Before my best friend, April, threw herself into the pages of that trashy billionaire romance novel, she made me a promise. She swore, with the kind of confidence only a woman with a plan can have, that conquering the corporate ladder would be child’s play. She bragged that she’d secure a three-hundred-million-dollar payout within a year and come back to take me on a world tour. I actually believed her. I thought she’d breeze through the plot, collect her check, and be home for Christmas. I didn’t expect the story to go completely off the rails. Instead of being the powerful fiancée to the CEO, she was being systematically dismantled by a manipulative, “pick-me” secretary who seemed to make it her life’s mission to see April destroyed. The girl had nearly lost her job half a dozen times. But the breaking point? The secretary had forced April—who was shivering with a 102-degree fever—out into a torrential downpour to inspect a stalled, skeletal construction site just to torment her. I was beyond livid. I forced the System to bridge me in. I didn’t care about the cost; I was going to drag my friend out of that hellscape myself. The System gave me two choices. I could inhabit the body of the CEO’s “Inaccessible High School Sweetheart”—the classic trope—or the company’s CFO. I rejected both. I played my highest-tier authority card. The second I materialized in that world, the air shifted. A chorus of disciplined voices rang out around me, synchronized and heavy with respect. “Good morning, Madam Beaumont!” … The elevator doors slid open to a sea of tailored suits. The elite of the corporate world froze in their tracks, bowing their heads in unison. “Madam Beaumont.” “Welcome back, Madam Beaumont.” I gave a curt nod, my eyes fixed straight ahead as I strode through the lobby. I didn’t have time for pleasantries. As I approached the CEO’s corner office, a voice—sugary-sweet and utterly fake—drifted toward me. “Oh, Madam Beaumont! What a wonderful surprise! If I’d known you were coming, I would have arranged a proper reception.” It was Linda, my “son” Xander’s executive assistant. She rushed forward, her hands reaching for my designer tote with an eager, practiced smile. I pivoted slightly, letting her hands grasp thin air. “Where is April?” That was the only thing that mattered. Linda’s hands stiffened for a fraction of a second before she pulled them back, her smile never wavering. “Miss Dalton? Oh, she’s currently on-site at the Riverside Project, conducting a safety inspection.” “An inspection? Today?” I glanced at the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, the sky was a bruised charcoal. Rain hammered against the glass, blurring the skyline of the city into a gray smudge. Even the construction crews would have been called off in this weather. What the hell was she “inspecting”? “Go get her,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous register. Linda hesitated, her expression turning into a mask of faux-concern. “Madam, I’m afraid that’s not possible. Mr. Beaumont personally assigned this task. He was quite clear: Miss Dalton is to remain on-site for five hours to oversee the perimeter.” She checked her watch. “It’s only been two and a half hours. If we bring her back early, Xander… well, he won’t be pleased.” “I will deal with Xander myself,” I snapped. I ignored her and looked past her at the senior management team hovering in the hallway. “Go to the Riverside site. Bring April Dalton back. Now.” The executives scrambled. “Right away, Madam. We’ll send a car immediately.” I nodded, satisfied. It seemed that even though I had stepped down from the Chairmanship three years ago, no one had forgotten whose name was on the building’s foundation. “Don’t bother with a company car. Use mine.” I wasn’t waiting another minute. I signaled my head of security with a look and turned on my heel. The suit-clad entourage followed me like a wake behind a ship. The Beaumont Matriarch heading to a muddy, unfinished construction site in a storm? If I so much as tripped, half the board of directors would lose their jobs. Ten minutes later, the car pulled up to the skeletal remains of the Riverside Project. The site was a graveyard of steel and concrete. In the middle of the mud stood a lone figure: April. She was huddled under a concrete pillar, holding her leather handbag over her head as a pathetic shield against the rain. She was soaked to the bone, her frame trembling so violently I could see it from the car. Her lips were a terrifying shade of blue, her eyes glazed over. I threw the door open before the car had even fully stopped. I draped my cashmere coat over her, pulling her against me. “April! Stay with me!” “I’m taking her to the hospital,” I barked. My security detail moved like a well-oiled machine—one holding a massive umbrella, another handing me a warm towel, a third already on the phone with the nearest ER. I gripped her ice-cold hand, guiding her toward the car, but Linda had followed us. She stood nearby under her own umbrella, letting out a heavy, performative sigh. “Madam Beaumont, I really must say, Miss Dalton is being a bit… fragile, isn’t she? If she can’t handle a little rain, how can she expect to carry the Beaumont name as Xander’s wife?” I stopped. I turned to her, my gaze cold enough to freeze the raindrops mid-air. “Linda, who told you that the price of admission into this family was physical torture?” Linda blinked, momentarily stunned. “Miss Dalton has always been pampered, I only meant—” “I was married into this family for thirty years,” I cut her off. “And in three decades, no one ever told me I had to stand in a thunderstorm at a dead construction site to prove my worth. You, however, are an assistant. Since when do you set the rules for the Beaumonts? Who gave you that authority?” Linda’s face went bone-white. “Madam, I didn’t mean—” Just then, a black Maybach roared into the site entrance. A man stepped out—tall, sharp-featured, and radiating a cold, arrogant energy. Xander Beaumont. He didn’t look at April first. He looked at Linda to make sure she wasn’t wet, then turned his frown toward me. “Mother? What are you doing here? What’s going on?” I looked at him. This was the hero of the book—the “cold CEO” who had been putting my best friend through a meat grinder. My supposed son. Before I could speak, Linda threw herself toward him, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “Xander! Madam Beaumont is trying to take Miss Dalton away. I tried to explain your orders, but she… she told me I had no right to speak.” Xander patted her hand absently, his irritation shifting toward me. “Mother, Linda is my personal staff. Please show her some professional courtesy. The inspection was my idea, not hers.” “I wanted April to build some character,” he continued, his voice devoid of empathy. “She needs to understand the grit it takes to run a company like this. It’s for her own good.” I looked down at April in my arms. Her face was flushed with fever, her head lolling against my shoulder. She was barely conscious. “Character building?” I asked, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Checking a stalled site in a fever, in a storm—is that grit, or is that abuse, Xander?” Xander’s expression remained stony. “Mother, when you and Dad started this company from a garage, you dealt with worse. If she wants to be my wife, she needs to handle it. If a little rain gives her a fever, it just proves she’s too soft.” He cast a fond look at Linda. “Linda grew up in the foster system. She knows what real hardship is. She wouldn’t be complaining.” Linda looked down modestly. “I’m just used to it, Mr. Beaumont. It’s no big deal.” I felt a sharp, bitter laugh bubble up in my throat. “Xander, your father and I worked hard because we were poor and had no choice. But the Beaumonts aren’t poor anymore. We don’t need to ‘harden’ our family members by inducing pneumonia. This isn’t character building. It’s cruelty.” Xander’s jaw tightened. “Mother!” I smiled, though there was no warmth in it. I turned my focus to Linda. “Actually, Linda, you’re right. You are much more accustomed to hardship, aren’t you? Since April is clearly too ‘fragile’ and is heading to the hospital, you can take over her shift.” Linda’s eyes went wide. “The Riverside site needs an eight-hour daily inspection. Thirty days a month. Rain or shine,” I said. “I’d love to see what ‘real grit’ looks like on you.” Linda’s face drained of all color. Xander stepped forward, scowling. “Mother, Linda is a woman. She can’t be expected to stand on a muddy site all day. It’s too much.” I scoffed. “Oh? So you do realize it’s hard for a woman? Is April not a woman, Xander?” He opened his mouth, then closed it, finding no retort. Linda bit her lip, her eyes shimmering with tears. “Xander, I think Madam Beaumont just doesn’t like me…” Xander waved a hand dismissively, his tone becoming clipped and frustrated. “Fine. Whatever. Just take April to the hospital. It’ll be bad for PR if she actually gets sick on company grounds.” “I have a contract to negotiate,” he added, turning back to his car. “Linda, you’re with me.” He didn’t look back as they climbed into the Maybach and sped away. I immediately got April into my car. As we pulled away, I looked at her sleeping, pale face. Hang in there, April, I thought. I’m taking over from here. The ER light stayed on for twenty minutes before the doctor came out. He told me that if we’d been thirty minutes later, she would have been headed straight for the ICU. I stationed two of my personal guards at her door and called in Mrs. Gable, my most trusted housekeeper. “Mrs. Gable, pay attention,” I said. “April hates cilantro. She won’t touch radishes or green peppers. Her stomach is sensitive, so she needs small, frequent meals. Treat her like she’s my own daughter. Because she’s going to be the next Mrs. Beaumont, whether my son likes it or not.” Mrs. Gable nodded solemnly. I stepped into the hallway to make a call, but my guard approached me quickly. “Madam, Linda is here. She says she’s here to visit Miss Dalton. She brought ‘healing soup’.” I paused. A visit? This quickly? I turned back toward the room. As I pushed the door open, I saw Linda sitting by the bed. She was holding a bowl in one hand and a spoon in the other, pressing it against April’s weak lips. April turned her head away, her voice a thready whisper. “I don’t want it…” “Miss Dalton, please,” Linda said, her voice a soft, melodic coo. “I made this broth myself. It’s for your stomach. You’re sick; you have to eat.” She shoved the spoon forward again. April pushed it away, and some of the hot liquid splashed onto April’s hand. Her skin instantly turned a bright, angry red. Linda didn’t even flinch. She just smiled and scooped another spoonful. “It’s okay. Let’s try again. Open up—” “Put it down.” Linda looked up, her expression a mask of innocence. “Madam Beaumont! I just wanted to bring some soup for Miss Dalton. I felt so bad about earlier.” I ignored her and looked at Mrs. Gable. “Smell it.” Mrs. Gable leaned in, her brow furrowing deep. “Madam… this has Asarum and Pinellia in it.” My heart skipped a beat. For someone with a high fever, those herbs could cause a dangerous spike in heart rate or even respiratory distress. Linda’s face shifted slightly. “Mrs. Gable, don’t be dramatic. I just found a recipe online for wellness. I’m trying to help.” I looked at her with pure disdain. “We both know what you’re trying to do.” Linda bit her lip, her tone suddenly hardening. “Madam, you’re only targeting me because Xander values my work. But Xander is a man with his own mind. He’ll choose who he wants to marry. You don’t get the final say.” I let out a soft laugh. “Watch me.” A few minutes later, the door swung open and Xander stormed in. He saw Linda’s red eyes and his face darkened. “Mother, what now? Linda texted me saying you were berating her again.” I pointed to the bowl of soup. “She brought a ‘wellness broth’ laced with herbs that are toxic to someone in April’s condition.” Linda shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “Xander, I didn’t know! I just searched for something healthy online. I was only trying to be nice!” Xander turned to me, his voice dismissive. “Mother, Linda isn’t a doctor. She probably just made a mistake. There’s no need to make a federal case out of a bowl of soup.” “If it’s so harmless,” I said, pointing to the bowl, “have her drink the rest of it.” Xander didn’t move. After a tense silence, he turned to Linda. “Don’t bother trying so hard next time. Some people don’t deserve your kindness.” Linda nodded, looking small and victimized. “I’m sorry, Xander. I just wanted to help. Maybe… maybe I should stay and look after her? To make up for it?” “No,” Xander said, sounding bored. “Let’s go. We have the merger meeting in the morning.” Linda followed him out. As she passed me, she tilted her head just enough for me to see the smirk playing on her lips. Her eyes said it all: See? He’ll always choose me. The door clicked shut. I walked to the bedside. April was half-awake, her eyes unfocused, her cheeks burning with fever. This wasn’t the April I knew. My April was a firecracker. She had a laugh that could fill a room and enough ambition to move mountains. Now, she was drowning in an oversized hospital gown, her wrists so thin they looked like they might snap. I tucked the blanket around her. In her delirium, she murmured, “…I’m sorry. I was useless.” I clenched my fists. Xander. Linda. If you want to play this game, I’m going to flip the table. Two weeks later, April was discharged. Her parents came to see me, their faces etched with worry. “Madam Beaumont, we appreciate everything you’ve done, but… maybe we should just call off the engagement. We don’t want our daughter to suffer anymore.” I looked them in the eye. “I understand. But I give you my word: as long as I am breathing, April will be the one standing at the head of the Beaumont family.” The wedding remained set for May 18th. The day of the ceremony, the hotel was a fortress of white roses and champagne. The elite were out in full force. April sat in the dressing room, a vision in custom lace, holding her bouquet with a quiet, steady hand. I stood by the window and checked my watch. 9:15 AM. The groom’s motorcade should have arrived at the Dalton estate by now. My phone buzzed. It was my head of security. “Madam, Mr. Beaumont hasn’t left. The motorcade is still parked at the hotel entrance.” “Where is he?” “At his private villa in Emerald Bay.” I didn’t hesitate. I drove straight there. Inside the villa, Linda was sobbing as if her heart were breaking. Xander was holding her, whispering sweet nothings into her ear. “Linda, stop crying. Please.” Linda choked out a sob. “Xander, if you marry her today, I’ll have nothing. I grew up with no one, and then I found you… If I lose you, I don’t want to live.” Xander pulled her closer. “I won’t marry her. You’re the only one I love.” I walked into the room without knocking. They both bolted upright. Xander’s face went stiff. “Mother? What are you doing here?” “The wedding starts at noon,” I said calmly. “I’m not going.” Xander tightened his grip on Linda. “The wedding is off.” Linda’s sobbing slowed, a flash of triumph in her eyes. “Xander,” I said, staring him down. “I’m going to ask you one last time. Are you coming?” He leaned back, his tone arrogant. “Maybe. If you agree to give Linda a ten-percent stake in the company. She’s the one I truly want to be with. April is just a business arrangement you forced on me. I’ll give her the title of Mrs. Beaumont, but the real power stays with Linda.” I let out a cold snort. “Ten percent? Beaumont Group is valued at eighty billion dollars. You want me to hand over eight billion to an assistant?” “She deserves it,” he insisted. “April is the one who deserves it.” My smile vanished. “Linda will never see a dime of Beaumont money.” Xander laughed, a jagged, ugly sound. “Then we have nothing to talk about. We both know why the Daltons want this marriage. If I don’t show up today, April becomes the laughingstock of the city. So does our family. She can’t afford that humiliation. Neither can you.” He actually thought he was the prize. He thought without him, the world stopped turning. I didn’t argue. I turned and walked toward the door. At the threshold, I looked back at him. “Xander. Don’t regret this.” He reclined on the sofa, pulling Linda into his lap. “I won’t.” Thirty minutes later, Xander’s phone rang. It was his best friend, Marcus. “Xander! Man, your mom is a legend! Thirty percent of the voting shares and the official heirship? All tied to the marriage? If you marry April, you’re officially the King of Beaumont Group. Congrats, man!” Xander’s hand froze on the phone. “What?” “Wait, are you playing dumb? The whole city knows. Oh, and I heard your younger brother just landed from London. I see him there now…” The voice on the other end faded into static as Xander bolted upright. “Get the car! We’re going to the hotel! Now!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “452023”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was in such a rush this morning that I grabbed his phone instead of mine. I didn’t even realize the mistake until I was standing outside my best friend’s apartment, clutching the gold-embossed engagement invitations I’d just picked up from the printers. I wanted to surprise her. The moment I stepped into her foyer, the phone in my hand buzzed. A notification popped up: WiFi Connected. My heart did a slow, sickening roll in my chest. Garrett had told me he’d never been here. He’d barely even met her, or so he said. My best friend, Melody, looked up from the sofa. She didn’t look surprised to see me, or the phone. She just offered a thin, mocking smile. “Stop lying to yourself, Donna,” she said, her voice airy and casual. “For the last three years, every time he told you he was on a business trip? He was right here, in my bed.” I looked down at the invitations. Ten years of friendship with her. Three years of a life built with him. It all felt like a punchline to a joke I wasn’t in on. She reached into a side drawer and pulled out a slip of paper, waving it like a trophy. It was a lab report. Two months pregnant. “The baby needs a legal father,” she said, her eyes narrowing with a predatory glint. “If you still want to marry him, fine. You can be our live-in nanny. Free childcare, right?” The front door clicked open. Garrett walked in, carrying a basket of organic fruit, looking every bit the doting partner. When he saw me, the smile on his face didn’t just fade—it calcified into a mask of stone. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply folded the invitation, tucked it into my pocket, and walked toward the door. From this moment on, the script of my life was being rewritten. And these two were no longer in the cast. 1 “What the hell are you doing running around with my phone?” Garrett kicked off his loafers and tossed the fruit onto the entryway table. He glanced at the ultrasound photo in Melody’s hand, then back at me. After a momentary flicker of panic, he straightened his cuffs and sat down beside her. “Since you’ve seen it, there’s no point in lying,” he said. He looked up at me, his expression remarkably calm. “The report is real. Melody is pregnant. It’s mine. Almost eight weeks.” In my pocket, I felt the sharp edges of the invitation crumple against my palm. “And?” I whispered. My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. Garrett frowned, clearly annoyed by my lack of hysterics. “What’s with the attitude? I haven’t even brought up the fact that you went through my private messages.” He took a sip of water from a glass on the table, his tone shifting into something terrifyingly reasonable. “Look, after those two injuries you had, the doctors said your body couldn’t handle the strain of a pregnancy. You can barely handle a long week at the office without collapsing. I want a family, Donna. Can you give me that? No. But Melody can. She’s doing this for us.” He leaned forward, entirely sincere. “When the baby is born, it’ll call you Mom. You get a child without the physical toll. Why are you acting like this is a bad thing?” Ten years. I had gone hungry so he could finish his degree. I had signed my name to his debts when his first startup failed. I had nearly died twice—once in a hit-and-run meant for him. And now, he was telling me that cheating on me with my best friend was an act of charity. Melody leaned back, crossing her legs. “Donna, we grew up together. You’re the only sister I’ve ever had.” She lowered her eyes, her voice turning soft and fragile. “You know about my struggles… my clinical depression. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have made it through these years. We can all live together. My baby will be your baby.” She tilted her chin up, a flash of victory in her eyes. “You’ve always wanted a family. Well, now it’s complete.” Garrett patted her hand. “See how mature she’s being? Not like you, always so grim and moody lately.” He reached into his leather briefcase and tossed a document onto the coffee table. “It’s a supplemental agreement. I had my lawyer draft it.” “The wedding goes ahead as planned. You’ll still be my wife. But officially, Melody moves in as my ‘cousin.’ She needs the support during the pregnancy.” I stared at the paper. “A cousin? You want her to live in our house as your cousin?” “Yes,” Garrett nodded. “Her mental state is fragile. I can’t leave her alone. What if she has another episode?” “And after the baby is born?” I asked, my lips twisting into a ghost of a smile. “We’ll register it under your name. Melody is young; she shouldn’t be tied down by a child’s paperwork yet.” Garrett clicked a fountain pen and held it out to me. “I’ll increase your monthly allowance by ten thousand. That’s your budget for the nursery and the help. Donna, don’t be greedy. I’m providing you with the best life possible. What more could you want?” He looked into my eyes, and I realized with a shudder that he truly believed he was the hero of this story. To him, I was a spent asset—a loyal dog that had grown too old to hunt but was still useful for guarding the house. Melody took the pen and forced it into my hand. “Sign it, Donna. If you don’t, you’re throwing away ten years for nothing. You don’t even have a career anymore. Without Garrett, how will you even survive?” The pen dug into my skin. I looked at the two of them, and for the first time, the tragedy of it all felt like a farce. Ten years of my life, traded for a contract that made me a pro-bono nanny in my own home. I set the pen down. “I’m not signing this.” Garrett’s face darkened instantly. “Don’t be ungrateful. I’ve lived with the guilt of what happened to you for years. This child is a gift to you. What is there to fight about?” He stood up, looming over me. “You know how delicate Melody is. If you stress her out and something happens to the baby, that’s on you. I’m giving you one last chance. Sign it.” I looked at her. Melody had been my shadow since the orphanage. When she was diagnosed with depression, I stayed up every night for a year just to make sure she was still breathing. I thought I was saving her life. It turns out she was just using her life to hijack mine. I stood up and pulled the invitation from my pocket, dropping it into the trash can. “I’ll think about it.” I turned and walked out. Behind me, I heard Garrett sit back down. “I knew you’d come around,” he called out. “Make sure you pick out the rings tomorrow. Melody said she liked that limited edition watch—get one for her while you’re at the jeweler.” 2 That night, I went back to the penthouse we shared. I punched the code into the smart lock. Error. I froze. I tried again. Incorrect Code. The mechanical female voice echoed in the silent hallway. I stared at the door I had walked through for five years, suddenly feeling like a trespasser. Two hours later, the elevator dinked open. Garrett walked out, Melody’s arm looped through his. “What are you doing? Standing here like a gargoyle?” Garrett asked, spotting me. “The code is wrong,” I said. Garrett tapped his forehead. “Right. Melody said the old numbers were bad luck. Bad juju for the baby. I changed it.” He stepped forward and punched in Melody’s birthday. The lock clicked open. I followed them inside, but when I reached for my slippers in the foyer, they were gone. In their place was a pair of plush, brand-new slippers in Melody’s size. “Your old ones were falling apart, so I tossed them,” Garrett said over his shoulder. “Melody is moving in; she needed space for her things.” He led her straight toward the primary suite. I followed, stopping dead at the threshold. My desk had been cleared. My books and files—the remnants of the career I’d put on hold to support his—were shoved into cardboard boxes. The walk-in closet was hanging wide open; half of my clothes were gone, replaced by silk dresses and designer bags I recognized as hers. “Garrett, what the hell is this?” I pointed at the decimated closet. Garrett was pouring a glass of lukewarm water, not even bothering to look at me. “She’s moving in. She needs room.” “I had the housekeeper move your things to the guest room. You’ll be sleeping there for the next few months.” Melody was already reclining on the bed, scrolling through her phone. She looked up, her eyes brimming with faux-concern. “Donna, you aren’t mad, are you? My nerves have been so shot lately… I can’t sleep in new places. This room is so much quieter. It’s better for the baby. You’ve always been so good to me; I knew you wouldn’t mind.” I looked at her face—the same face that had wept on my shoulder a thousand times—and felt a sudden, cold lack of desire to argue. The next morning, I sat at the breakfast bar with a bowl of oatmeal. Garrett walked out of the bedroom, phone to his ear. He hit the speakerphone button right in front of me. “Yeah, is this the wedding planner? This is Garrett. I need to change the name on the welcome signage. The bride’s name is Melody.” My spoon stopped halfway to my mouth. There was a pause on the other end. “Mr. Morgan… what about Ms. Thorne?” Garrett glanced at me. “Ms. Thorne? Oh, she’s the maid of honor now.” He hung up and took a sip of his coffee. “Melody’s dream has always been a big wedding. With her condition being so unstable, I need you to play along. We’ve been together forever anyway; the ceremony is just a formality for us. Let her have the ‘bride’ title. It’s just a role.” He said it so casually, as if he were asking me to pass the salt. Melody emerged from the bedroom wearing one of my silk robes, wrapping her arms around Garrett’s neck. “You’re the best, Garrett.” She turned to me, smiling like an angel. “Donna, you’ll be my maid of honor, won’t you? I want you to see my happiness from the best seat in the house.” Garrett tapped the counter. “Well? Don’t be petty, Donna. It’s just a label.” I looked down at my oatmeal. Ten years of sacrifice, erased by a single sentence. “Fine,” I said. Garrett beamed. “That’s my girl. I knew we could be a team.” 3 “The gala is tonight. Wear something understated. Don’t upstage Melody.” Garrett tossed an old, grey cocktail dress onto the sofa. Behind him stood Melody, draped in custom couture, wearing a diamond-encrusted watch that probably cost more than my first car. “Garrett, how do I look?” Melody spun in front of the mirror. Garrett stepped toward her, adjusting her necklace with a tender touch I hadn’t seen in years. “Beautiful. You’re going to be the only thing anyone looks at tonight.” He turned to me, his brow furrowing. “Why are you still sitting there? Go get changed. We’re on a schedule.” I picked up the grey dress and went to the guest room. By the time I came out, they were gone. They hadn’t even waited for me. I took an Uber to the hotel. When I pushed open the doors to the ballroom, I saw Garrett holding a champagne flute, laughing with a group of investors. Melody was at his side, looking every bit the high-society wife. I walked over, intending to stand behind Garrett as I always did. “Garrett, who is this lovely lady?” one of the investors asked, nodding toward Melody. Garrett raised his glass, his smile radiant. “Let me introduce you. This is my fiancée, Melody.” A chorus of compliments followed. “A perfect match,” they said. “The power couple of the year.” Another guest, someone who had known us since the early days, recognized me. “Wait, then who is Donna?” The air in the circle went still. People looked at me with a mixture of pity and confusion. Garrett didn’t even turn his head to look at me. “Her? That’s just my sister.” Ten years of being his partner, his backbone, his everything—and I had been relegated to a sister. He didn’t even have the decency to give me a dignified exit. He just erased me. I retreated to a corner, watching Melody soak up the adoration. Mid-way through the night, she walked toward me, a glass of red wine in her hand. “Oops!” She feigned a stumble, and half a glass of Cabernet splashed across the front of my grey dress. The cold liquid soaked through the fabric, dripping onto the floor. I looked like a disaster. “Oh, Donna! I am so, so sorry! I’m such a klutz lately,” Melody cried out, but her eyes were dancing with malice. Garrett rushed over, but he didn’t check on me. He shoved me aside to grab Melody’s hand. “Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?” Then he turned to me, his voice a sharp hiss. “What is wrong with you? Why were you standing so close? You almost ruined her dress! Go to the restroom and clean yourself up. Stop making a scene.” I didn’t say a word. I turned and walked toward the exit. After the gala ended, we stood in the parking garage waiting for the valet. Melody let out a small whimper. “Garrett, I think I twisted my ankle. It hurts.” Garrett looked at me. “Donna, come here and help her walk.” Melody leaned her weight on my shoulder. As Garrett turned his back to look for the car, she leaned in, her voice a poisonous whisper in my ear. “So, ‘sister,’ how does it feel to be the help?” I stopped walking. I looked at the smug curve of her lips. Garrett looked back, his patience gone. “Donna, move it! The keys are in your clutch, stop stalling!” I stood perfectly still. “Give them to me!” Garrett barked. I reached into my bag, pulled out the keys, and let them drop. They hit the concrete with a sharp, metallic ring. Garrett stared at the keys on the floor, stunned. I didn’t look at him. I walked to the curb and hailed a taxi. When I got back to the “guest room,” I opened my phone. There were over three thousand photos in my gallery—the history of us. I hit Select All and Delete. One by one, our memories vanished into a digital void. I cleared our chat history. I blocked his number. A final notification popped up before I finished—a text from him. Don’t forget the bridesmaid fitting tomorrow. Melody wants you in pale pink. I didn’t reply. In the corner of the room, three packed suitcases sat silently against the wall. 4 “This pink really brings out your skin tone, Donna. Try it on.” Melody was standing in her custom lace wedding gown, looking like a dream. She shoved a generic, polyester bridesmaid dress into my arms. Garrett was sitting on the boutique’s velvet sofa, scrolling through his emails. “Just put it on. Don’t keep her waiting.” I went into the dressing room. When I came out, Melody was holding Garrett’s hand, giggling. “Garrett, am I the most beautiful bride you’ve ever seen?” He looked up, and for a second, his eyes actually softened. “The most beautiful. You look perfect in everything.” Melody turned to me, patting my shoulder with a saccharine sweetness. “Donna, you’re happy for us, right? We’ve been sisters for ten years. I don’t want to lose our friendship.” She adjusted her veil in the mirror. “We’re going to be a family. My baby will call you Mom. You’ll stay home, help with the house, and Garrett will pay you a salary. You’ll never have to worry about money again.” Garrett nodded in agreement. “She’s being sincere, Donna. She’s looking out for you. Just stay in your lane, keep the house running, and stop the drama.” I looked at their faces—so smug, so certain of their own righteousness. She had stolen my life, and she expected me to thank her for the privilege of being her servant. I took the bridesmaid dress and tossed it onto the sofa. “I’m done.” Garrett stood up. “Donna, what is your problem now?” I didn’t answer. I walked out of the shop. That afternoon was the rehearsal at the chapel. I watched from the pews as Melody walked down the aisle toward him. I felt like a ghost watching a play. When it was over and the crowd dispersed, I sat alone in the empty chapel, staring at the altar. Garrett came back in to grab a forgotten clutch bag. He saw me and hesitated, then sat down in the pew next to me. “Donna, I know this is hard,” he sighed. “I haven’t forgotten everything you did for me. Once the baby is here, I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy you whatever you want. Anything—except the title of my wife.” I turned my head to look at his profile. “Garrett.” My voice was hollow. “In ten years… was there ever a single moment where you felt sorry for what you were doing to me?” His hand froze on his cufflink. He turned to look at me, and after a long silence, he straightened his suit. “Donna, I gave you ten great years. I took you from a basement apartment to a penthouse. You wore the best clothes, ate at the best tables. My conscience is clear.” Clear. That word snapped the final thread. He knew exactly what he was doing. He just didn’t think I mattered enough for it to be a crime. “Okay,” I said, standing up and brushing the dust off my skirt. “I understand.” At 4:00 AM the next morning, Garrett woke up thirsty. He walked out of the master suite and noticed a strange silence in the house. The guest room door was wide open. The bed was made, perfectly flat, as if no one had ever touched it. The closet was empty. In the bathroom, my toothbrush was gone. He frowned and dialed my number. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.” The color drained from his face. He ran to the garage. My car was still there, but on the passenger seat lay a white envelope. He ripped it open. A ring fell out. It was the cheap, gold-plated ring he’d bought me at a street fair ten years ago with his very first paycheck. The plating had worn off long ago, revealing the dull brass underneath. There was no letter. No note. Just a boarding pass stub tucked under the ring. Departure: 4:00 AM. The destination had been blacked out with a heavy marker. Garrett gripped the stub, his fingers shaking. He hit redial over and over, but the mechanical voice was his only companion. He slumped against the car door, the silence of the garage suddenly feeling like a tomb.

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My sister-in-law had barely survived the agony of childbirth, the epidural probably still coursing through her veins, when she dropped the bombshell the second she was wheeled out of the delivery room: she wanted a divorce. She claimed to have a video—shot by her best friend right there in the waiting room—and demanded to air out all the dirty laundry right in front of my face. “I was in there pushing for half an hour, ripping myself apart,” she spat, her voice trembling with a terrifying mix of exhaustion and rage. “And what were you doing? Standing in the hallway on your phone for a solid thirty minutes. What the hell could possibly be more important than me giving birth?” Before I could even process the accusation, she kept going. “And when the nurse finally came out to announce the baby was here, you frowned. You stood there and scowled! It’s obvious—you’re disgusted that I had a girl!” She let out a harsh, breathless laugh. “It’s actually pathetic. Aren’t you a woman yourself?” Faced with this sudden, violent barrage of accusations, I was entirely blindsided. This was their baby. Why was I suddenly the villain in the center of the crosshairs? I looked at her pale, sweating face. Factoring in the massive hormonal drop and the sheer physical trauma she’d just endured, I swallowed the sharp retort burning on my tongue. I chose not to argue with a woman who had just been stitched up. But I never could have imagined that mere days later, she would try to hold my own home hostage under the guise of her postpartum recovery. And that time, I didn’t wait for her to finish her little speech. I looked right past her, locking eyes with my brother, and yelled, “Ben, divorce her. Or figure out how to pay the mortgage on your own from now on!” 1 Kelsey kept thrusting her phone in my direction, her voice raw as she broke down the video her best friend had taken. She analyzed my every micro-expression in that hospital corridor, frame by agonizing frame. If I hadn’t been the person in the footage, I probably would have been convinced I was a sociopath, too. Then, it clicked. I remembered who took the video. It was a girl about Kelsey’s age, hovering in the corner of the waiting room, her phone held up like a shield the entire time. I’d assumed she was just another expectant family member recording memories for someone else. I hadn’t given it a second thought. Kelsey went on and on, her voice climbing in pitch. For good measure, she threw in a few jabs at my brother and our parents. The target was painted; her dominance established. The rest of us were just collateral damage in her one-woman show. But Ben couldn’t take it anymore. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he tried to systematically dismantle her hysteria with a calm, measured tone. “Kels, you went into labor suddenly while you were at the mall with Brittany. Mary was in the middle of closing a massive deal with a client. She handed it off as fast as she could and drove straight here.” He took a breath. “When she was on the phone? She was talking to the wealth management guy about setting up a 529 college fund for the baby. You literally said last night that setting up trust funds early was the smartest thing to do. She was doing that for our daughter.” “And that last part is just insane,” Ben finished, his voice cracking slightly. “Mary already bought her a custom Tiffany charm bracelet. She was literally just grinning at me, showing me the little silver bow, saying how perfect it was for a little girl.” Kelsey’s face faltered for a fraction of a second. The righteous anger dimmed, but she couldn’t just let it go. She muttered under her breath, “Well, isn’t that what an aunt is supposed to do?” My dad, who had been quietly standing by the window, finally spoke up. “There is no ‘supposed to’ in this life. You do things out of the goodness of your heart. She’s an aunt, not a scapegoat for your stress.” My mom gently touched my dad’s arm, giving him a look that silently begged him to drop it. My dad crossed his arms and looked away. Stepping forward, my mom smoothed the thin hospital blanket over Kelsey’s legs. “Alright, alright. Everything has been explained. Let’s just let it go. You need to focus on healing right now. The fourth trimester is crucial. Whatever you need, whatever boundaries you want to set for your recovery, you just tell me. I’ll handle everything.” 2 “I’ll handle everything.” Those four words would become the biggest regret of my mother’s life. Originally, we had booked Kelsey into a high-end luxury postpartum care retreat—forty days of catered meals, massages, and 24/7 nursing care. Three days in, she checked out and demanded a refund. “Kelsey feels like the nurses there aren’t up to date on modern holistic practices,” Ben told me over the phone, sounding utterly exhausted. “She wants to hire a private postpartum doula to come to the house.” I hated the idea. The whole point of paying for the luxury retreat was to buy peace of mind—and to spare my mother the backbreaking labor of managing a newborn household. We grew up with nothing. My mom worked herself to the bone for years, and her health was fragile because of it. Once my firm took off and I started making real money, I forced her into early retirement. Sensing my hesitation, Ben quickly added, “Mom won’t have to lift a finger, I promise. Kelsey hired the doula herself. The doula handles the baby and the mother. Mom just has to focus on herself, just like always.” To keep the peace and offer support, my mom suggested they stay at the main family house with us, saving them the commute. But the moment Kelsey settled into the master bedroom, she shouted out toward the living room where I was typing on my laptop. “Mary? Could you come in here for a sec?” I suppressed a sigh. You just had a baby, you didn’t lose the use of your legs, I thought. But catching the hopeful, pleading look in my mother’s eyes, I stood up. When I reached the doorway, Kelsey held out a freshly printed piece of paper. “Here,” she said, her tone dripping with corporate HR energy. “This is my list of boundaries and protocols for my postpartum recovery. Please review it carefully so we can avoid any… friction… moving forward.” I blinked. Friction? I was already feeling friction. Because the very first bullet point on the list read: The house must remain in absolute silence during the recovery period. Phone calls and text notification sounds are strictly prohibited. Wi-Fi routers must be turned off at night to prevent radiation harm to the infant. I work from home. My entire career is built on conference calls and constant connectivity. I am the only person in this house who actually uses a phone for a living. Taking a deep breath, I kept reading. 