas gift he promised is supposedly epic.” Her friend chuckled. “You landed a high-caliber guy like Graham, you should count your blessings.” I froze. My boyfriend was also named Graham. And, his recording studio was just around the corner. 1 As if possessed, I pulled out my phone and sent him a message. Graham, it’s Christmas night. Are you really going to work late? No reply. The girl beside me looped her arm through her friend’s and headed to the checkout. She waved her phone. “Look. It’s been five minutes, and he’s already asking if I’ve arrived.” Laughing with her friend, she reached toward the shelf near the counter—the one stocked with contraceptives. Her friend gave her a suggestive elbow nudge. “Two boxes? Vivian, you and Graham must be really going at it. And here I thought you were complaining about him being clingy, when really you were just bragging.” The girl, Vivian, swatted her friend playfully. “Hey, if I don’t wear him out, who knows what other little vixen will?” Other customers in the store glanced over, a few of them stifling smiles. Vivian didn’t seem to care, tossing her long, dark waves as she walked out with her friend. I paid for my umbrella and followed them out. At this point, I was still clinging to the cold comfort of coincidence: Graham is a common name. It was a December winter, but this girl, Vivian, was wearing a crop top under her jacket and had bare legs. She looked barely twenty, radiating an effortless, reckless kind of sunshine. A stark contrast to me, the woman with every single button of her shirt done up to the throat. On the sidewalk, Vivian’s friend hailed a cab and waved goodbye. Vivian started humming, continuing down the street. At every intersection, our paths remained the same. When I finally registered the tune she was humming, my steps slowed involuntarily. It was Graham’s new track, a song he’d personally arranged and recorded, which had only been released to the public today. Even I had only heard a few snatches of the chorus during a video call. Vivian lifted her phone and dialed. “Hey, Graham, I’m almost there. Come meet me at the door?” Whatever he said on the other end, she responded with a playful, mock-offended huff. “I’m wearing tons of layers! I’m not cold at all, you big baby. If you don’t believe me, come check for yourself.” “You can even slip your hand under my coat, past my shirt, and down to my…” I scanned my own phone screen. Still nothing. A cold draft snaked its way up my sleeve, and I shivered, clutching my jacket tighter. My finger hovered over the call button. I pressed it. A mechanical, cold female voice replied, “The number you have dialed is currently unavailable.” I understood immediately: Do Not Disturb mode. He’d told me he was too busy with work this year, and that once he was in the studio, he couldn’t pick up. Not being able to reach him wasn’t new. “Graham!” Vivian suddenly ran forward a few steps and threw herself into a man’s arms. I raised my umbrella slightly and looked ahead. In that single, sharp moment, I was pinned to the spot. The man, holding his own umbrella, held Vivian tight, then sighed, rubbing her hair with a helpless, yet utterly familiar tenderness. “You, I swear.” He had the face I had etched into my bones. At five, we walked hand-in-hand from kindergarten back to the same apartment complex. He gave me the chocolate he’d kept hidden all day. “Delaney, from now on, all my candy is yours.” At fifteen, when first love bloomed, he awkwardly told me to throw away the notes the boys put in my locker. “Those guys have agendas. I’m the only one who’s good to you.” At nineteen, when we started dating long distance, he took an overnight Amtrak just to see me, the gift bags leaving red welts on his hands. At twenty-three, he came alone to the city to start his company. He cooked for me in his cramped, humid sublet, coughing from the smoke, but still telling me to stand back. “Honey, I’m putting you in a hotel tonight. This place is too damp. You won’t sleep well.” Last month, he handed me a crisp, new set of documents. “Wife, as soon as the house is renovated, we’ll go down to the courthouse and make it official.” Twenty-eight years. Childhood sweethearts. We had grown into a co-dependent, interlocked tree. But in this second. Everything turned to ash. 2 The rain hammered the umbrella, drip-drop, drip-drop. Only after they turned, locked in an embrace, and walked away, did the numbness begin to recede. My phone screen flickered. It was Graham. Busy. Can’t take the call. The sudden downpour had soaked my shoes. The wet, icy sensation spread from my feet, and I felt as though my legs had been encased in concrete, stiff and immovable. I pulled my jacket tighter. With trembling hands, I dialed again. Still busy. Graham sent a new text. I said I was busy. Stop blowing up my phone. I bit down on my lip, typing word by word. Busy working, or busy cheating? Just as I was about