3 “The doula’s sole responsibility is the mother and the infant. She will not assist with any household chores. A designated family member must prepare three hot, organic meals a day specifically for the doula.” “The infant is off-limits to all extended family (excluding mother, father, and doula) for the duration of the fourth trimester. Eye contact or holding the baby is strictly prohibited unless a financial contribution to the baby’s college fund is made per interaction. (Minimum $100 per visit).” The list went on for two solid pages. There were footnotes detailing strict dietary macros and hyper-specific sanitation requirements involving essential oils and hospital-grade bleach. The final bullet point was bolded: “The fourth trimester postpartum period lasts exactly twelve weeks (84 days). All household members are required to memorize this protocol.” My mom, who had quietly stepped up behind me to read over my shoulder, stayed dead silent. Finally, she leaned in and whispered, “Did she use ChatGPT to write this?” I actually laughed out loud. “Mom, even AI isn’t this stupid.” “Let it go,” my mom whispered back, her voice tight. “It’s just twelve weeks. We can bite the bullet. Once she’s recovered, they can move back to their own place.” I shot my mother a look. “You can bite the bullet if you want. I’m going to the office. God knows when I’ll be back.” My mom swatted my arm. “You’re just going to leave me alone in the snake pit? I’ll come with you. I can clean the office.” “The firm has a commercial cleaning crew, Mom. Don’t steal their jobs. Maria is coming to clean the house today anyway. Just tell her to vacuum quietly so she doesn’t disturb her highness.” As we were whispering, a loud notification ping echoed from Kelsey’s phone on the nightstand. The sleeping baby jolted awake and immediately began wailing. Instinct took over, and my mom rushed toward the bassinet to soothe her. “Stop!” Kelsey yelled, pointing a rigid finger at the bedroom door. “Open the door first. The doula is here.” I pulled the front door open, and there she stood. It was the girl from the hospital. The best friend who had filmed me. I raised an eyebrow, about to ask what the hell was going on, but she blew right past me without even taking off her shoes. She marched straight into the bedroom and pointed at my mother, whose hands were hovering over the crying baby. “Helen, step back,” the girl commanded. “When an infant cries, we do not pick them up immediately. We are practicing delayed gratification to foster independence.” My mom looked completely bewildered. “So we just let her scream?” “A little crying expands the lungs. It’s fine.” And so, the baby cried for nearly an hour. My mom paced the hallway outside the room, practically vibrating with anxiety. The doula stood guard like a bouncer at a club. “You can pick her up if you want, Helen. But if you do, it means you are claiming responsibility for every single time she cries from now on. You’ll be the primary soothing mechanism.” My mom froze. With her bad back, that was a physical impossibility. She backed away. 4 The house finally went quiet. My mom let out a long, ragged exhale and slumped against the wall. “Good lord. That little girl has a set of lungs on her.” I just offered a tight, sympathetic smile. I checked my phone and saw a text from Ben: Is the doula a girl named Brittany? Kelsey’s friend? When did she even get certified? Anyway, I got the groceries. I’m pulling up now. Ben was nothing if not efficient. Right as I put my phone down, the front door clicked open. “Got everything on the approved organic list,” Ben said, hauling heavy canvas bags onto the kitchen island. “I even bought tomorrow’s ingredients so I don’t have to go out again in the freezing rain.” Brittany, the “doula,” marched out of the bedroom, her face set in a severe, judgmental scowl. She inspected the groceries like a health inspector, didn’t say a single word, and marched right back into the bedroom. Two minutes later, all hell broke loose. First came Kelsey’s screaming, followed immediately by the baby, who had been startled awake again. Ben stood in the kitchen, completely shell-shocked. He rushed into the bedroom. “What? What’s wrong now?” Kelsey pointed a trembling finger at him. “What do you mean, now? What do you mean by that tone?” Ben threw his hands up in defeat. “Okay, poor choice of words. But what is going on? Why are you crying? You’re supposed to be resting. And you’re scaring the baby.” “Is that all you care about? The baby?” Kelsey shrieked. “Am I just an incubator to your family? Ben, I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this!” I could practically see Ben’s soul leaving his body. “Live like what, Kels? What did I do? Just tell me straight up. All this back and forth, I’m losing my mind. I don’t know what you want from me.” A decorative throw pillow flew out of the bedroom, hitting Ben square in the chest. He didn’t even try to dodge it. He just caught it, hugged it to his stomach, and sighed. “Okay. Are you ready to tell me what’s wrong now?” 5 Kelsey’s voice was a jagged edge of pure entitlement. “I gave you the protocol list, didn’t I? I gave it to your sister this morning! You all have college degrees, why is it so hard to comprehend basic instructions?” She took a gasping breath. “I explicitly wrote that I need freshly bought produce every single day. And the first thing you say when you walk in is that you bought tomorrow’s food, too. Am I supposed to eat stale, day-old vegetables just so you don’t have to make an extra trip?” She pointed toward the hallway. “And the entry fee! I wrote it clearly: anyone other than us and Brittany has to put money in the baby’s jar if they want to look at her. Your mom and sister have been in and out of this room twice, and neither of them has dropped a single cent!” “And then,” she sobbed dramatically, “the baby was screaming her head off. Brittany told your mom that whoever picks her up has to be the one to soothe her forever, and your mom literally ran away. She let her own granddaughter scream for an hour. Did I just have this baby for myself? Is there no one in this house I can actually rely on?” Listening to her made my brain hurt. She was screaming with the lung capacity of an opera singer. Ben put a hand up, motioning for her to stop, but Kelsey was a runaway train. Finally, she delivered her ultimatum. “I want your mom and your sister to apologize to me. A woman’s postpartum recovery dictates the rest of her life. If they don’t apologize, I will hold this over your head until the day I die. You’ll never hear the end of it. Is that what you want?” I actually laughed. I couldn’t help it. I walked up to the bedroom doorway and leaned against the frame. “Who exactly do you want an apology from?” She glared at me, sensing the danger in my tone, but her ego was too inflated to back down. “Am I wrong? If I only have one child, this is the only time in my life I’ll be in this vulnerable state. How can you treat me like trash?” “You act like every day you’re alive isn’t a unique, unrepeatable event,” I said coldly. “Cut the pseudo-therapy bullshit. I’ll ask you one more time. Who do you want an apology from?” “You. And your mother. And Ben needs to apologize too. Otherwise, I’m done. We’re getting a divorce.” I didn’t even look at her. I turned my head slowly to my brother. “Are you divorcing her, or what?” 6 Ben let out a long, ragged sigh. He looked at his wife like he didn’t even recognize her anymore. “I read your protocol list yesterday, Kels. It’s stricter than a maximum-security prison. It’s overkill. I want you to heal, and I want you to be happy, but you are making everyone in this house utterly miserable.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Look. Just stay here and recover. Mom, Mary, and I will move out and stay at the new condo for now. I’ll hire a professional nighttime nanny to help you.” Kelsey’s eyes widened in sheer outrage. “What the hell does that mean? Are you taking your sister’s side? Are you leaving me?” “Why should I have to be the one left here? This is my home too! Or is your sister just staying single forever so she can hoard your parents’ inheritance?” Ben let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Inheritance? What inheritance? We didn’t come from money, Kelsey.” Kelsey scoffed, a vicious, ugly sound. “Oh, so we’re playing dumb now? Keeping the wife in the dark? The massive company, this gorgeous house in the suburbs, the luxury cars—are you telling me that’s not your parents’ money?” “I’ve told you a hundred times,” Ben said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “All of this is Mary’s. It’s her personal wealth. She built it from the ground up.” Kelsey looked right at me, no longer bothering to hide her contempt. “Her personal wealth? Please. She’s a spinster. A DINK without the double income. What the hell does she need all these assets for? It’s all going to be left to you and our daughter anyway!” She turned back to Ben. “Your parents worked so hard, and you sacrificed so much just so she could play ‘girlboss.’ Are you just going to let her hoard the fruits of everyone’s labor?” “Ben,” she lowered her voice, dripping with venomous clarity. “Let’s be honest. You’re just mad I had a girl, aren’t you? Fine. I can give your family a boy next time. But I want the deed to this house transferred to my name.” Ah. There it was. The curtain dropped. After all this exhausting theatrics, the real motive was finally out in the open. 7 I am happily, resolutely childfree and unmarried. My family knows this. More importantly, they support it—though it took years of quiet rebellion to get them there. When Kelsey married into the family, she eventually found out about my life choices. Her reaction evolved in fascinating stages. At first, she was annoyed, realizing it meant we might all be living in close proximity for a long time unless she and Ben bought their own place. Then, she grew thrilled. She did the math and realized that if I never had kids, all the family’s resources—and my not-insignificant bank accounts—could funnel directly into her little nuclear family. And I was generous. Generous to a fault. But once she got pregnant, whether it was the hormones or just her true colors bleeding through, she became paranoid and deeply resentful of my presence. Wanting to keep the peace and avoid domestic warfare, I bought a stunning penthouse in a luxury high-rise downtown, intending to move out and leave the family home to them. Ironically, that decision was the spark that blew up the powder keg. She lost her mind. She screamed that she and Ben had never even lived in a brand-new home, so why did I get to live in the penthouse? She was heavily pregnant at the time. My whole family tiptoed around her, treating her like fragile glass, terrified the stress would hurt the baby. Real estate in our mid-sized city was reasonable enough, and Ben and I had always been incredibly close. So, to shut her up, I put the new penthouse in Ben’s name. That placated her for a while. I just hadn’t realized how deep her greed truly ran. Ben stood frozen, staring at Kelsey like she was a stranger. “Did I hit a nerve, Ben?” Kelsey taunted. “I just pushed a human being out of my body, and you’re fighting with me. You really don’t want to be married anymore, do you?” She crossed her arms. “Don’t be a coward. If you want out, just say the word. I’ll change the baby’s last name to mine and move back to my mom’s.” “I have no status in this house anyway. Your mom looks down on me, your sister despises me, and your dad treats me like a beggar asking for scraps.” 8 My mom looked like she had been slapped. She was utterly paralyzed by the sheer audacity of Kelsey’s inverted reality. From the day Kelsey agreed to marry Ben, my mother had bent over backward to accommodate her. Her philosophy had always been: My oldest daughter’s unconventional life gives people enough to talk about; I am not going to be the monster-in-law who ruins my son’s marriage. We had endured so much from Kelsey’s family during the wedding planning. Absurd financial demands, tacky requests—we swallowed our pride and paid for all of it. And Kelsey’s only review of the six-figure wedding we threw her was: “It was okay. I guess they just don’t value me that much.” My mother had lived in a constant state of anxiety ever since, writing blank checks when asked and keeping her mouth shut when criticized, terrified of putting a toe out of line. She survived the Wedding Trials, only to face the Delivery Room Inquisition. And now, we were in the middle of the Postpartum Tribunal. And after this, it would undoubtedly be the Parenting Court. It would never, ever end. I didn’t know if Ben felt like a coward. But standing there, I felt like one. I am not a passive woman. In boardrooms, if a client disrespects me, I cut them down to size without blinking. I had never swallowed this much bile in my entire life. Ben finally spoke, his voice completely hollowed out. “Just stop talking, Kels. You’re recovering. Your health is the priority.” But Kelsey was relentless, high on her own perceived victimhood. “How am I supposed to recover when you and your toxic family treat me like this?” “My family and I have done absolutely everything we can,” Ben said, his eyes going dead. “If you truly believe we are this abusive, then call your mother to come get you. We clearly aren’t worthy of serving you.” Right on cue, Brittany—the “best friend,” who had been silently scrolling on her phone in the corner—finally spoke up. “Look, every family has drama,” she said smoothly, looking at Ben. “But it’s really not fair for three of you to gang up on Kelsey when she’s so vulnerable.” Kelsey latched onto the validation instantly. “Exactly! Thank God Brittany filmed what happened at the hospital. Otherwise, I’d never be able to prove how evil you people really are behind closed doors!” I didn’t let her finish her thought. I stepped right into her line of sight, the last shred of my patience gone. “Ben,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Divorce her. Or you can figure out how to pay the mortgage on that penthouse yourself.”

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I was at the clinic for my second-trimester checkup when I ran into my husband’s mistress. The color drained from her face the second she saw me. I didn’t even blink. I barely registered her presence. After all, Justin had cycled through three or four women in the past few years. What was one Daphne Shaw in the grand scheme of things? If I allowed myself to get worked up over this kind of cliché, I probably wouldn’t live long enough to see this pregnancy through. What I didn’t expect was for Justin to be the one throwing a tantrum when I got home. “I told you from the beginning, everything in the Crawford empire belongs to you and the kids. Did you really have to go out of your way to harass Daphne?” he demanded, hurling a Baccarat crystal vase against the hardwood floor. I sat on the velvet sofa, my hands resting instinctively over the slight swell of my stomach. I didn’t say a word. I just watched him storm out, slamming the door so hard the hinges rattled, undoubtedly running straight back into Daphne’s waiting arms. The housekeeper stood in the corner, wringing her hands, completely entirely at a loss. Without a word, I pulled out my phone, snapped a photo of the shattered crystal scattered across the floor, and texted it to my mother-in-law. Emma, take a look at what Justin is doing now… Barely two minutes after the message delivered, my phone screen lit up. It was an alert from my Chase Private Client app. A wire transfer of fifteen million dollars had just cleared into my account. 1 In the beginning, when Justin first started cheating, it didn’t take money from his mother to fix it. I would scream. I would cry. I would point a shaking finger at his face and tear him apart, demanding to know how the boy who was my first love, the man I had been married to for a decade, had turned into such absolute garbage. When did the screaming stop? I think it was right around the time Daphne Shaw entered the picture. She had shown up at a charity gala wearing a simple white silk dress, looking impossibly sweet and unassuming. And just standing there, she looked at least seventy percent like a younger version of me. When I saw Justin wrapping an arm around her waist, parading her in front of our entire social circle without an ounce of shame, something inside me just… snapped. The fire went out. I didn’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. My only thought was: Let’s just get a divorce. It was Emma who talked me out of it. She sat me down in her Upper East Side penthouse and told me that while she didn’t necessarily adore me, I came from a legacy family. Our backgrounds matched. “Since your mother passed away, your stepmother has taken over the Stratton estate,” Emma had said, her voice cool and pragmatic. “A divorce will only give her a reason to laugh at you. Justin might be a disaster in the romance department, but his earning power is undeniable. The dividends on your shares alone yield eight figures a year. A divorce means liquidating assets. It’s bad for Crawford Industries, and frankly, Gemma, it’s a massive loss for you.” She leaned in, her eyes hard. “Women need to wake up. Stop filling your head with fairy tales.” I was too stubborn to understand it at first. I swallowed the humiliation for six months until I spiraled into a severe clinical depression. But then, after getting caught in a torrential downpour and surviving a fever that nearly landed me in the ICU, something broke open in my brain. It was as if the fever burned away the last of my delusions. From that day on, I took Emma’s advice. I recalibrated my expectations of Justin. She also made me a promise: anytime Justin caused me public or emotional distress, she would compensate me accordingly from the family trust. So, today, for the sheer inconvenience of being falsely accused of harassing his mistress, I was fifteen million dollars richer. I moved the funds into my high-yield investment portfolio, then walked into the en-suite bathroom to wash my face, calling out to the housekeeper to have the living room cleaned up. When I came back out, I realized my son, Theo, was home from school. He walked right past the swept-up glass, utterly blind to the chaos of our household. His eyes were glued to his iPad. I rested a hand on my lower back and called down the stairs. “Theo. You’re back.” He flicked his gaze up to me for a fraction of a second. “Yes, Mother.” Polite. Cold. Distant. He was exactly like his father. I didn’t push it. I poured myself a glass of warm milk and turned to head back upstairs. “Mother,” Theo called out. “There’s a parent-teacher conference tomorrow. Do you have time to go?” “I’m pregnant, Theo. The doctor wants me resting,” I said softly. “Have your father send someone.” The “someone” Justin would send was, without a doubt, his executive assistant. Sure enough, the next morning, Daphne Shaw stood on my front porch, her own pregnant belly pressing against her trench coat. She looked terrified, yet she forced herself to stand tall. “Mrs. Crawford.” I gave a curt nod. “Miss Shaw. I’ll leave my son in your hands today.” Daphne offered a painfully awkward, fragile smile. “Oh, yes. Please don’t worry, ma’am. I’ve been to his school many times.” I knew. From the moment she and Justin got together, I knew about all these little domestic boundary-crossings. But I was too exhausted to ask, and I certainly didn’t care to listen to the excuses. Later, as I was walking toward the home gym for some light stretching, Theo crossed my path. For once, he hesitated. “Mother?” “Hmm?” “Why couldn’t you come with me? Miss Shaw is pregnant too, and she’s going.” I looked at my twelve-year-old son, my expression flat. “Because I’m spoiled, Theo, and I don’t like being inconvenienced.” I paused, letting the silence stretch before delivering the final blow. “Besides, you said it yourself—you think Daphne is gentle and sweet. You like having her at your school. I’m just doing what makes you happy.” Theo’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He stood frozen in the hallway, his dark eyes dimming as he watched me walk away. 2 I stayed home, prioritizing my peace and my pregnancy. The doctor had confirmed it was twins. Two girls. I needed to keep my stress levels at absolute zero. I ordered a year’s supply of premium, custom-blended prenatal supplements, overhauled my maternity wardrobe with the new season’s designer collections, and after a long spa day, I met my best friend, Penny, for lunch at a Michelin-starred spot downtown. Across the table, Penny looked at me, her eyes rimmed with red. “Gemma, I haven’t seen you since you got sick.” I swirled the sparkling water in my glass. “It’s been almost six months.” That illness had lingered, a stubborn shadow, until quite recently. “How are things with you and Justin?” she asked, her voice hushed. “Great. He treats me very well.” “Very well?” She looked like she wanted to scream. “Gemma, I heard he’s bringing her to the country club mixers now.” I smiled. “I know. But my mother-in-law gave me a fifteen-million-dollar apology.” Penny blinked. “…I guess that is pretty great.” “Penny, I’ve realized something,” I said, leaning forward. “I was wrong all these years. When I married Justin, I shouldn’t have just been thinking about love.” She looked at me like I had lost my mind. “But you guys met in middle school. You started dating in high school. You were completely obsessed with each other. Isn’t it normal to expect a marriage built on love?” “Hearts change.” I took a sip of my drink. “It’s like how I used to strictly drink Diet Coke, and now I actually prefer fresh juice.” A profound sadness washed over her face. It was the same look the rest of my old friends gave me when they came to visit me during my breakdown. They all believed that the death of an earth-shattering romance required lifelong mourning. I used to think so, too. But I figured it out. Eighteen-year-old Justin promised to love eighteen-year-old Gemma forever. But twenty-eight-year-old Justin never renewed that vow. It’s pointless to trap yourself in the past. I patted my stomach. “Look. There are two babies in here now.” Penny’s jaw dropped. “You’re having more kids with him?” “Why wouldn’t I? Emma promised me a twenty-million-dollar trust allocation and a two-percent equity bump in Crawford Industries per child.” Say what you will about Justin, the man was a corporate shark. And Theo had inherited his genius IQ. When my mother died, she left me an eight-figure inheritance, which I poured entirely into Crawford stock. Fast forward a few years, and my net worth had crossed the billion-dollar mark. Why on earth would I walk away from an incubator made of solid gold? Penny went quiet for a moment. “But Daphne is having a baby, too. When her kid is born, Justin is going to be distracted. If he rewrites his will, you might lose out.” “I thought about that,” I replied evenly. “That’s why I’m having two more. It’s a numbers game, Penny. I’m diluting her equity.” 3 When I got home that evening, the living room had been entirely restored. The Baccarat vase had been replaced with an identical piece. That was the beauty of extreme wealth. Nothing was ever truly lost. As long as you had the capital, even the rarest things could be seamlessly replaced. I sat in the cavernous, eerily quiet living room, a sheet mask cooling my face, sipping warm milk and listening to the wind rattling the massive bay windows. Justin wasn’t home. Neither was Theo. My private investigator had just texted me an update: the three of them were having dinner at a high-end Italian place. The photos loaded on my screen. Justin wore a soft, genuine smile. Theo’s eyes were bright and engaged. It was fascinating, really, how much the two of them adored Daphne. Aside from the fact that she shared my coloring and bone structure, we were entirely different species. She came from a working-class background and wasn’t particularly bright. Her sole currency was her endless patience and docile sweetness. I, on the other hand, had been a firecracker since birth. My relationship with Justin had started over a stupid high school misunderstanding. One of my friends got her heart broken by a guy named “Crawford.” Thinking it was Justin—the undisputed king of the prep school—I cornered him in the parking lot and tore him a new one in front of half the lacrosse team. After my tirade, my friend nervously whispered that it was his cousin, a completely different Crawford. Justin had glared at me, his jaw tight. “You just humiliated me. How are you going to fix this?” My brain short-circuited. I pushed my shoulders back and blurted, “Can I take you to dinner to make up for it?” He blushed scarlet. Our love story had played out like an indie coming-of-age movie. Everyone knew how obsessed Justin was with me. At our wedding, he choked on his vows and cried so hard he almost passed out. When my mother died, he held me on the bathroom floor for hours, weeping into my hair, swearing he would protect me until his last breath. But the shelf life of true love is notoriously short. Five years into the marriage, he had his first affair. Then came the second. The third. And finally, Daphne. Watching the photos of them, I felt a strange sense of vertigo. It felt like I was watching eighteen-year-old Gemma and twenty-eight-year-old Justin falling in love all over again. Around ten o’clock, the front door opened. Justin had dropped Theo off. He had cooled down from the morning’s rage. Seeing me on the sofa, he even mustered a semblance of domestic care. “How are the babies?” “Fine,” I said. “The checkup?” “Normal.” Justin fell silent, looking away. I didn’t say anything either. I just swiped to the next photo on my iPad. He lingered in the foyer. After a minute of silence, he spoke up. “I just wanted to drop Theo off. I’ll head out now.” I didn’t even look up. “Okay. Drive safe.” The silence stretched. I didn’t hear the sound of his footsteps leaving. I finally looked up. He was still standing there. “Did you need something else?” He pressed his lips together. “You… you look really good tonight.” Is he out of his mind? “Thanks,” I deadpanned. 4 I assumed Justin would make himself scarce for a while, but to my surprise, he was still there the next morning. We hadn’t interacted peacefully in months. Except for our anniversary a few months ago—we had both drank too much, a bizarre, manic energy had taken over, and we ended up tangled in the sheets for the night. Any other time we saw each other, we barely spoke. And when we did, it ended in a screaming match. The fact that he was voluntarily initiating conversation meant nothing good was coming. Sure enough, he cleared his throat. “Daphne is due soon.” “And?” I asked, sipping my coffee. “I wanted to ask you about those luxury postpartum wellness retreats. You have a lot of experience researching them.” His tone was perfectly even. He was asking me a genuine, earnest question. If this man wasn’t my husband, I might have applauded his sheer sociopathy. I was pregnant with his children, and he was asking me to play concierge for his mistress’s recovery? He was practically shoving my face into the dirt. A cold laugh escaped my throat. “Are you underpaying your executive assistants? They can’t Google a spa?” Justin shifted uncomfortably. “My EA is doing the work of two people right now. Besides, he’s a guy. He doesn’t understand these things.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Daphne… she said you’d know best. It’s her first baby, and she’s terrified. That’s why I’m asking.” He sighed, his voice softening. “She’s been crying non-stop. It reminded me of how scared you were when you were pregnant with Theo. I figured you, of all people, would understand how she feels.” I didn’t understand. And I didn’t want to. No matter how “enlightened” I had become about this marriage, I wasn’t about to act as a maternity consultant for the woman sleeping with my husband. “Do your own research, Justin. If you’re that worried, just throw money at the most expensive one you can find.” Justin’s brow furrowed in irritation. “Gemma, look at you. You’re doing it again. The second something doesn’t go your way, you get hostile.” He shook his head, looking at me like I was a petulant child. “You have such a toxic temper. Who else but me could tolerate you?” He let out a long, heavy sigh. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have asked. I already looked at the brochures you bookmarked on the iPad for your own retreat. I’ll just book that suite for Daphne. You’ve already vetted it, so it must be top-tier.” He kept talking, oblivious to the ice forming in my veins. “You’re only in your second trimester anyway. You have plenty of time to find a different place. Or, honestly, you could just take the suite after Daphne moves out. The timing works out perfectly.” Without another word, he picked up his briefcase and walked out the door. I sat frozen at the kitchen island, a sharp, white-hot pain suddenly twisting in my abdomen. 5 Some money is just too dirty to swallow. After Justin’s little stunt, Emma wired another two million into my account. But looking at those sterile digits on my banking app, I couldn’t find a single ounce of joy. I realized that some indignities couldn’t be papered over with cash. I needed to breathe. I called an Uber and headed to my father’s estate in Westchester. Pulling up to the sweeping driveway, I noticed the old oak tree my mother had planted was gone. My stepmother had finally had it uprooted. The massive hole left in the manicured lawn felt exactly like the crater in my chest. Upstairs, my father looked frail but alert. He was confined to his bed, but his eyes lit up when I walked in. “Gemma, sweetheart. You’re home. I’ve missed you.” I glanced around the lavish, empty room. “Where’s Eleanor?” “Out shopping,” he chuckled weakly. “You know how it is. Ever since I got paralyzed, she can’t sit still in this house.” I sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled the cashmere blanket up to his chest. “Do you ever regret it? Cheating on my mother when she loved you the most?” He looked at the ceiling. “What’s the point of regret? What’s done is done.” He was right. Hindsight morality didn’t change the past. My dad looked at me, a knowing glint in his eye. “Let me guess. Justin is pulling his usual stunts?” “Yeah,” I breathed out. “He knocked up his secretary. She’s in her third trimester.” My dad started coughing violently, his face turning red. “That… cough… how dare he?” “Why wouldn’t he dare? His father-in-law set a shining example.” The truth was, it wasn’t just my dad or Justin. It was an unspoken rule in our social echelon. Once a man acquired enough wealth and power, fidelity became an inconvenience. It was a silent, suffocating agreement we all lived under. My dad finally caught his breath. He stared at me for a long time. “So what are you going to do? Are you leaving him?” I shook my head. “I don’t know. But… I’m pregnant again. Twins.” This time, genuine shock washed over his weathered face. “What are you thinking, Gemma? Why aren’t you cutting your losses?” “Because his mother offered me tens of millions and an equity bump if I give birth to them.” “But you already have Theo.” “Money is money, Dad.” His lips trembled. He couldn’t speak. My parents had built their real estate empire from the ground up. By the time they hit eight figures, my dad had already started looking elsewhere. Justin was wealthier, more ruthless, playing in the billion-dollar leagues. Following in my dad’s footsteps probably felt like a given to him. My father closed his eyes, squeezing back the wetness pooling in them. “Gemma… I know it sounds hypocritical coming from me.” His voice cracked. “But from the day you were born, all your mother and I ever wanted was for you to be happy.” He reached out, his frail, shaking hand gripping mine. “We supported you marrying Justin because you loved him so fiercely. If that love is gone, you do not need to subject yourself to this for a payout.” “I might not be the man I should have been,” he whispered. “And I might not have Crawford money. But my eighty percent stake in Stratton Estates, this house, and the twenty million I have in liquid assets—it all goes to you. I promised your mother that.” Tears finally spilled over his wrinkled cheeks. “Please, sweetheart. Don’t use this marriage to punish me, or to punish a man who doesn’t love you anymore. If your mother were here to see what you’ve become, it would break her heart.” “If you don’t love him anymore, just leave. Please stop letting them tear you apart.”

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Human nature is a fickle, terrifying thing. There was a time, not too long ago, when I genuinely believed Wesley and I would spend the rest of our lives locked in a blood-drawn, scorched-earth war. I thought we would fight until one of us was entirely consumed. But then death stepped into the room, and suddenly, the idea of tangling with him just felt profoundly exhausting. On the day we buried Cassidy, I went back to her parents’ house to help box up her life. By the time I returned to the home Wesley and I shared, his first love had already moved in. As it turned out, on the exact day Cassidy’s heart gave out, the ghost of Wesley’s golden youth had flown back from Europe. A paparazzi photo of their tearful reunion at the arrivals terminal had been trending online all afternoon. The truth is, Wesley was terrified of me. He was terrified that the feral, unhinged version of his wife would rear her head and tear his precious girl to shreds. So, he had taken precautions. Two private security contractors in dark suits were stationed in our foyer, ready to tackle me to the hardwood the second I snapped. 1 When I walked through the door, Wesley and Gemma were sitting at the long mahogany dining table, eating dinner. Gemma was just as I remembered. Effortlessly beautiful, bathed in this soft, untouchable grace. She offered me a slight nod and a tentative, apologetic smile. “Megan. It’s been a long time.” My gaze slid right past her face, landing heavily on Wesley’s hand. He was using his own fork to place a piece of glazed salmon onto her plate. He was so quiet. Quietly chewing, quietly serving her, quietly refusing to look in my direction. I blinked, severing the visual tie, and took a step forward. Instantly, the two men in suits shifted. They stepped directly in front of Gemma, forming a human barricade between her and me. I paused, a dry chuckle catching in my throat. Ah. They’re here for me. I glanced around the room. The heavy crystal vases that usually sat on the console tables were gone. I realized then that if I marched into the kitchen, I probably wouldn’t find a single chef’s knife left in the blocks. Wesley really had thought of everything. I couldn’t even blame him. Given my track record, grabbing a kitchen knife or smashing a vase over someone’s skull wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility. If Cassidy were still alive, Gemma wouldn’t have made it through the front door without losing half a limb. But Cassidy was dead. Just the thought of her name made my lungs seize, a thousand microscopic needles piercing my chest with every inhale. I didn’t have the energy to waste on them. I bypassed the human shield and headed straight for the stairs. Wesley froze. I didn’t have to look back to know his brow was furrowed, his jaw locked as he watched my retreating back. No matter how nonchalant he tried to act, I knew his muscles had been coiled wire since the second the front door opened. He was waiting for the explosion. The screaming, the shattered glass, the hysteria. He had probably rehearsed a dozen cold, cutting monologues in his head, ready to put me in my place. But he got nothing. Not a single violent gesture. Not a single word. And somehow, I knew that didn’t bring him relief. Instead, it sat in his chest like a damp clump of cotton—suffocating, immovable, impossible to swallow. 2 I packed a single suitcase and carried it down the stairs. Wesley and Gemma had migrated to the living room. As I approached, the security guards stiffened, adjusting their stances. I stopped a few feet away. “I’m going away for a few days,” I said, my voice flat, scraped hollow. “You can use the time to have your lawyers draft the divorce papers. I’ll sign them when I get back.” Wesley sat frozen on the leather sofa. He turned his head slowly, his dark eyes heavy, staring at me as if I were speaking a foreign language. “What did you just say?” I tipped my chin toward Gemma. “A divorce. You moved her in. Isn’t that the endgame here?” Gemma scrambled to her feet, her hands waving in a frantic, delicate panic. “Megan, please, you misunderstand! I’m only staying here temporarily. Just until my new apartment is renovated, I swear I’ll move out.” Gemma’s greatest weapon had always been her weaponized innocence. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and opened my messages. “I’m coming back because I want to fight for myself this time, Megan. You can’t force love. You know that better than anyone. I hope you can find it in your heart to step aside for Wesley and me.” I looked up, meeting Gemma’s wide, trembling eyes. “You sent me this two days ago.” All the color drained from Gemma’s face. She swayed slightly on her feet, a masterclass in fragility. “Wesley, I…” Wesley stood up abruptly, positioning his body in front of hers, shielding her. He glared at me, his face an ice-cold mask of hostility. “What exactly are you trying to prove?” I pressed two fingers to my throbbing temples. “Just that since we’re on the same page about the divorce, I’d appreciate it if you expedited the paperwork.” 3 Gemma was Wesley’s first love. The first person you give your heart to when you’re young and invincible is always the hardest ghost to shake. We were all in high school back then. I remember walking past the abandoned annex behind the gymnasium and seeing Gemma backed against the brick wall, wrapped in Wesley’s arms, up on her tiptoes, kissing him. I saw them. And when Wesley opened his eyes, he saw me. Wesley and I belonged to two completely different stratospheres. We never should have intersected. But he had saved me once. A group of girls had cornered me by the dumpsters, dragging me by my backpack, threatening to strip my clothes off. Wesley had appeared out of nowhere, his fists doing the talking, scattering them like roaches. I had never been a lovable girl. My mother died when I was young, and my father married a woman who made it her life’s mission to break me. She stole my lunch money, spoke to me exclusively in venom, and hit me when she thought no one was looking. Growing up in a house thick with that kind of poison, I developed an armor made of pure defiance. I was cynical, gloomy, and mean. I hated everyone equally. I pushed everyone away equally. So even after Wesley saved me, I didn’t offer him a shred of gratitude. I remember him stepping forward, his designer sneaker coming down hard on my fingers as I tried to push myself off the asphalt. He smiled, a cold, empty thing. “You don’t have the teeth to bite, yet you still bare them at me?” he murmured. “Smile. Or I’ll break your hand.” Wesley treated me the way someone might treat a rabid stray dog they found in an alley. When he was in a good mood, he’d pull me into his inner circle, a vicious kind of protection. When he was in a bad mood, we could pass each other in the hallway and he’d look right through me like I was made of glass. He was volatile, moody, and entirely heartless. So, knowing all that… when I eventually cornered him into a position where his only option was to marry me, just imagine how much he must have hated me. 4 By the time I walked out of the house, my assistant was already idling in the driveway. My skull felt like it was fracturing. I climbed into the backseat and immediately squeezed my eyes shut. The compounding debt of weeks without sleep was finally cashing in. My assistant unscrewed a bottle of water and handed it to me along with two painkillers. “Are you okay, Ms. Kimberley?” “I’m fine. Just drive to the airport.” Cassidy was a beautiful lunatic. A few years ago, she went backpacking and bought a dilapidated piece of land in the absolute middle of nowhere. She used to rave about it. A standalone plot, surrounded by water on all four sides. Just one winding dirt road in and out. It’s so quiet, Megan. It’s the perfect place to disappear. “Once I make enough money at the firm,” she’d say, her eyes practically glowing, “I’m going to build a proper cabin out there. Stock the pond with fish. Plant a vegetable garden. Build a wooden gazebo, lay down a cobblestone path… and Megan, when it’s done, you’re going to live there with me. Okay?” But corporate law never sleeps, and there was never enough money. Six months ago, Cassidy was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer. She shaved her head before the chemo could take it, wearing a bright yellow beanie, sighing with this heartbreaking disappointment. “If I had known, I would have just built the damn house first.” “Megan, I left the deed to you. Go look at it for me.” She used to tell me I carried the stench of the grave on me. That for a girl in her twenties, I seemed more dead than she did, and she was the one actively dying. She made me promise to get out. To walk around and realize the world was so much bigger than the cold walls of Chicago. “Once you get out there,” she had whispered, her grip on my hand terrifyingly weak, “you’ll realize Wesley is nothing but a speck of dust.” Cassidy was a lawyer to her bones; she tied up every loose end. She transferred the deed before she passed, and even hired a local guide to help me navigate the rural county. I called the guide before boarding my flight. He promised to be at the arrivals gate. When I emerged from the terminal, I spotted a man standing way in the back, holding up a piece of printer paper with “MEGAN KIMBERLY” scrawled on it in black marker. I stared at him for a long moment before approaching. “Hi. I’m Megan.” The man was mid-yawn. Hearing my voice, he snapped his jaw shut, his eyes watering from the suppressed reflex. He looked at me, then looked down at my large, hardshell suitcase. “Right. Let’s go.” It wasn’t until we walked out to the parking garage that I understood his look of pity regarding my luggage. His car was essentially a glorified golf cart with doors. If my suitcase had been a fraction of an inch wider, it wouldn’t have fit. The suspension was a myth. Every pothole felt like a spine adjustment. Within ten minutes, the nausea hit me like a tidal wave. The man driving looked utterly exhausted, his face an emotionless mask. Without taking his eyes off the road, he blindly reached into the center console and tossed a brown paper bag of oranges onto my lap. “Smell the peels if you’re gonna puke. Eat one if that doesn’t work. If you’re still dying, I have some Ambien in the glovebox. Pop one and sleep it off.” What phenomenal hospitality. I forced a tight, rigid smile. “I’m fine. Thank you.” The metal tin can rattled for thirty minutes, taking us from the sprawling highway out into the rural suburbs, and then onto a two-lane blacktop that wound its way into the mountains. With every turn, the trees grew denser, the road narrower. Just as I was calculating the odds of this being an elaborate kidnapping, we finally pulled into a gravel lot. A grinning man jogged up and yanked the passenger door open. “Ms. Kimberley! So nice to meet you. I’m Toby, your actual guide.” I stared at him, then pointed a numb finger at the driver. “Then who is he?” Toby blinked, looking confused. “Did he not say? That’s my buddy. I had a family emergency this morning, so I dragged him out of bed to do the airport run.” Toby glared at the driver. “Dude, what is wrong with you? You couldn’t have introduced yourself?” The man turned his head. He looked murderous. “I pulled an all-nighter, Toby. I went to bed at two in the afternoon, and you dragged me out of it at four. I’ve had exactly three hours of sleep. Push me, and I will actually run you over.” Toby shrank back, quickly grabbing my suitcase from the trunk. “Okay, okay, moving on! Let’s go, Ms. Kimberley, the man’s got waking nightmares.” 5 The sun was dipping below the tree line by the time Toby dropped me off at the only inn the town had to offer. “You can crash here for the next few days, Ms. Kimberley. I’ll swing by tomorrow morning and we can head up the mountain to see the property.” “Do you want me to help you check in?” I shook my head and stepped out of the car. Toby meant well, but he talked too much. On the ride over, he had given me an unsolicited oral history of the county’s logging industry and a Yelp-style review of every diner within a twenty-mile radius. My migraine was now screaming. I walked into the inn and let the receptionist show me to my room. I couldn’t do it. The room was cramped, the air smelled heavily of mildew and damp carpet, and the bedsheets felt clammy to the touch. Wesley used to mock me for it. He couldn’t comprehend how someone who grew up eating government cheese and sleeping on a deflated air mattress could develop germaphobia. No matter where I traveled, I brought my own silk bedsheets. No matter where I ate, I obsessively wiped down the table and requested boiling water to scald my silverware. Was it OCD? Cassidy said it wasn’t. “You just feel entirely unsafe in environments you can’t control,” she had told me. “And so what if you do? Why does he have to make you feel broken for wanting clean sheets?” I walked out of the inn, standing on the edge of the cracked sidewalk, scrolling blindly through my phone, looking for another hotel that didn’t exist. Logically, I should have called Toby. But I physically did not have the energy to form sentences anymore. I stood there for a few minutes until my legs gave out. I crouched down. A few minutes after that, I tipped my suitcase onto its side and just sat on it. A black SUV drove past me, its taillights flaring red. A few seconds later, it threw it in reverse and backed up to where I was sitting. The passenger window rolled down. “Ms. Kimberley?” It was Toby. And sitting in the driver’s seat, now wearing a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, was the man from the airport. I squinted at them through the glare of the streetlamp. And then, the world went completely black. 