to hit send, a shout came from behind. “Look out!” I couldn’t react in time. A delivery cyclist, skidding on the wet pavement, struck me. The world spun. I slammed onto the slick ground, landing heavily on my side. The cold, sharp dampness seeped through my clothes instantly. The pain, a slow-motion throb, climbed from my knee to my heart. I slowly got back up, wiping the rain and a strange wetness from my face. The delivery driver, looking equally rough, rushed over. “Are you okay?” Seeing his own bedraggled state, I shook my head. “I’m fine.” My phone screen had shattered, leaving my unsent question with no follow-up. I found a nearby hotel and took a scalding hot shower. Downstairs, I bought a cheap new phone and swapped my SIM card. Graham had sent one new message. Something came up, so no video chat tonight. Talk tomorrow, be good. I blinked my dry eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed in a daze. I simply could not understand. Why? Why would Graham cheat? And the girl—did she know she was the other woman? A thought struck me. I opened Instagram. Despite not knowing her full name, I quickly found her in the comments section of Graham’s latest post. Her profile picture was taken in Graham’s room. The curtains behind her were the ones I’d spent three hours at the fabric store agonizing over. Graham often pulled all-nighters working, and worried he’d have trouble sleeping during the day due to light sensitivity, I had specifically asked the tailor to double-line them. Vivian was a fashion influencer with a decent following. I scrolled down. The first post involving Graham appeared in June. Vivian was clutching a man’s arm in front of a comedy club. The caption: First date with a certain someone. So happy! That was the same comedy club I had taken Graham to—I thought he needed a break from work stress and a good stand-up show. He had promised me, “Delaney, I’ll only go to these things with you. That way, all the really happy memories will belong only to us.” In July, Vivian and Graham were on a beach vacation. It was my birthday that month, a day Graham had told me he was out of town on a work trip. But in her post, she was talking about challenging herself to “first-time surfing” with him. A deep chill settled over me. Graham’s face wasn’t clearly visible in any of the photos, but I couldn’t lie to myself or ignore the familiar, recurring details. I opened a private message to Vivian. Hi. Do you know Graham has a serious girlfriend? Did he lie to you and say he was single? Less than half an hour later, Vivian posted a new story. The dress in the photo looked like a crisp white coat, but its length barely covered her bottom. Tonight’s battle uniform. Gave a sneak peek to a certain someone, and he is obsessed. I clenched my jaw, shaking from the cold that was now deep inside me. Just last month, I’d come home from work and excitedly jumped into Graham’s arms. He had gently pushed me away. He frowned. “Honey, you smell like hospital disinfectant.” Vivian’s reply finally landed in my DMs. Dr. Delaney. I know who you are. It’s an open market, all’s fair in love and war. Winner takes all. And right now, it looks like you lost. 3 I forced a wry, mocking smile onto my face. The night after high school graduation, Graham had called me to the park near our homes. In the moonlight, his ears red, he produced a handwritten promise. “Graham promises that Delaney will always be number one to him.” His eyes had been bright, almost frighteningly so. “Delaney, please, be with me.” Years of long-distance through college. Everyone doubted us, but we never drifted apart. When he chose to start his own business, he couldn’t tell his parents how hard it was. I used my fellowship money and student stipends to help cover his living expenses. From the cramped, leaky sublet to the upscale loft, and finally, the paid-off house meant to be our marital home. He said, “As soon as you finish your residency, you can move here to be with me.” Only a few months left. Happiness was on the very doorstep. But today, he let a stranger declare me the loser. Vivian sent another DM. It was a video, secretly recorded. Graham’s eyes looked hazy, like he’d been drinking. Vivian giggled. “Graham, what is your girlfriend like, anyway?” The bar music was loud, but it didn’t completely drown out his reply. “Don’t even mention her. She’s the same every single day.” “Honestly, she’s pretty boring.” He looked directly at the camera with the familiar, gentle gaze I knew so well. “What new trouble should we get into tonight?” The camera shook, and the sound of an intimate kiss followed. The phone screen went dark, reflecting my own pale face. The images in my head made me nauseous. Rushing to the bathroom, I dry-heaved a few times, then booked a train ticket back home. While packing, a sharp pain in my lower right abdomen came in waves, leaving my forehead slick with sweat. Suspecting acute appendicitis, I hailed a cab straight to the ER. It was flu season, and the waiting room was so crowded people were sitting on the floor. I crouched outside the clinic, unable to stand up straight from the pain. At three in the morning, I finally got the ultrasound report. The doctor told me, “The symptoms and scan confirm acute appendicitis. We should perform surgery as soon as possible.” “Is your family not here?” Just then, Graham’s number flashed on my phone. I disconnected the call. He called back again, relentlessly. In the quiet consulting room, the ringing was impossible to ignore. I answered. His voice was frantic, almost panicked. “A friend of mine cut her foot pretty badly on a broken vase. What should I do?” In the background, I could hear Vivian’s low, whining sobs. If I hadn’t seen them, I would have been naive enough to assume it was a studio employee. The last of my warmth drained away. I spoke in an icy tone. “Deal with it however you see fit.” “Delaney!” “You’re a doctor! Listen to yourself. What kind of heartless thing is that to say?!” Graham’s enraged shout echoed through the phone. I curled into a ball, struggling to suppress the spasm of pain. I thought of the glass vase we had picked out together at the home goods store. We had planned to take it to the new house. Now, it must be completely shattered. Graham continued. “I didn’t want to bother anyone in the middle of the night, so I called you. She’s crying from the pain. Just tell me what to do!” My eyes felt hot and scratchy, but I tilted my head back, forcing the stinging liquid back down my throat and nose. The doctor opposite me produced the surgical consent form. “If no family is coming, you can sign yourself.” Graham was silent for a few seconds. “Wait… are you at the hospital?” Without waiting for my answer, he stated with certainty, “You’re on a night shift, aren’t you?” “If you’re not sleeping, then is it really that difficult to answer a simple question? What are you trying to prove with this childish tantrum?!” A tear finally broke free and fell. I let out a small, hollow laugh. “You’re right.” “I am throwing a childish tantrum.” “Graham, we’re finished. It’s over.”

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The women in the assisted living facility were gathered in the common room, sharing stories of the loves that had defined their lives. The kind of stories you only tell when you know the ending. When it was my turn, I spoke without inflection. “When I was twenty-five, my husband gave me his heart.” The room went instantly silent. No one needed the details. The quiet that followed was profound, the kind that settles after a shared tragedy. Even after forty years, the thought of him still brought that familiar, sharp ache to my chest. I pushed myself up, ready to retreat to my room, when a new resident—a woman who had only arrived a few weeks ago—spoke up. “Funny thing is, the year I’ll never forget is the first year I was with my husband. I told him I wanted a real life, a real title.” She paused, taking a slow sip of her lukewarm tea. “He heard me, and the next day, his wife conveniently suffered a ‘sudden cardiac episode.’ He faked giving her his heart and staged his own death. His wife mourned him for forty years, believing he was her sacrifice. Meanwhile, we lived out our lives, gray and surrounded by children and grandchildren.” Her eyes were fixed on me as she spoke, and the malice in them was a dark, bottomless well. In that moment, I recognized her. Sienna Lowe. Rhys’s secretary from four decades ago. 1 The shock was a physical blow. I passed out. When I opened my eyes again, the first thing I saw was Rhys. He was dressed in a cheap Santa suit, holding out a small, festive gift. “Eliza, Merry Christmas! Go on, open it. Tell me you love it.” The scene was terrifyingly familiar. In my past life, the object inside that cheerfully wrapped box had induced a cardiac episode. When I woke up in the hospital, I received the news of his death. His sacrifice. Now, I looked at his face, vibrant and near—the face I had mourned for forty years. But beneath the relief of seeing him alive, Sienna’s words echoed: Induced cardiac episode… staged his own death… My hand hovered mid-air. Finally, under the expectant gaze of the man I loved, my fingers landed on the ribbon. I slowly unveiled the box. The contents—an object identical to the one in my memory—sat silently on the velvet lining. In the same instant, the familiar, crippling pain seized my heart. My vision tunneled, and Rhys’s panicked face began to swim before me… I woke up to the smell of disinfectant and the sound of quiet sobbing. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Fenton, held my hand, her voice thick with tears. “Eliza, you have to hold on… Rhys… he left his heart for you. He wants you to live a full life…” Everything was exactly as it had been in the last life. Except this time, I didn’t cry. My face was unnervingly blank. The circle of friends and family around my bed watched my dry-eyed silence. Their sympathy curdled into confusion, then into a silent, communal accusation. How could you not weep? How could you be so calm? He gave his life for you! Ignoring their protests, I ripped off the monitors and rushed home. I tore through the house in a frantic search. Drawers, closets, old journals, junk boxes… Finally, hidden deep in the files on his old desktop computer, I found a purchase history. Following the record was an unfamiliar delivery address. I drove there immediately. It was a quiet suburban neighborhood, the house warm and comfortable. I didn’t see anyone, but a neighbor emerged to take out the trash, giving me a friendly, assessing look. “You looking for the couple in 302? They’re the sweetest thing.” The neighbor chatted easily, tossing her bag into the bin. “I remember once, it was pouring rain, and he worried his wife would slip. He actually took two hours off work just to lay non-slip mats from the garage door to the front path.” “And he never comes home from the grocery store without a little bunch of daisies—her favorites…” I listened in silence, every word falling like a drop of ice. Non-slip mats in the rain. Her favorite flowers. Rhys had done those things for me, too. After my diagnosis, during that rainy season, he had silently lined our walkway. He had always remembered to bring home a bouquet of my favorite white lilies. The details I had cherished as symbols of a unique, irreplaceable love were nothing more than a well-used script. They were not for me, but for the role of Wife with a Weak Heart. I sat back in my car and closed the door. The world was suddenly and terribly quiet. The steering wheel was cold in my hands. Where was I supposed to go? What was I supposed to believe? On what foundation had forty years of mourning and heart-wrenching loss been built? How much was sincere love, and how much was a performance? My phone screen flickered to life. A notification. It was a new post from a profile I’d added years ago, someone I didn’t know but hadn’t bothered to delete. The picture was a casual street view, tagged in a distant coastal town. The caption was simple: New place is set up. She loves the ocean. A profound chill ran through me. That coastal town was the exact place Rhys and Sienna had moved to. In the previous life, this profile had also been on my friends list. He rarely posted, but when he did, it was always a glimpse into a peaceful, ordinary married life: grocery runs, watching old movies on a rainy day, tending to the flower pots on the balcony… The words were full of the quiet smoke and warmth of a simple, treasured life. I had no idea who he was, but I’d always thought, If my Rhys were still here, he would be like this. I’d never deleted the stranger’s account. Sometimes, I’d even give a silent ‘Like,’ hoping to borrow a sliver of that illusory warmth to soothe my own endless desolation. I hadn’t known. That was him. Rhys Fenton. He was living the life I had desperately wanted—and loving another woman with the authenticity I craved. 2 The next thing I knew, I was on a flight to that distant coastal town. Forty years of agony demanded an answer. Following the information I’d gathered, I found the coffee shop owned by one of Sienna’s friends. Hearing I was an old acquaintance, the friend greeted me warmly. Before I even had to ask, she began talking about how Rhys and Sienna met. “Rhys and Sienna were college sweethearts, practically! Well, he was two years ahead, but they met at orientation and they’ve been in touch ever since.” “It wasn’t until last year they decided to finally make it official. Sienna loves the coast, so Rhys bought this beautiful oceanfront house. Said he wanted to spend the rest of his life here with her.” “And they’d barely moved in when Sienna got pregnant. Rhys was ecstatic! He said this was true peace, and they had to hurry up and make it all legitimate for her and the baby.” I learned they had known each other for so long. They had planned to grow old here all along. Sienna was already pregnant. The friend kept talking about the details of their courtship, but my mind had slipped back to my past life. Rhys and I had almost had a child, too. But because of my heart condition, the doctor strongly advised against it. Rhys had been silent for a long time. Then he’d held me and said, “We won’t keep it. I only need you to be safe.” I was deeply moved, and profoundly guilty. So guilty I’d considered gambling with my life to carry the baby to term. But then, I overheard a phone call between him and his mother. “Yes, I messed with the timing, so what? She’s pregnant now. I just have to coax her, and she’ll be too soft-hearted to end it! What’s wrong with wanting a child?” In that moment, the world fell silent. I only heard the heavy, sickening thump of my own heart. The tender