6 The year Wesley’s father died, Wesley wasn’t even eighteen. He wasn’t legally or practically equipped to take over the family empire, so his uncle staged a boardroom coup and took everything. His mother suffered a total psychological break and was locked away in a private psychiatric facility. Wesley was essentially exiled—shipped off to a university in London to keep him out of the way. But he had one demand before he got on the plane: he was taking me with him. He was completely isolated. Everyone in his social circle dropped him overnight like a bad habit. Even Gemma’s wealthy parents forced her to break up with him immediately, severing all ties. He lost everything. But he demanded me. Why? His uncle didn’t care why. To his uncle, Megan was a nobody. A girl from the trailer park with a dead mom and a deadbeat dad. I had zero pedigree, zero influence. I was a stray ant he could step on if he needed to. But I cared. I asked Wesley why. He told me he would pay for my tuition, my living expenses, give me the best resources, and guarantee me a high-paying corporate job the second I graduated. “But why me?” I had pressed. “Because you know how to starve,” he said coldly. “You have no baggage, no family that cares about you, no attachments. And you’re ruthless.” I was ruthless. My grades were flawless; even Wesley couldn’t beat me academically. And I held grudges with a biblical vengeance. I was the reason my deadbeat dad got fired. I was the reason my stepmother ended up with a fractured skull, and why her precious golden-child son got expelled. Wesley said I was a useful weapon. And similarly, he was useful to me. It was a transactional exchange. Nothing more. For three years in London, we were each other’s entire world. He was plotting his return, building his own capital to crush his uncle. The rich are a fascinating breed; even in “exile,” Wesley never truly knew what it was to be poor. But to me, as long as I didn’t have to worry about the electric bill or where my next meal was coming from, I was living in paradise. I became his attack dog. Wherever he pointed, I bit. I never hesitated, never flinched. Ironically, it was Wesley who frequently had to pull me back by the collar, telling me to stop being so recklessly cutthroat. Then came the winter he got sick. A severe viral infection. His fever spiked dangerously high, leaving him delirious. I had tucked the blankets around him and turned to leave the bedroom to get ice, but his hand suddenly shot out, gripping my wrist like a vice. “Don’t go,” he whispered, his eyes unfocused. I stood by the bed, staring at him for a long, long time. Then I sat down on the edge of the mattress. I sat there from dusk until the sun came up. When I woke up the next morning, slumped against the nightstand, Wesley was already gone. We never spoke of it. We pretended the moment didn’t exist. But I knew the truth. I wanted him. I was an anomaly. Bizarre, abrasive, totally isolated. I had no friends, no family, no lovers. But I was still human. And there isn’t a human being on earth who doesn’t secretly fear the dark, who doesn’t crave the warmth of another heartbeat. I was no different. Wesley was the one who reached into the dark and pulled me out. And because of that, I decided I was going to chain him to me. I was going to tie him to my life, permanently, no matter the cost.

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It was only when the invisible hand of grief tightened around my heart that I realized the crushing weight of the ultrasound report I’d been trying so hard to ignore. My wife and daughter were famous for their icy temperaments—polished, professional, and emotionally distant. When the news of a third child arrived, I allowed myself to hope. I thought, finally, the frost in our home might thaw. During dinner, my daughter, Sophie, leaned over and whispered in my ear, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “Dad, I’m going to have a little brother.” I looked at my wife, Isabelle, and her slightly rounded stomach. I suppressed the urge to grin, pretending I was hearing this “surprise” for the first time. I was ready to celebrate, ready to tell her how happy I was. But before I could speak, Isabelle’s voice cut through the air, cool and clinical. “The child isn’t yours.” She set her fork down with a delicate click. “The amniocentesis results came back yesterday. It’s a boy.” She added, with a nonchalance that made my blood run cold: “A younger man’s genes are simply superior. The child will be sharper, more resilient. It’s better for the family legacy.” The words felt like shards of ice driven into my chest. I sat there, paralyzed, my hand still hovering over my wine glass. The warm, domestic future I’d been picturing—the “happily ever after” I’d spent fifteen years building—was nothing more than a carefully constructed lie. … “Why?” I forced the word out, my voice cracking under the weight of a decade and a half of devotion. I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Isabelle, the woman I had loved since we were penniless students, was casually announcing her infidelity over a steak dinner. She didn’t look away. She never did. “Six months ago, at that gala in the Hamptons. Someone spiked my drink. I ended up spending the night with a college kid.” “I took the morning-after pill, obviously,” she continued, a faint, almost predatory smile touching her lips. “But apparently, his constitution was too strong. I conceived anyway.” She looked at our daughter. “When Sophie heard it was a boy, she begged me to keep him. You have no idea how happy she was that day, Daniel.” Isabelle’s laugh was light, melodic. To me, it sounded like a funeral dirge. I turned to Sophie, expecting to see a shred of guilt or confusion on her face. Instead, she looked at me with the same detached calculation as her mother. “I’ve always wanted a brother,” Sophie said firmly. “I don’t care who the father is, as long as he’s Mom’s.” I felt a sickening vertigo. My wife, who I thought loved me more than life itself; my daughter, who I had raised with every ounce of my soul—how could they turn into strangers in a single heartbeat? Isabelle sighed, pulling a silk handkerchief from her pocket and offering it to me. “Don’t be dramatic, Dan. People in our circles… this happens. I thought you were more sophisticated than this.” “Don’t worry,” she added, as if she were discussing a business merger. “Once the baby is born, I’ll set the boy up with a trust and send him abroad. He won’t threaten your position in this house.” I shoved her hand away. Yesterday, I was the man everyone envied. The loyal husband to a titan of industry. The father to a child prodigy who was already being scouted by Ivy League recruiters. Today, the floor had dropped out from under me. “This isn’t real,” I whispered, rubbing my eyes until they burned. “This is some kind of sick joke.” Isabelle reached out, pinching my chin and forcing me to look at her as she wiped a stray tear from my cheek. “Enough, Daniel. Only a few close friends know. To the rest of the world, you’re still the father. You’ll always be my husband. I promise. Okay?” It felt like a slap. The fog in my brain suddenly cleared, replaced by a sharp, jagged reality. My gaze fell on the ultrasound photo—the tiny life that represented my utter humiliation. When Isabelle tried to pull me into a compensatory hug, I recoiled, shoving her back with a force that surprised us both. “Get away from me! Don’t touch me! You’re disgusting!” She held up her hands, stepping back with a frown. “Fine. I’ll give you space. Maybe Sophie can talk some sense into you?” Tears hit the back of my hand. I stood up so abruptly I sent my chair flying, then gripped the edge of the table and heaved. The expensive dinner, the crystal, the flowers—everything crashed to the floor. “I want a divorce,” I snarled. “I will not raise another man’s bastard. Not in a million years.” The room went deathly silent. The warmth vanished from Isabelle’s eyes, replaced by a terrifying, flinty hardness. Sophie looked at me with pure disappointment. “Dad, if you want a divorce, go ahead,” Sophie said. “But I’m staying with Mom. And if you walk out that door today, Uncle Tyler will be my new father by tomorrow.” The strength left my legs. I grabbed the edge of the sideboard to keep from collapsing. “Who? Who did you just say?” Tyler. Tyler Mathew. He was a student in my architecture seminar, a boy who had dropped out because his “girlfriend” got pregnant. I remembered the day he left; he’d been gloating, practically vibrating with excitement. I had tried to give him a fatherly lecture about finishing his degree, about responsibility. He had looked at me with such disdain. “Please, Professor,” he’d said. “My girl has more money than God. She can afford ten kids. I’m just going to let her take care of me.” I had felt sorry for him at the time. I never imagined the “girl” was my wife. My vision blurred with hot, angry tears. “Why… why did it have to be my student, Isabelle?” Isabelle rubbed her temples. “It wasn’t intentional. I went into the wrong suite that night. I didn’t realize who he was until I woke up.” She paused, her eyes roaming over my face with a cruel kind of hunger. “But I can’t say I regret it. The stamina of a twenty-year-old is… refreshing.” A roar started in my ears. I snapped. I grabbed a porcelain vase, a book, a heavy crystal decanter—anything within reach—and hurled them at her. I screamed until my throat was raw. Isabelle didn’t flinch, didn’t even move as things shattered around her. When I finally slumped against the wall, exhausted, she stepped over the wreckage. “Are we done with the tantrum now?” she asked, her voice weary. She reached out to touch my shoulder. “Get out!” I threw the last wine glass at her feet. The glass splintered, a stray shard slicing my own palm. Isabelle’s expression darkened. She grabbed my wrist, her grip like a vice, forcing me to hold still while she inspected the cut. “Since you’re so well-informed now,” she said, her tone conversational once more, “I’ve decided to move Tyler in. The doctor says the baby needs to be near his father for ‘bonding.’ While you’re taking care of me and Sophie, you can look after Tyler too.” I looked at her, horrified. “What… what did you just say?” Isabelle twisted her wedding ring, then reached up to pinch my cheek. “Be a good boy, Dan. Tyler moves in tonight. You’ll be looking after him for the next few months. I’ve already called the university and put you on a sabbatical. You won’t have to worry about work.” “You’re sick,” I spat, my voice a broken whisper. “You want me to serve your… your boy toy? Isabelle, have you lost your mind?” She chuckled, pressing a finger to my lips. “Shh. Lower your voice. You wouldn’t want your mother to hear about this, would you? She’s still in the cardiac unit. Stress is a silent killer for women her age.” The threat hit me like a physical blow. I went cold. “If you don’t play along, Daniel,” she whispered, her smile never reaching her eyes, “I can’t guarantee that someone won’t ‘accidentally’ mention my pregnancy and your impending divorce to her. Do you think her heart could handle that?” I shook with rage and helplessness. My mother. She had been the only one to support our marriage when Isabelle was a nobody with nothing but a dream. My mother had given Isabelle her first five thousand dollars to start her firm. My eyes welled up again, but Isabelle had lost her patience. She checked her Rolex and sighed. “Tyler will be here in five minutes. I’m giving you five minutes to pull yourself together and decide if you want your mother to live through the night.” My fists clenched and unclenched. Finally, defeated, I nodded. She gave me a peck on the cheek as a reward before heading to the front door to welcome him. Sophie pushed past me, her eyes bright with an excitement I hadn’t seen in years. She didn’t even look back at me. The door opened. My eyes met Tyler’s. He looked around the penthouse with the grin of a lottery winner, then looked at me, his former professor, with naked triumph. “Professor,” he smirked. “I look forward to our time together.” I didn’t say a word. Sophie walked over to him. “Dad, you need to move your things out of the master suite so Tyler can have it. You’re old; you can sleep in the guest room or the den. It doesn’t matter.” “Fine,” I said, my voice hollow. If my wife and daughter were gone, what did a room matter? Isabelle looked surprised. She expected more of a fight—the Daniel she knew never backed down. I ignored her and turned to leave. “Not so fast,” Isabelle said, her eyes narrowing. “Since you’re being so accommodating, why don’t you finish cleaning up this mess you made? Then go upstairs and pack your things properly. I want the room ready for Tyler in an hour.” Tyler stepped forward, grabbing my hand in a mock-friendly shake. “Thanks, Professor. I’m sure you’ll keep everything spotless for us.” He was treating me like a servant. And Isabelle and Sophie just stood there, watching. I wrenched my hand away. “There are cleaners for that. They’re professionals.” Isabelle’s voice dropped an octave, cold and dangerous. “Don’t test me, Daniel. You can walk out, but think about your mother. If you won’t do the work, maybe she’s healthy enough to come over and scrub the floors for me?” The air left my lungs. I turned and went into the master bedroom. I started throwing my clothes into a suitcase, but Sophie came in a moment later. She began grabbing my things—my books, my framed photos—and tossing them out into the hallway. Glass shattered. “You’re too slow, Dad,” she said. “Besides, all this stuff is old. It belongs in the trash anyway.” Isabelle walked in and tried to put a hand on my back, a hollow gesture of comfort. “Look, Dan. I’ve bought those beach properties in Malibu you liked. I’ll put them in your name. You love the ocean. You can spend your time there once the baby is born.” The hypocrisy made me want to vomit. I moved away from her touch. Once I cleared the room, I walked out, needing air. Thirty minutes later, a scream echoed from the master suite. Security guards—men I’d known for years—grabbed me and hauled me up to the second floor. Tyler was sitting on the edge of the bed, trembling. Isabelle was holding a long, wicked-looking sewing needle she’d found under the pillow. “Isabelle, I’m so scared,” Tyler whimpered. “That needle was right where I was going to lay my head. If it had hit my eye… if it had hit my heart… I might never have seen our baby.” Isabelle glared at me, her face contorted with disgust. “Daniel, how could you be so petty? So cruel?” “You’re a teacher, for God’s sake! Where is your dignity? I told you Tyler wasn’t a threat to you, and yet you try to kill him? Because I’m having his child? If you weren’t so useless in bed, I wouldn’t have had to go elsewhere to ‘seed’ the family!” The insults rained down on me, but I was too stunned to speak. I hadn’t put a needle there. Suddenly, Sophie lunged at me. Before I could react, a sharp pain exploded in my right wrist. She had grabbed the needle from Isabelle and jammed it into my arm. My hand went numb instantly. But she wasn’t done. She hit me, her small fists thumping against my chest. “Bad Daddy! Bad Daddy! You tried to hurt Tyler, so I’m hurting you back!” The physical pain was nothing compared to the sound of her voice. I had always worried Sophie was too mature, too much like her mother. I had prayed for her to show some emotion, to be a “real” child. I never imagined that the first time she’d throw a tantrum, it would be to defend a stranger against me. I looked at Isabelle, the last shred of my love for her dying in my eyes. “Do you honestly think I did this?” Isabelle didn’t answer. Tyler groaned. “Isabelle, my head… I feel dizzy. What if I’m dying? I can’t die before the baby is born.” Isabelle turned her back on me to comfort him. “This was your fault, Daniel. You deserved whatever Sophie did to you. Stop being a child.” She looked at my bleeding wrist with total indifference. “It’s a scratch. Fix it yourself.” “And don’t worry about your mother,” she added as she led Tyler toward the door. “The medical team is with her 24/7. She’s fine. Just… try to be better, Daniel.” They left. I sat on the floor, clutching my numb hand. “Sophie,” I croaked, reaching out. My daughter looked at me with pure loathing and shoved me away before running after them. I tumbled backward, my forehead cracking against the sharp corner of the coffee table. Blood began to pour down my face, stinging my eyes. “Sophie!” I screamed with the last of my strength. “Sophie, stop! If you walk out that door, you are no longer my daughter!” She paused. For a second, hope flared in my chest. “Call 911,” I whispered. “Please.” She turned, a mocking smirk on her face. “Fine. I don’t need a useless father anyway. I’ve wanted a brother forever, and you couldn’t do it. Tyler did it in one night. You’re pathetic.” She walked out. Eventually, it was the housekeeper who found me and called an ambulance. I woke up in the hospital to the sight of a sympathetic doctor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stanley. You were brought in late. The wound on your forehead… it’s going to leave a significant scar. With cosmetic surgery later on, we might—” I shook my head. I didn’t care about the scar. The man I used to be was already dead. I fell back into a restless sleep, only to be awakened by a notification on my phone. An anonymous email. I opened it, and my heart stopped. Photos. Documents. The truth about Isabelle’s pregnancy. A cold, bitter laugh escaped my lips. I reached for the phone to call Isabelle, to tell her exactly what kind of viper she’d invited into her bed, when the hospital’s internal line rang. “Mr. Stanley? You need to come to the ICU. Your mother… she’s crashing. This is it.” The world tilted. I ripped the IV out of my arm and sprinted toward the elevators, stumbling, my gown stained with blood. I found my mother in a hallway on a gurney. There was only one intern with her. “Where is everyone?” I grabbed the nurse’s shoulders. “Where are the doctors? Where is the surgical team?” “I don’t know!” the nurse cried. “The CEO’s husband had some kind of ’emergency’ upstairs, and she ordered the entire cardiac and trauma team to her private suite to check him.” My mind went blank. I dialed Isabelle’s number. I dialed ten times before someone picked up. It was Sophie. “What, Dad? Stop being annoying.” “Give the phone to your mother,” I gasped, my voice shaking. “Now!” “Mom’s busy,” Sophie snapped. “Tyler’s having his ultrasound and she’s holding his hand. Don’t call again.” She hung up. My mother’s breathing was becoming ragged, shallow. I called Isabelle’s assistant and screamed until he patched me through. “Daniel, what is it now?” Isabelle’s voice was full of disdain. “I’m in the middle of a procedure.” “Isabelle, please,” I sobbed into the phone. “My mother is dying. Send the doctors back down. Please. I’m begging you.” Isabelle let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Daniel, give it a rest. I’m pregnant with another man’s child, and this is how you react? Faking a medical emergency for your mother? You are truly pathetic. The team is exactly where I want them. Stop being jealous.” “Isabelle, I’m not lying! She’s dying! Please!” “Then let her die,” Isabelle said, her voice like steel. “Maybe then you’ll finally shut up.” Click. The line went dead. I watched the heart monitor flatline. I watched the nurse pull the white sheet over my mother’s face. I didn’t even have the strength to cry. Hours later, Isabelle called back. Her voice was light, almost cheerful. “How’s your mother? The medical team I sent should have her stabilized. I even had some specialists flown in from Germany.” “I’m willing to overlook your behavior today,” she continued. “It’s Sophie’s birthday dinner tonight. Come home. She wants you to bake that chocolate cake she likes.” I stared at the white sheet. “Okay,” I said. My voice was a ghost. I hung up and walked to a 24-hour print shop near the hospital. I printed every file from that email. I put them in a gift box. Then I called a courier. I handed him my black Amex. “Deliver this to Isabelle Stanley at the Pearl Room tonight. Make sure she opens it in front of everyone.” Isabelle, I hope that when you find out the truth, you can still stomach the child you’re carrying. At the gala, Tyler was preening, trying to play the part of the doting father-to-be. Sophie was looking around, impatient. “Where’s Dad? Why isn’t he here yet?” Isabelle checked her watch. “He’s probably still sulking. He’ll be here.” The courier arrived. Isabelle frowned, stepping back, but when she heard my name, she took the box. A faint, smug smile touched her lips. “He always makes such a fuss over a cake. Fine, I’ll forgive him this once—” She opened the box. Her face went ashen.