husband before my eyes warped into a stranger I didn’t know at all. I smashed everything within reach and screamed at him. I called him selfish, a liar, a man who didn’t care about me—only saw me as a means to an end. After his initial panic, his face twisted into the rage of a cheat exposed. He spat the words out. “A woman on borrowed time like you… if you can’t even give me an heir, what was the point of this marriage?” All my fury froze. I looked at him as if he were a monster. Then a sudden, violent spasm gripped my abdomen. A warm gush of liquid soaked my skirt and the chaotic, broken floor. I lost the baby. In the hospital room, his parents arrived. In front of them, Rhys dropped to his knees, slapping his own face, again and again. He sobbed that he had been momentarily insane, that he desperately wanted our child, that he was terrified of losing me, and it had made him lose his mind. He was wrong, he knew it, and he begged me to forgive him, promising he would only focus on my health from now on. He hit himself hard, and his cheek quickly swelled. His parents tried to restrain him, their eyes red, worried about upsetting me further. I kept my eyes closed, unwilling to witness the nauseating, absurd performance. My body was in pain, but my mind was numb and frozen. But the human heart is a wretched thing. Even though I knew it was poison wrapped in frosting, even after experiencing the deepest betrayal, seeing him kneeling there, face bruised and tear-streaked… That pathetic, treacherous emotion began to stir. A man wanting a child with the person he loves… is that really so wrong? In that moment, I found an excuse for him. I softened. I forgave him. After that, he never mentioned children again. He became meticulous, attentive, and outwardly full of remorse. I had believed it was guilt. I had believed it was repentance. Now, sitting in this coffee-scented shop, listening to his mistress’s friend casually mention, “Sienna’s pregnant,” I finally put the pieces together. He hadn’t given up the idea of a family. He had just traded me in for a newer, more functional model to build his perfectly complete home. “Are you… are you here to see them?” The friend finally paused, looking curiously at my silent, pale face. I parted my lips. The saltiness of the sea air seemed to clog my throat. Was I here to see them? Under what identity? Before I could invent a plausible lie, the friend offered her own conclusion. “Oh, I know! You must be coming for their wedding tomorrow night at The Grand Meridian! What a joyous occasion. You can join the fun!” The Grand Meridian. The very hotel Rhys and I had chosen for our wedding. 3 I was back at The Grand Meridian. The champagne-rose archway, the long, sweeping red carpet. Every single detail—the curve of the petals, the fold of the satin ribbon—was exactly as Rhys and I had meticulously planned on the blueprints years ago. In my previous life, I never set foot here again, terrified of invoking the ghost of what should have been. Now, this metaphorical graveyard of my suffering was hosting their happiness. I melted into the crowd of guests and saw many familiar faces. Rhys’s relatives, old colleagues, and even… His parents. The two seniors were dressed in crisp, celebratory clothes, surrounded by old friends, their faces beaming with unconcealed joy. I managed to smile looking at them, though it probably looked more like a grimace. In my last life, after Rhys “died,” his mother had clung to my hand, sobbing until she was exhausted. “Eliza, Rhys is gone, but you are our daughter now. His final wish was for you to live well. We… we will take care of you for him.” I took her words as truth, and as a debt. When they were sick, I was the one who stayed up to nurse them, signing papers and running errands. I fixed the leaky pipes, replaced the lightbulbs, and managed their seasonal wardrobe changes. I never missed a holiday gift, and my weekend visits were sacrosanct. I signed the high-risk consent forms for Mr. Fenton’s heart surgery. When Mrs. Fenton became frail, I paid for her in-home care and visited weekly. I saw them through to their final days, arranging everything properly as their ‘daughter.’ I believed this was penance, a memorial to my lost love. Now, I heard Mrs. Fenton boast to a relative: “Sienna is a dream. She’s taken such good care of Rhys these past few years, and she’s so attentive to us.” “We waited so long for them to finally settle down.” Mr. Fenton nodded, his voice full of relief. “It’s true. If not for her, Rhys would never have recovered. We’ve been anticipating this day for too long.” It turned out that all those years I spent living as their dedicated ‘widow,’ caring for them until the end… They knew the whole time. They knew their son was living an actual married life in another city with another woman. All my heartfelt devotion was probably seen as the pathetic, self-absorbed theatrics of a fool. A sharp, searing bitterness rushed up my throat. I lowered my head. A hot tear splashed onto the carpet, spreading into a dark, small stain. Then, a distant aunt leaned in, her voice low and tentative. “Speaking of which… what ever happened to Rhys’s first wife, Eliza Snow?” The cheerful chatter instantly died. Mrs. Fenton’s smile faded. She quickly pulled her lips into a thin line. “Oh, darling, today is a happy day. Let’s not spoil it by bringing up irrelevant people and things. That’s all in the past. We need to look forward.” Irrelevant people. Yesterday, she sent me a message telling me to move on. Today, I was “irrelevant.” The ceremony was about to begin. Guests took their seats. I stood at the back, watching the scene that mirrored my long-ago dreams. The music I chose, the flowers I selected, every step of the processional I had designed. On the stage, Rhys stood tall and straight in a crisp tuxedo. This was the first time since my rebirth that I truly looked at him. He looked young, vivid, and real—exactly as he was in my memory. That familiar, stubborn ache in my chest returned, dull but pervasive. The barrier between us was not just these few days since my rebirth; it was the four decades of solitude I had endured. The wedding march began. Sienna, in a white gown, started her walk toward Rhys. I watched. The answer I had relentlessly pursued, the very question of his love… it suddenly felt meaningless. He felt meaningless. Sienna, her smile radiant and certain, stopped before him. The officiant began the familiar inquiry: “Rhys Fenton, do you take Sienna Lowe to be your wife, to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, holding only to her, until death do you part?” All eyes were on him. I turned away. I was done watching a perfect picture that was never meant for me. I took my first step toward the exit. But from the stage, Rhys’s voice cut through the air, clear and devastatingly loud. “I do not.”

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My mother and I shared a pure, unadulterated hate. She was one of the nation’s top cardiac surgeons, yet she’d ignored my debilitating heart condition for eighteen years. My father, to care for his sickly, fragile daughter, had sacrificed his career, his potential. He’d groveled for access to the specialized medication I needed—pills that cost thousands of dollars apiece. He’d always told me my mother saw nothing but her scalpel; we didn’t exist to her. I loathed her. It wasn’t until a sudden accident that my mother saw my latest medical chart. She pointed at the data, her eyes terrifyingly calm. “I transfer three million a year to your father for medical expenses. This is how he’s been treating you?” 1 “Ave, easy sips. Your mood seems stable today, and your heart rate is steady.” My father, Dean, gently held a glass of warm water to my lips. With his other hand, he held a small, unmarked white pill bottle, shaking two tablets into his palm. These pills were pure white, no label, no markings. I had been taking them since I was small. Dad always said they were cutting-edge medication Mom had pulled strings to get from Europe—thousands of dollars a pill—the only thing keeping my pulse stable. I obediently opened my mouth, swallowing the tablets with the water. “Dad, is Aunt Carol coming over today?” “She is, sweetie. She made that special organic bone broth you like so much. To keep your strength up.” As he spoke, he expertly pulled out the digital blood pressure monitor, checking my heart rate and blood pressure, carefully logging the numbers in a ledger. The sheer volume of those books—dozens, tightly filled—represented my entire life. My “Continuation Archive.” The doorbell rang. Aunt Carol swept in carrying a massive insulated container. She was loud and dramatic from the moment she crossed the threshold. “Oh, my God, Avery, you still look like a ghost! Dean, are you looking after her at all?” She pushed Dad aside and pressed the back of her hand to my forehead. “Has that woman, Eleanor, been calling to upset you again? I told you, she’s a curse! All she knows how to do is rake in dirty money. What else is she good for?” Dad sighed, the familiar look of exhaustion and defeat clouding his face. “Carol, please. She’s still Avery’s mother.” “Mother? She wouldn’t know how!” Aunt Carol’s voice pitched eight octaves higher. “She barely comes home, and when she calls, what does she ask? Only if Avery is dead yet! That’s all she cares about!” “Poor Avery, stuck with a mother like that! And poor you, Dean, throwing away a brilliant career just to be here for her!” Every one of Aunt Carol’s words landed like a needle in my heart. I lowered my gaze to my own pale, fragile fingers. She was right. Dad should have been a high-powered, brilliant engineer. He was a promising graduate from a top university. But I was his liability, his drug-dependent patient, the reason he couldn’t work. And my mother, Dr. Eleanor Roth? She simply used money to buy her absence. Cold numbers were the extent of her maternal love. 2 Getting into college was the result of a long, brutal fight waged by my father. The whole family had opposed it, terrified I would literally die on campus. But Dad insisted: “I can’t let this child live a life full of regret.” In the end, he won, personally driving me through the university gates. On the very first day, the counselor received a massive stack of my medical records and specifically instructed the whole class to be cautious and accommodating with me. I was exempt from physical education, couldn’t join any clubs that required activity, and certainly couldn’t live in the collective dorms. Dad rented an apartment right off-campus. He drove me everywhere, made all my meals, and supervised every single pill I took. I was separated from the vibrant, bustling campus by an invisible, impenetrable wall. My peers would meet up for late-night pizza runs and parties; I was stuck in the apartment, sipping the bland, oil-free broth Dad insisted on. They were sweating on the sports field; I watched from the window, knowing that even a brisk walk downstairs was an absolute luxury. My phone vibrated. “Eleanor Roth” flashed on the screen. I handed the phone to my father. I never answered her calls. He stepped onto the balcony, lowering his voice, but I could still catch fragments of the conversation. “…situation is the same…” “…The new medication? Yes, still taking it. It’s helping…” “…The funds? I understand. Just transfer them on time.” He hung up a few minutes later, his face grim. “Your mother yelled at me again,” he said, his eyes red-rimmed. “She said I wasn’t taking proper care of you. She said I was intentionally dragging this out just to extort more money from her.” “Avery, I am so sorry. I’ve failed you. It’s my fault you have to endure your mother’s abuse.” A sharp, familiar pain seized my chest. “No, Dad, don’t say that! It’s my fault!” If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be humiliated like this. That woman. How dare she? How dare she use her money to trample on my father’s dignity? In my sophomore year, the university invited an accomplished alum to give a lecture. It was Eleanor Roth. The day the poster went up, the entire campus went wild. “Oh my God, it’s Eleanor Roth! The legendary ‘First Blade of Cardiac Surgery’!” “I heard her surgical appointments are booked out for the next three years!” “She’s my idol! I have to go!” I stared at the poster—a woman in a crisp white coat, her expression cool and aloof—and my stomach lurched. I wanted to run and hide. But the counselor personally called my dad. Attendance was mandatory for all students. Dad had no choice but to drop me off at the auditorium entrance. “Don’t worry, Ave. Dad will be right outside waiting. Text me immediately if you feel unwell.” He looked terrified. I nodded and found the most isolated seat in the back corner of the packed hall. Eleanor, wearing a perfectly tailored business suit, stood on stage, calmly sharing the latest medical breakthroughs. Every case she discussed was harrowing, every life she saved a miracle. The audience erupted in applause. I felt like I was suffocating. Halfway through the lecture, an accident occurred. A stagehand collapsed without warning, convulsing and foaming at the mouth. Chaos erupted. Screams and shouts mixed into a loud panic. Eleanor reacted in a split second. She jumped off the stage and rushed over. “Step back! I’m a doctor!” Her voice carried an undeniable, commanding authority. The crowd parted instantly. She knelt, assessed the condition, unbuttoned the man’s shirt collar, and started CPR. One pump, two, three. Her movements were precise, calm, and incredibly efficient. The metallic smell of blood, the antiseptic scent of the auditorium, the sudden rush of noise—the gasps of students, the teachers directing traffic—all drilled into my ears like an oppressive roar. My heart began to beat wildly, beyond my control. My breath hitched, and the edges of my vision started to go dark. “Avery, you must never be stressed. Your heart can’t take it…” Dad’s warning echoed in my ears. I clutched my chest, gasping for air, but the room felt suddenly void of oxygen. In the second before I lost consciousness, I saw Eleanor look up, her gaze sweeping right toward my corner of the auditorium. When I woke up, I was in a private hospital room. The familiar, sterile smell of antiseptic filled my nostrils. Eleanor was sitting by my bedside, holding a medical file. Her eyes were downcast, her expression unreadable. She was still in the same suit, but her jacket was off, revealing a white blouse. Her sleeves were rolled up, and a faint, dried bloodstain marred her forearm.

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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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