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My best friend, Jackson, had been stood up by his bride-to-be, and there he was on his wedding day, tears streaming down his face, begging me for a favor I never thought I’d have to grant. My fiancée, Michelle, patted his shoulder with a confident smile, trying to soothe him. She told me they had grown up together, that their bond was thicker than blood, and that stepping in today was just a formality—a way to save face for his family. “Besides,” she’d laughed, her eyes bright and teasing, “we’re getting married next week anyway. Think of this as a dress rehearsal. We can get the jitters out of the way early.” Out of respect for our years of friendship, and despite the knot of unease tightening in my chest, I gritted my teeth and agreed. I had no idea that my fiancée, the woman who was supposed to be the maid of honor, would actually step into that white gown and become Jackson’s “bride.” At the altar, Michelle’s arm was hooked firmly through Jackson’s. The look in her eyes as she gazed at him wasn’t the look of a friend performing a favor; it was a raw, unshielded adoration I hadn’t seen in years. When the officiant asked if she would take him to be her husband, her “I do” was sharper, more certain than it had been when I’d proposed to her on a rainy night in October. I stood there, a glorified extra in my own life, telling myself it was just an act. Don’t be the jealous guy, Theo, I whispered to myself. It’s just a performance. The ceremony moved to the exchange of rings. Everything was going according to the script—until the officiant smiled and announced, “The groom may now kiss the bride.” The guests began to cheer and hoot. Jackson actually had the nerve to walk over and clap me on the shoulder first. “Don’t worry, Theo,” he whispered, a smug glint in his eye. “We’re just going to fake it. Camera angles, you know?” Like a fool, I believed him. But a second later, Michelle didn’t just lean in. she stood on her tiptoes, pulled Jackson down by his lapels, and lost herself in a deep, lingering French kiss right in front of everyone. … 1 The moment their lips met, the room erupted. It wasn’t a “stage kiss.” It wasn’t a peck on the cheek. It was a hungry, desperate entanglement of lips and tongues. I froze, the blood draining from my face until I felt as pale as the tablecloths. Beside me, one of the bridesmaids whispered, “Oh my god, are they still acting? That looks… really intense.” Intense. Yeah, that was one word for it. They looked like the only two people in the world. The applause thundered like a physical blow. Someone shouted, “One more!” Jackson finally pulled away, his face flushed as he glanced toward me. He looked like he was about to say something, but Michelle didn’t let him. She hooked her arm around his neck and pulled him back down for a second round. I looked down at my groomsman’s tuxedo, feeling the sheer absurdity of the situation. When the kiss finally ended, Jackson hurried over to me. “Theo, man, I’m so sorry. I didn’t think she would—” He didn’t finish. Michelle grabbed his wrist, pulling him behind her as if she were protecting him from me. “Theo, it’s just a show,” she said, her voice ringing with a terrifyingly calm authority. “You’re the one who gave us the green light. Don’t take it out on Jackson.” She sounded so righteous, so logical, that for a split second, I felt like the one being unreasonable. Jackson chimed in, “Seriously, Theo. There’s nothing going on. Michelle loves you. You’re her world.” Her world? She knew how much this would hurt me, and yet she chose to devour another man’s mouth in a room full of our peers. I didn’t say a word. I threw the boutonniere I was holding onto the floor and turned, running out of the banquet hall into the biting afternoon air. In the past, Michelle would have chased after me. She would have apologized until she was blue in the face, begging for my forgiveness. But today, I stood in the cold for thirty minutes, smoking through two cigarettes, and she never came. Finally, I crushed the second butt under my shoe and walked back inside. As I passed the hallway leading to the bridal suite, I noticed the door was cracked open. A soft, rhythmic sound caught my ear. I stopped. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Through the gap in the door, I saw them. On the velvet sofa, Michelle and Jackson were a mess of limbs and white lace. Her gown was pushed up to her waist, her breath coming in jagged, rhythmic gasps. She let out a soft moan and playfully slapped his chest. “Jackson, are you crazy? What if Theo sees us?” Jackson didn’t flinch. He let out a low, dark chuckle. “Michelle, babe, we’ve been sneaking around for two years. If he was going to find out, he would’ve done it by now.” He gripped her hips, pinning her deeper into the cushions. “Besides, we just signed the papers. Is it a crime to sleep with my own wife?” Two years? Signed papers? I felt like I’d been plunged into a frozen lake. My lungs burned as I tried to draw air. Michelle didn’t pull away. Instead, she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “I only signed those papers because of the baby, Jackson. I’m supposed to marry Theo next week, and I still haven’t figured out how to break it to him…” My fingernails bit into my palms, drawing blood. The baby. The pregnancy she’d announced three weeks ago—the one that had me crying tears of joy, the one that had me rushing to finalize our wedding plans. It wasn’t mine. Jackson leaned down, his voice dripping with a tenderness he’d never shown me. “We’ll just get a fake marriage certificate for the Theo wedding. He’s so gullible, he’ll never check the registry. Even after you marry him, you’ll still be mine…” “Careful,” Michelle whispered, her voice breathless. “Think about the baby.” “I’m being careful. I’ll be so gentle…” The sounds that followed—the wet, sickeningly intimate noises of a couple in love—made the world tilt on its axis. I stumbled back, leaning against the cold wallpaper, gasping for air. One was my best friend of ten years. The other was the woman I’d loved for five. The two people I trusted most in the world had been using the “best friend” label as a cloak for their filth. Eventually, they emerged from the room, hand in hand. When they saw me standing there, the blood drained from their faces. Jackson was the first to react. He rushed forward to grab my arm, but all I could see was the fresh, red hickey blooming on his neck. “Theo, look, I’m sorry,” Jackson stammered. “Michelle lost her head for a second, but I’ve already talked to her about it. I told her she needs to be more careful.” He glanced back at Michelle, a silent command in his eyes. “Tell him you’re sorry, Michelle.” Michelle stepped forward, putting on that sweet, pouty face she used whenever she wanted something. “Theo, honey, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking about how it would look to you.” I looked into her eyes. They were the same eyes that, just minutes ago, had been clouded with passion for a man who wasn’t me. I balled my fist, the rage finally overriding the shock. I swung at Jackson’s smug face, but Michelle was faster. She grabbed my wrist and shoved me back with a strength born of pure adrenaline. “Have you lost your mind?” she screamed. I didn’t fight back, terrified of hurting her—or the child I still, for some stupid reason, felt a protective instinct toward. I hit the wall hard, stars dancing in my vision. “Michelle,” I rasped, “is he just a friend? Tell me the truth.” 2 Panic flickered in Michelle’s eyes, but she smothered it instantly, replacing it with a look of offended confusion. “Are you seriously questioning me right now?” she snapped. “Jackson and I grew up together. Sometimes we get a little too comfortable, sure, but it’s not what you’re making it out to be. You’re being paranoid.” She wouldn’t admit it. Not even now. Looking back, the breadcrumbs were everywhere. I had just been too blind to follow the trail. Ever since I started dating Michelle, we were a trio. Everywhere we went, Jackson was there. She could never remember my birthday, but she always had a midnight surprise ready for his. I can’t eat spicy food—it triggers my ulcers—yet she always ordered the spiciest dishes on the menu because “Jackson loves the heat.” When Jackson felt a cold coming on, Michelle would tell him to take the day off work. When my stomach was cramping so hard I was curled on the floor, she told me to “tough it out” and reminded me not to be late for our board meeting. We had started our company together—the three of us. But after we went public, Jackson’s salary was mysteriously double mine. I’d complained. I’d been jealous. But Michelle always had the same answer: “Jackson has been in my life forever, Theo. He’s your brother. I can’t treat him like a stranger.” Brother? The way she looked at him wasn’t sisterly. It was the look of a woman who had found her home. Michelle told me to go home and “calm down,” practically shoving me into an Uber. But as soon as we reached my apartment, she didn’t get out. She kept the engine running. “Jackson’s bride leaving him really messed him up,” she said, not looking at me. “After that scene you just caused, he’s probably drinking himself into a hole. I’m going to go check on him for you.” She didn’t care about my state of mind. She didn’t care that my world had just collapsed. Her only concern was the man she’d just been tangled with on a locker room sofa. Once I was inside, I found myself pacing the living room like a caged animal. I stumbled upon a leather-bound journal tucked behind some cookbooks. Every page was a log of flights to London. Below the dates were her notes in cramped, neat handwriting. [Jackson moved to the London branch. I can’t breathe without him. I have to go.] [Three days in London. I told Theo it was a tech conference. In reality, I just needed to feel Jackson’s skin against mine.] I flipped to the entry from our three-year anniversary. My vision blurred with hot, angry tears. [I finally told him. I confessed. It turns out he’s loved me since we were kids. I can’t let him go. Jackson doesn’t want to lose Theo as a friend, though. He told me not to break up with him. I agreed. It hurts, but as long as I get to keep them both, I’ll play the part.] [We finally did it. Compared to Theo, my body just… responds to Jackson. He knows exactly how to touch me.] That night, on our anniversary, I had called her a dozen times. She’d declined every one. Finally, she’d sent a cold text: Busy. Stop bothering me. She wasn’t busy. She was busy sleeping with my best friend. I reached the last page. It was dated from three days ago. [Jackson tried to find some random girl to marry to keep up appearances. I told him no. He’s the father of my child. I won’t let him go. I’ll find a way.] Tucked into the back of the journal was a prenatal report. Under “Father’s Name,” the name Jackson Vane was printed in cold, black ink. I crumpled the paper, my fingers shaking. The day Michelle found out she was pregnant, she’d flown to London. She’d even given me time off work, telling me to “help Jackson with his wedding planning” while she “handled business.” She had orchestrated the “runaway bride” herself, just so she could have an excuse to stand at that altar with him. My phone buzzed. It was my mother. “Theo, honey! When are you and Michelle coming home? The whole family is waiting for the big day!” “Mom,” I said, my voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance. “I’m not marrying Michelle.” Before she could protest, I added, “But don’t worry. The wedding is still happening. I’m just changing the bride.” 3 I spent the entire night reading that journal. Two years. Over a hundred flight stubs. Every single word was a testament to her devotion to Jackson. By sunrise, I was standing at Jackson’s front door. Michelle’s designer heels were in the entryway. The sound of light, melodic laughter drifted from the kitchen. Michelle, who had never cooked a meal for me in five years, was wearing an apron, stirring a pot of soup for him. Jackson wrapped his arms around her waist from behind. “You should probably go check on Theo. He’s definitely spiraling.” Michelle’s voice was cold, indifferent. “Why should I care if he’s sad? I’m the one who’s pregnant, and he hasn’t even asked how I’m feeling. He expects me to coddle him?” She sighed, leaning back into Jackson. “I don’t think I ever really loved him, Jackson. Not like this. Not in any way that matters. He’s just… less than you. In every way.” The words were a physical serration across my heart. Five years. I helped her build her company from a garage startup to a multi-million dollar IPO. And all it was worth to her was “less than.” The rage finally broke through. I didn’t think; I just moved. Before I knew it, my palm had connected with Michelle’s face. “It’s over, Michelle. I’m done. You two deserve each other.” Jackson jumped in front of her. “Theo, wait! You’re misunderstanding—” I threw the prenatal report and the journal into his face. “The baby is yours. You’re both disgusting. Why even pretend anymore?” Michelle slowly knelt to pick up the papers. When she looked up, her expression was terrifyingly calm. “So what, Theo? Our wedding is next week. If you bail now, how are you going to explain it to your parents? To the board? To the press?” Jackson looked down, his voice thick with fake guilt. “I’m sorry, Theo. I’ll take her to the clinic today. We’ll take care of it.” Michelle gripped his arm, glaring at me. “No! I’m not terminating this pregnancy.” She looked at me with pure venom. “Theo, let’s be honest. You’re the one with the ‘issues.’ It took us years and we never conceived. This baby is a miracle. You should be thanking Jackson.” She smirked. “I’ll play along for the wedding. It’s the least I can do. After all, with your reputation, who else would ever want you?” Jackson tried to cover her mouth, but the damage was done. I stood there, paralyzed. She had gone for the jugular. When I was nineteen, an ex-girlfriend of mine got pregnant. She was terrified, and the timing was all wrong. I did the “honorable” thing and went with her to the clinic. But when we got back to campus, the rumors started. People whispered that I was “unclean,” that I was a predator who got girls pregnant and then forced them into procedures. I was blacklisted, bullied, and spat on. I almost didn’t make it through those years. Jackson was the only one who stood by me. He was the one who pulled me back from the edge. And then he introduced me to Michelle. She claimed she never believed the rumors. She fought people who spoke ill of me. The day we went public with our relationship, the university was in an uproar. Why would the campus golden girl date a “tainted” loser like me? She had squeezed my hand and said, “Theo is the best man in the world. I want to give him everything.” I believed her. But now, the person who pulled me out of the abyss was the one kicking me back in. “Michelle,” I whispered, looking into her eyes. They used to be so warm. Now they were just glass. “You said you only believed in me. Was that all a lie?” She didn’t answer. Her silence was the loudest thing in the room. Jackson saw the look on my face—the look of a man who had nothing left to lose—and he panicked. “Theo, don’t listen to her, she’s just upset—” He reached out to grab my shoulder, and I shoved him away with every ounce of strength I had left. He tripped, his head slamming into the corner of the marble dining table. He collapsed, clutching his bleeding forehead, his face going ghostly white. Before I could even process what happened, a force slammed into me. Michelle shoved me against the table. A glass vase shattered under my weight. Shards of glass sliced into my palm, but I didn’t feel the pain. She rushed to Jackson, cradling his head, screaming at me. “If anything happens to him, Theo, I will destroy you! And don’t even think about the wedding. It’s off! You’re nothing without me!” She didn’t look back as she helped him out the door. I stayed there, kneeling in the mess of glass and blood. Michelle didn’t realize one thing. Even without her, the wedding was going to happen. 4 I flew back to the city that night. As soon as I landed, I sent a text to a number I hadn’t dialed in years: I’m back. Let’s get the license tomorrow. The reply came instantly: Okay. Michelle had dumped all the wedding planning on me months ago. She said she was too busy with “work,” and told me to make all the executive decisions. So, I did. I changed the name on the marriage license. The morning of the wedding, I was in my tuxedo, heading downstairs to the car. A black sedan was idling at the curb. Michelle stepped out, holding a bouquet of red roses. Her expression was softer than it had been, almost nervous. “Theo, look. About the other day… I was out of line. I’ll do whatever you want today. I’ll be the perfect bride, okay? Let’s just get through this.” Before I could speak, she added her terms. “But you have to promise me you won’t make things hard for Jackson. He’s still your best friend, even if we messed up. We can still be a family… the three of us.” She said it like she was doing me a favor. Like she was a queen granting a pardon. I just shook my head slowly. “No thanks, Michelle.” She assumed I was just being stubborn. She grabbed my wrist and tried to pull me toward the car. “Come on, Theo. Don’t be a child.” “Michelle, let go—” She didn’t listen. She signaled to her driver to help her force me into the back seat. I pounded on the window. “Michelle, what the hell are you doing? Let me out!” “Theo, it’s our wedding day! Do you really want to make a scene?” “You don’t understand, Michelle. The bride isn’t—” My words were cut off by the shrill ring of her phone. Jackson’s voice, panicked and weak, filled the car. “Michelle… I’ve been in a wreck. I don’t think I’m going to make it to the ceremony…” Michelle’s entire demeanor shifted. The color drained from her face. “I’m coming! Hang on!” She slammed the car into gear and pulled a jagged U-turn, flooring the accelerator. Rage and grief boiled in my throat. I hammered on the glass until my knuckles were raw and bloody. “Michelle, let me out! I have a wedding to get to!” She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. “Jackson might be dying and you’re worried about a party? The wedding is canceled, Theo! How can you be so cold-blooded when your best friend is hurt?” I stared at her, my voice rasping. “I don’t care if he’s dead or alive, Michelle.” She didn’t say another word. She just pushed the car faster. The speedometer hit 80, then 90. She took a sharp turn, and my head slammed against the window. Blood started to trickle down my forehead. She glanced at me, but she didn’t slow down. “I told you to sit still! Stop acting like a psycho!” The world was turning red as blood ran into my eye. The speedometer hit 110. Desperation is a powerful thing. It makes the impossible seem like the only option. “You aren’t going to let me out, are you?” I whispered. “Not until we see Jackson. And when we do, you’re going to apologize to him.” I took a deep breath and reached for the door handle. “Theo, what are you—” I didn’t give her time to finish. I threw the door open. The roar of the wind filled the cabin, whipping my suit jacket around. Michelle’s eyes went wide with pure terror. “Theo, don’t!” I jumped. For a second, I was weightless. Then, the world became a symphony of pain and screaming wind, followed by the distant, haunting sound of Michelle’s voice. “THEO!”

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The air in the suite was still heavy with the scent of expensive lilies and the lingering hum of the reception downstairs. It was my wedding night—the beginning of everything I had spent years dreaming of. But when I reached for my wife, she pulled away with a coldness that made my skin crawl. I thought she was just exhausted. The wedding had been a marathon of high-society expectations and forced smiles. I reached out again, trying to pull her into my arms, ready to make a joke to break the tension. “It’s actually pretty boring being with you,” she said. Her voice was flat, as if she were discussing the weather. She gestured toward the nightstand, where a box of condoms sat. My best friend, Dexter, had handed them to me earlier that day with a wink. “Before the ceremony, he and I were together all night,” Monica said, her tone light, almost conversational. “That box? It’s empty. We used them all.” The room seemed to tilt. I felt the blood drain from my face, but she wasn’t finished. “When I was late to the toasts? It wasn’t because I felt faint. We were in the dressing room for another round. That’s why my legs were shaking when I finally came out.” A small, reminiscent smile played on her lips. “To be honest, being with him is the only thing that makes me feel alive. He knows exactly how to handle a woman. He gave me a pleasure I didn’t know existed.” She looked at me then, her eyes sharp as glass. “Something you could never do.” Her words were like serrated blades carving through my chest. I stood there, frozen, my mouth opening and closing as my throat tightened, sealing off any sound. Monica sighed, a soft sound that held a hint of apology but far more relief. “Logan, I’ve said what I needed to say. Whether we keep this farce going or not… that’s up to you.” 1 I stared at her, listening to the casual cruelty of her voice. I forced every ounce of my remaining strength into three raspy words. “Why? Just… why?” Monica paused, her gaze drifting back to me with utter indifference. “Why what? Why did I sleep with him? Or why am I telling you now?” The silence that followed was suffocating. She let out a short, mocking scoff. “Logan, every time we tried, you always had an excuse. ‘Not in the mood,’ ‘Not feeling right.’ If you’re broken, is it really my fault for looking elsewhere? I wasn’t going to tell you—Dexter was worried about losing his ‘brother’—but three years is a long time to play pretend. Hiding every time we wanted to touch each other was getting exhausting.” My heart hammered against my ribs. “Three years?” Monica nodded, her expression thoughtful. Then, she let out a genuine laugh. “Yeah. Three years ago, at your parents’ funeral. After you passed out from crying so hard, we went into the room next door. It was the first time. We were so reckless I ruined my dress. You thought it was my period, remember? You spent the whole day taking care of me. You even hand-washed the silk, thinking you were being so sweet, not realizing you were scrubbing his fluids out of my skirt.” Seeing that malicious glint in her eyes, I reached my breaking point. I didn’t think; I just reacted. My hand swung out, and the crack of the slap echoed through the room. “Have you no shame, Monica? Have you no soul?” The despair felt like a black hole opening up inside me. It dragged me back to when I was eighteen. My father’s business had collapsed into a heap of debt and scandals. I watched him walk off the edge of a rooftop. I came home to find my mother being tormented by creditors—men who stripped her of her dignity until she, too, followed him into the abyss, dying right in front of me. I lost everything in a single night. The depression that followed wasn’t just sadness; it was a physical weight that crushed the life out of me. During those dark years, Monica and Dexter were my anchors. They were the ones who stayed. I worked three jobs, destroying my health to pay off the debts my father left behind. Every time I felt like I was slipping into the dark, Monica would hold me, whispering into my ear, “Don’t be afraid, Logan. You have me. I’m never leaving.” Even last night, she had called me, her voice trembling with what I thought was joy, calling me “husband” over and over. Remembering how raspy her voice had sounded on that call, the realization hit me like a physical blow. She wasn’t crying because she was happy to marry me. I was just the audience for their twisted foreplay. My stomach churned. I lurched off the bed, stumbling toward the bathroom, and began to retch violently. My strength evaporated. A shadow fell over me. Monica stood in the doorway, looking down at my trembling body. For the first time in years, she didn’t reach down to hold me. She just watched me, her face a mask of boredom. Finally, she pulled a tissue from the box and dropped it near my hand, like she was feeding a stray dog. “Clean yourself up. A grown man acting like this… it’s pathetic.” 2 The disdain in her voice acted like a trigger. I shoved the tissue away, my voice cracking. “Don’t touch me. We’re done, Monica. I want a divorce.” My vision swam with black spots. I scrambled toward the nightstand to find my medication, but my hands were shaking so violently that the bottle shattered against the floor, spilling pills everywhere. Monica chuckled, picking up a single pill and rolling it between her fingers. “Divorce?” she asked, her voice mocking. “Logan, look at yourself. You’re a wreck. Without me, without my family’s influence, you wouldn’t last a week in this city. You’d be back in the gutter where I found you.” Her eyes began to blur as my consciousness flickered. As I slipped into the dark, memories flashed like a frantic montage. The years of heavy medication just to keep my heart beating. The relatives who vanished the moment the money did. The funeral where no one showed up except for them. Monica, the spoiled rich girl who didn’t know how to boil water, had spent months learning to cook just to make sure I ate. When the medication made my hair fall out in clumps, she didn’t hesitate—she cut her own long, beautiful hair off to match me. And the last time I tried to end it all… when I stood on that window ledge… she had climbed out right next to me. “If you jump, Logan, I’m right behind you. I don’t want a world without you.” The sweetness of the past felt like poison in my veins. The image shifted—distorted. I saw them together, laughing at me. I bolted upright in a hospital bed, gasping for air. A muffled, rhythmic sound came from behind the thin curtain of the room’s partition. Groans. Whispers. I froze. I wasn’t dreaming. I forced myself out of bed, my legs like lead. I stood outside the heavy door of the private suite’s sitting area. The sounds from inside made the bile rise in my throat again. I pushed the door open and vomited right there on the polished floor. The room went silent. Dexter, fully dressed but with his shirt tucked in haphazardly, rushed over to help me. I looked up at him, my eyes bloodshot and stinging. I saw the marks on his neck, then looked past him at Monica, who was adjusting her skirt with a look of pure guilt. I swung. My fist connected with Dexter’s jaw, fueled by years of misplaced gratitude. “How could you?” I screamed. “You’re supposed to be my brother!” Before I could land another blow, I was shoved hard. I hit the floor, the world spinning. Monica was standing over Dexter, shielding him, her face contorted with rage. “What is wrong with you, Logan? Are you insane?” She frantically checked Dexter’s face for bruises. Dexter looked at me, then at her, his expression shifting to one of feigned regret. “Mo… you told him? I told you not to tell him.” He turned to me, his voice smooth and manipulative. “Logan, look, it was an accident. Just let me explain.” 3 “An accident?” I stared into Dexter’s eyes, searching for a shred of the friend I thought I knew. “Fucking my girlfriend at my parents’ funeral was an accident? Sleeping with my wife for three years was an accident? Monica said you were together all night—she was still on top of you while she was supposed to be changing for our wedding toast! Are you two really that desperate? That pathetic?” My words stung. Dexter’s face darkened. “Logan, we’ve been friends since we were kids. Don’t make this uglier than it has to be.” Monica let out a sharp, cold laugh. “Logan, watch your mouth. Don’t talk about ‘affairs.’ To be honest—” “Monica, don’t,” Dexter snapped, cutting her off. I looked at her, at the way she looked at him, and I felt a hysterical laugh bubbling up. “Did I say something wrong? You two are the ones doing the dirty work, yet you want to keep your hands clean? I didn’t realize how truly disgusting you both were.” Monica snapped. She screamed at the top of her lungs, “Disgusting? You want to talk about disgusting? Dexter and I might be a lot of things, but we aren’t so pathetic that we watched our own mother get ruined until she jumped off a building. You want to talk about ‘dirty’? Look in a mirror, Logan!” The world stopped. Dexter’s face went pale. He immediately grabbed her, covering her mouth. “Monica, shut up!” She realized what she’d said. She looked at me, at the way the light had completely vanished from my eyes, and a flicker of remorse crossed her face. She opened her mouth to apologize, but I didn’t give her the chance. I grabbed a heavy gift basket from the table—something Dexter had brought—and hurled it at them with every bit of strength I had. “GET OUT!” “Monica, watch out!” Dexter lunged in front of her. The wicker and glass shattered against him, slicing into his arms. “Dexter!” Monica screamed. Seeing the blood blooming through his shirt, her guilt vanished, replaced by a white-hot fury. She marched over and slapped me, hard. “You’re out of your mind! You know Dexter has a coagulation disorder! Are you trying to kill him?” Dexter held her back, playing the martyr. “Mo, it’s fine. I deserve it. He’s sick, don’t let him get to you.” His “noble” act made me look like the villain. It worked. Monica’s rage doubled. “Sick? He’s plenty strong when he’s attacking people! Why is it that everyone else gets better, but you just stay ‘sick’? You’re faking it, Logan. You just love the attention!” I stood there, paralyzed. Ever since I proposed to Monica, I thought I was cured. I thought I had finally found the light. I didn’t realize that to her, my survival was just a long, boring performance. “Ms. Thorne, Mr. Brooks is losing too much blood. He needs an immediate transfusion,” a doctor said, rushing in after hearing the commotion. “But he’s O-negative, and the hospital bank is low.” Monica didn’t hesitate. She grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the door. “He’s the same blood type. Take it from him.” I tried to fight, but the Thorne family bodyguards were already there. They pinned me down and dragged me into a procedure room. A sedative hit my veins. My resistance died. Monica forgot one thing. Dexter had a clotting issue, yes. But after years of illness and malnutrition, I was severely anemic. By the time they were done, I was hovering on the edge of a blackout, unable to even lift my head. Monica never came back to my room. Instead, Dexter sent a flurry of “apology” texts in the middle of the night. I didn’t read them. I blocked his number. At dawn, I checked myself out. I limped to the city hall, the marriage certificate clutched in my hand. I couldn’t bear to be tied to her for another second. But when I handed the papers to the clerk, she looked at them, then at me, with a strange, pitying expression. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hunter. This certificate is a forgery.” I stared at her. “That’s impossible. We signed it three months ago. Monica Thorne. Look again.” The clerk sighed and pulled up the records on her screen. “Ms. Thorne is indeed married, sir. But her husband’s name isn’t Logan Hunter. It’s Dexter Brooks.” 4 I walked out of the government building, the useless piece of paper fluttering in my hand. I started to laugh, and the laughter turned into ragged, choking sobs. So that’s what she was going to say in the hospital. It wasn’t an affair. I wasn’t the husband being cheated on. I was the mistress. I was the side-show. I was the third wheel in my own life. I was wandering aimlessly when a black SUV screeched to a halt beside me. Two men jumped out and threw me into the back seat. Monica was there, her eyes red and swollen. “Logan! I told you to stay away from Dexter! Are you trying to destroy him?” She shoved her phone into my face. SCANDAL: Brooks Heir Caught in BDSM Affair at Funeral; Brooks Group Stock Plunges. The video on the screen was a grainy, hidden-camera shot. The background was unmistakable: it was the funeral home where my parents had been laid to rest three years ago. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Dexter’s father had a heart attack. The family had him whipped—he’s in the ICU right now! He worked for years to become the heir, and you ruined it in a second!” I stared at her, bewildered. I was so sick back then; I barely remembered the funeral. How could I have filmed anything? “You think I did this?” Monica’s fury spiked. “Who else would want to hurt him like this? You’ve pushed me too far, Logan.” She tapped her phone and sent a file. Then, she ordered the driver to the city center. “Dexter and I got married a year ago,” she said, her voice trembling with a cruel sort of triumph. “He’s my legal husband. Out of pity for you, he let you have the ‘wedding.’ He was willing to be the invisible man just so you wouldn’t break. And this is how you repay him?” “You like posting videos?” she hissed. “Fine. Let’s see how you like this one.” We pulled up to the tallest skyscraper in the city, the one with the massive LED screens. My heart stopped. On the giant screens, visible to thousands of commuters, a video began to play. It was my mother. The night of the bankruptcy. The men who had broken into our house were humiliating her, laughing as she begged for mercy. It was the deepest, most private trauma of my life. “Stop it,” I whispered. “Monica, stop it!” But she wasn’t done. The car sped toward the outskirts, toward the abandoned apartment building where my parents had jumped. Monica’s smile was demonic. “Since you love funerals so much, why don’t we visit them one last time?” Several of her family’s men were already on the roof. They were holding two ceramic urns. My parents’ ashes. “No! Stop! Please!” I tried to lunged out of the car, but the guards pinned me to the pavement. I watched, screaming, as they tilted the urns. A gray cloud of ash spilled into the wind, scattering over the trash and the dirty concrete of the alleyway. “Drag him up there,” Monica commanded. “Lock him in that building until Dexter wakes up. Let him think about what he’s done.” By the time they dragged me to the roof, the urns were empty. I fell to my knees, clawing at the dust and gravel, trying to find any trace of them, let alone a goodbye. I let out a sound that wasn’t human—a raw, broken howl of agony. In the car below, Monica’s assistant winced. “Ma’am… is this too much? He’s unstable. If he has an episode…” Monica scoffed, her eyes cold as she watched the building. “There are no ‘episodes.’ It’s just fake ash—I had the urns swapped. It’s a lesson. He needs to learn that for every action, there’s a consequence. Dexter is the victim here.” Her phone rang. It was the hospital. Dexter was awake. Without another look at the building, she ordered the driver to go. She spent the night by Dexter’s side, managing the PR crisis and ensuring the scandal was buried. Only when his vitals were stable did she finally relax. “The heat is off Dexter,” she told her assistant. “Call the guys at the apartment. Tell them to bring Logan here. He’s going to apologize to Dexter on his knees.” Just as the assistant reached for his phone, the hospital’s waiting room TV flashed an emergency bulletin. “Breaking News: A man has just jumped from the roof of the Willow Street Apartments. Witnesses say he was clutching two empty urns. The victim was pronounced dead at the scene. Viewer discretion is advised…”

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The roar of the pier market was still ringing in my ears, but my mind was already made up. Tomorrow was the start of the Memorial Day weekend—the busiest three days of the year. I had gone out of my way to ensure these local vendors could maximize their profits, rerouting my own deep-sea fleet and cold-chain logistics to provide them with priority stock at near-wholesale prices. It was supposed to be a win-win. Then I stepped into the market today. I was just browsing, pointing a finger toward a sea bass in a tank to ask the price, when the vendor grabbed a heavy wooden club. With a sickening thud, he crushed the fish’s head right in front of me. Then he looked me dead in the eye and demanded a hundred dollars. I told him I hadn’t agreed to buy it. He didn’t blink. He slammed a blood-stained gutting knife into his cutting board, the blade quivering. He told me, “Market rules, city boy. You point, you buy. The fish is dead because you spooked it. Pay up.” I wasn’t in the mood for a scene. I turned my back and started walking away without giving him a cent. I hadn’t gone ten steps before my phone buzzed. It was a notification from the “Pier District Merchants” group chat—a group I monitored but never posted in. I clicked it open. There was my face, a candid photo taken seconds ago. “Got a live one at Stall 4. Just tagged a dead grouper for a hundred bucks. Boys, get out there and block the exits. No pay, no play. Drinks are on me tonight.” The replies flooded in immediately. “On it.” “Teach the tourist some manners.” “Rule of the docks, baby.” It seemed my charity had reached its expiration date. It was time to cut the cord. 1 I shoved my phone back into my pocket, not even glancing at the dead fish. I just kept walking toward the main exit. But I only made it two steps. Two heavy industrial carts were pushed out from the neighboring stalls, one from the left and one from the right. The aisle, already narrow and slick with melted ice and fish guts, was suddenly a dead end. The two vendors behind the carts leaned against them with practiced nonchalance, their faces twisted into mocking smirks. My phone buzzed twice more in my pocket. I didn’t need to look. The “boys” had arrived. Behind me, I heard the heavy, wet slap of footsteps. Big Mike, the owner of the fish stall, rounded his counter. He was carrying the sea bass by its tail, the head a mangled mess of scales and red pulp. He strode up behind me and dropped it at my feet with a wet thud. “Where you going, pal?” Big Mike crossed his meaty arms over his stained apron, looming over me. “You bought that fish the second you pointed at it.” He leaned in, smelling of old brine and cheap cigarettes. “You don’t pay that hundred, you aren’t just staying in the market—you aren’t leaving this street.” He paused, using the toe of his boot to nudge the carcass. He let out a dry, jagged laugh. “Actually, you just dropped this dead fish on my floor. That’s a mess. Call it another fifty for the cleaning fee. One-fifty, total. Venmo or CashApp. Now.” I looked down at the blood blooming across the toe of my shoe, then back at the mutilated fish. A wave of nausea hit me, but beneath it, the heat of my anger had crystallized into something cold and sharp. “I never said I wanted it. You killed a fish to force a sale,” I said, my voice leveled, meeting the eyes of the vendors circling me. “And now you’re blocking my path. Is this a market or a mugging?” A chorus of jagged laughter erupted around me. The lanky guy leaning on the left cart shook his head. “Mugging? Calm down, Senator. This is a ‘transactional dispute.’ You spooked the livestock. In this harbor, if you break it, you bought it.” The guy on the right chimed in, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “Look at him. Suit probably cost more than my truck, and he’s crying over a hundred and fifty bucks. Just pay the man and go get your latte, man. Don’t be a cheapskate.” Big Mike stepped closer, his finger almost touching my nose. “I’ll tell you how it is. In this market, my word is the law. You call the cops? Go ahead. They’ll see a civil dispute over a dead fish and tell us to work it out. By the time they leave, I’ll make sure you’re leaving in an ambulance.” They worked together like a well-oiled machine. Every word was a calculated move in a game they’d played a thousand times, wrapping their thievery in the “tradition” of the docks. To them, I was just another nameless suit, a “mark” with deep pockets and no backbone. I looked at their ugly, greedy faces. Tomorrow was the holiday rush. Every shop on this street was expecting my fleet’s refrigerated trucks to roll in. I had always felt for the “little guy,” the ones waking up at 4 AM to haul crates. I’d kept the wholesale prices at rock bottom, even let them run tabs, just so they could keep their heads above water. I had been feeding a pack of wolves, and they had mistaken my kindness for weakness. I didn’t argue. I just pulled out my phone. “Fine,” I said quietly. “If we’re playing by market rules, let’s bring in the Market Director. Let’s check the cameras and see whose ‘rules’ carry more weight.” 2 It didn’t take long for the “authorities” to arrive. A few minutes after I called the complaint line, a man in a faded windbreaker with an official-looking lanyard pushed through the crowd. He was balding, with a gut that hung over his belt and a bored expression. Big Mike grinned the moment he saw him. “Director Halloway! Glad you’re here. This guy’s causing a scene, killed my fish, and now he’s trying to skip out on the bill.” I pointed to the high-definition security camera mounted directly above the stall. “Director, please check the footage. I was two feet away. I asked a price. I never touched the tank, let alone the fish.” Halloway didn’t even look up at the camera. He didn’t even look at me. “Cameras have been down for maintenance since Tuesday,” he muttered, his voice flat. “Line issues.” I let out a short, sharp laugh. How convenient. Halloway tucked his hands into his pockets, looked at the fish on the ground, and started in with a practiced, bureaucratic drone. “Look, son. Mr. Vancini has been a staple of this pier for fifteen years. Honest guy. These deep-sea fish are delicate. You start waving your hands around, you stress ’em out. If they flip, it’s on the person who caused the stress. That’s the code of the docks.” It was a masterpiece of gaslighting. This man was likely on my payroll indirectly—Voss Maritime paid a hefty “security and management” fee to the city for this district—and here he was, acting as the muscle for a shakedown. Just then, an older man in a stained chef’s coat pushed through the onlookers. He sighed, looking at me with a face full of weary disappointment. “Listen to him, kid,” the old man said, sounding like a concerned grandfather. “I’m a chef at the bistro around the corner. Sea bass are high-strung. One bad shock and their hearts give out. These vendors work twenty-hour days for pennies. You look like you’re doing well for yourself. Don’t be that guy. Don’t ruin a man’s day over a few bucks. Pay the man, and let’s all get back to work.” The crowd murmured in agreement. “Exactly. Look at his shoes—they cost more than my rent.” “Rich guys think they can just do whatever they want.” “Just pay him, you jerk.” The theater was flawless. They had their villain, their victim, and their moral compass. I was being cast as the heartless elite. Halloway saw me go quiet and took it as a sign of surrender. He pulled a crumpled citation book from his pocket and ripped off a yellow slip, flicking it toward my chest. “Enough talk,” Halloway said, his voice hardening. “Pay the one-fifty plus the cleaning fee. If you keep obstructing the flow of trade, I’m calling the pier security to hold you in the cold storage office until you cool off. And believe me, you don’t want to see the ‘processing fee’ for that.” 3 I watched Halloway’s thumb hovering over his walkie-talkie. Suddenly, my phone vibrated several times in quick succession. I made a show of opening my banking app, but I was actually looking at the group chat. The same people who were currently looking at me with righteous indignation were having a digital party. Halloway is a pro! ‘Maintenance’—I love it! Did you see Old Man Jenkins? Give that man an Oscar! The kid looks like he’s about to cry. Dotty, you’re up! Do the ‘good cop’ routine. Drain him dry before he leaves! The cynicism of it was almost impressive. They had turned extortion into a choreographed stage play. They were rotten to the core. The crowd parted again. A middle-aged woman in a red waterproof apron rushed in, looking breathless and frantic. “Oh, now, let’s be reasonable! Everyone just take a breath!” Dotty Higgins shoved Halloway’s hand away from the radio. As she did, I saw her hand slip something—a pack of cigarettes, maybe with something tucked inside—into Halloway’s pocket. She turned to me, her eyes wide and full of “kindness.” “Sweetheart, you’re not from around here, are you? Listen to Dotty. Don’t let this escalate. Going to the security office… that’s a nightmare you don’t want. These boys have tempers, but they’re good people.” She sighed, the picture of a tragic peacemaker. “Tell you what. I’ll help you out. I’ll take that dead fish off your hands for fifty bucks—I can use it for fish cakes at my stall. You pay Mike the remaining hundred, and we all walk away friends. How does that sound?” The “passersby” immediately flipped the script. “See? There’s still some heart on this pier!” “You’re a saint, Dotty. Kid, you better thank her.” I looked at Dotty’s “honest” face. I turned off my screen. “Fine,” I said, nodding. I opened my Venmo and scanned Big Mike’s QR code. Payment Received: $150.00. I saw the flicker of greed in Mike’s eyes as the notification hit his phone. I was a “whale.” A sucker with an open wallet. Dotty’s eyes lit up. She grabbed my arm with surprising strength, pulling me toward the stall next door. “You’ve had a rough start, honey. Come on, let me get you a water. Relax a bit. Mike’s just stressed about the holiday. Tell you what, I’ve got some prime Dungeness crab today. I’ll give you a deal—wholesale price, just to make up for the trouble.” I looked at the crabs snapping in her tank. A thin, cold smile touched my lips. “Sure, Dotty. I’d love some crab.” I wanted to see how far they’d go. 4 Dotty moved with lightning speed, scooping two large crabs out of the water. “Look at these beauties! Best in the Atlantic. Usually fifty a pound, but for you? Thirty. You’re getting away with murder, honey!” She tossed them onto a digital scale. “Four pounds. That’s a hundred-twenty. I’m practically giving these away!” She reached for a black plastic bag. “Wait,” I said, reaching out to stop her. I picked one of the crabs up from the scale. It was heavy—unusually so. But I didn’t feel the weight of the meat. I felt the thick, heavy industrial rubber bands wrapped four, five times around each claw. They weren’t the standard thin bands. These were thick, water-logged strips of heavy-duty rubber. I grabbed the end of one and pulled. It uncoiled like a snake. I dropped the crab back into the tank and laid the wet, heavy pile of rubber on the scale. The red numbers flickered. “Half a pound of crab. Half a pound of rubber,” I said, looking Dotty dead in the eye. Her “kindly” face froze. “Is this the ‘wholesale’ deal, Dotty?” For one second, she looked panicked. Then, the mask shattered. She didn’t apologize. She didn’t even try to explain. She sat down right on the wet floor and started screaming. “Help! Help! He’s attacking me! This big man is bullying a widow!” She started slapping her own thighs, her voice reaching a shrill, piercing pitch. “I put the bands on so he wouldn’t get bit! I was trying to protect him! He’s trying to steal from me! He’s trying to ruin my business!” It was the ultimate trump card. The damsel in distress. Predictably, the pack descended. Big Mike was back in my face instantly, and Halloway was already on his radio. “You piece of work!” Big Mike roared. “You think you can come here and harass women? You’re paying that hundred-twenty and you’re paying it now, or you’re leaving here in a box!” Halloway yelled into his mic: “Security to Stall 5! We’ve got a violent 10-34! Bring zip ties!” The other vendors joined in, their voices a cacophony of manufactured rage. “Scumbag!” “Think you’re better than us?” “Pay her!” I stood there, perfectly still, as the circle closed in. I took out my phone and dialed a number on speed dial. It picked up on the first ring. I looked at the screaming mob, my voice quiet but cutting through the noise like a blade. “This is Voss. Call the logistics lead and the warehouse managers. Now.” “Lock the trucks. Stop the offloading. Every Voss Maritime shipment scheduled for the Pier District is to be diverted to the downtown markets immediately.” “As of this second, this street is under a total supply embargo. Not a single fish moves into this market until I personally sign off on it.”

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Three years ago, the global outbreak of the “Dark Strain” plunged me, along with the rest of humanity, into permanent midnight. And then, this morning, I opened my eyes and the world was there again. It was nothing short of a miracle. My heart hammered against my ribs, wild and euphoric. I couldn’t wait to run downstairs and tell Dad. But as I sat up and looked around my bedroom, the breath completely left my lungs. My body went rigid. Across every single wall of my room, smeared in thick, frantic strokes of dark paint, was the exact same warning. The letters wrapped around me like a brand, screaming in silence: DO NOT TELL THEM YOU CAN SEE. — 1 The sheer joy in my chest curdled into a cold, heavy knot of confusion. Surely, this was a prank. But who could have crept into my room in the dead of night to paint all of this without making a sound? Mom and Dad? That was impossible. They were entirely blind, just like me. Before my mind could spiral further, Dad’s voice drifted up from the foot of the stairs. Warm. Familiar. “Breakfast is ready, kiddo!” I pushed the dread down. There was no time to overthink it. I scrambled out of bed and jogged out of my bedroom. The dining table was laden with all my favorites: a stack of golden buttermilk pancakes, crispy thick-cut bacon, scrambled eggs, and a steaming hazelnut latte. “Thanks, Dad,” I chirped. He reached out, his hand finding the top of my head with practiced, gentle precision, ruffling my hair before pressing my backpack into my arms. Over by the sofa, Mom was quietly zipping up her own tote bag for work. Everything was devastatingly normal. It had to be a sick joke. Maybe some kids from the neighborhood broke in? I shook my head, desperate to toss the absurd, terrifying thoughts away. “I’m heading out to campus, Dad.” I grabbed my bag and headed for the front door. I had just wrapped my fingers around the brass doorknob when a hand slipped over my shoulder. It was utterly soundless. “You forgot your cane, sweetie.” I forced out an awkward, breathless laugh. “Oh, right. Guess I’m just in a rush.” Dad pressed the collapsible white cane into my palm. His tone was breezy, almost conversational. “Your vision came back, didn’t it?” My pulse spiked. I hesitated, biting the inside of my cheek, debating whether to tell the truth. But then Dad chuckled, tapping a finger against his own temple near his eyes. “I don’t know how it happened,” he said, smiling softly. “I woke up this morning, and the blindness was just… gone. I was actually going to suggest we skip school and go to the hospital to get checked out.” A massive wave of relief washed over me. “Wait, you can see?” I gasped. “Sure can.” Whatever the hell was written on my walls, it didn’t matter. Dad would never hurt me. The tension drained from my shoulders in a long, shaky exhale. “Oh my god, really? Dad, my sight came back too! Just this morning, I—” The smile froze on my face. A sudden, wet tearing sound echoed in the foyer. I looked down, my brain struggling to process the visual. The sharp metal tip of a mobility cane was buried deep in my abdomen. Blood, hot and shockingly red, poured over the white shaft, pooling onto the hardwood floor. My eyes tracked the length of the cane to the hands gripping the handle. Mom’s hands. My lips parted, but all that came out was a wet gasp. “Why…?” Dad was standing right in front of me, staring at my face. His eyes were entirely dead. He didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his hands and shoved me backward with a brutal, mechanical force. There was a sickening thud as my body pitched backward down the porch steps. Then, a sharp, deafening crack. I felt the spine in my neck sever. A gurgling sound scraped up my throat. The blood pooled around my head, thick and warm. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. My vision began to blur at the edges, tunneling into darkness. But in my final, fading second of consciousness, I looked up. Dad was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at me. The gentle, paternal warmth had completely melted off his face, leaving behind something utterly hollow. Something that wasn’t human at all. 2 I gasped, my eyes flying open. I was staring at the walls again. DO NOT TELL THEM YOU CAN SEE. My chest heaved as I sucked in greedy, panicked breaths. I looked around wildly. “What the hell…?” I yanked up the hem of my shirt, staring at my stomach. Smooth skin. No blood. No gaping hole. Had I… reset? Was it morning again? I sat in my familiar bed, surrounded by my familiar things, but a creeping, suffocating terror wrapped around my throat. What is happening? Downstairs, the voice rang out again. Cheerful. Warm. “Breakfast is ready, kiddo!” I squeezed my eyes shut and forced myself to breathe. Hiding up here wouldn’t do any good. If I stayed, they would eventually come up. I needed to take control of the narrative. I pasted a smile onto my face—or at least, what I hoped looked like one—and opened my bedroom door. I nearly screamed. Dad was standing inches from my door. Ramrod straight. Completely motionless. My heart stalled, but survival instinct kicked in. Without missing a beat, I unfolded my cane, tapping it rhythmically against the floorboards, acting exactly as I had for the last three years. I walked forward, pretending I couldn’t see the man blocking my path. He didn’t speak. He just turned, his footsteps falling perfectly in time with mine, trailing me down the hall. I sat at my usual spot at the dining table. Only then did Dad pull out his own cane, tapping it lightly against the kitchen tiles, fabricating the auditory illusion that he had just walked into the room. A cold sweat broke out across my spine. He can see. He can see perfectly fine. So why is he pretending to be blind? Has he been pretending for the last three years? I ate my pancakes in suffocating silence, using my peripheral vision to watch him. He looked exactly like my father. The same laugh lines, the same tiny mole near his left eye. But the way he sat was wrong. He didn’t eat. He didn’t blink. He just sat directly across from me, his dark pupils locked onto my face with a terrifying, predator-like stillness. My breath caught in my throat for a fraction of a second. Instantly, his hand shot across the table, pressing against my forehead. “You feel cold, sweetie. Didn’t sleep well?” I forced a weak chuckle. “Probably just kicked the blankets off. I’m fine.” His voice was dripping with fatherly concern, but his facial muscles were completely slack. It was like watching an animatronic doll. I forced myself to keep eating, meticulously mimicking the clumsy, cautious movements of a blind person. Halfway through my eggs, I purposely fumbled my fork, letting it clatter to the floor. I bent down to pick it up. As I did, I peeked through the space beneath the table toward the living room. Mom was on the sofa, methodically packing her bag. Normal. Ordinary. Except her head was turned at a sharp, unnatural angle. Her unblinking eyes were fixed dead on me. She was faking it too. The air in the room felt like it was turning to glass, fragile and sharp. I couldn’t keep this up. I was going to crack. I grabbed the fork, sat up, and kept my eyes fixed firmly on the empty space ahead of me. “I’m full, Dad. Gotta head to class.” I stood up quickly. “Hold on a second.” Dad moved with terrifying speed, stepping directly into my path. I froze, my muscles locking up. He knew. He had to know. Then, he let out a soft chuckle and slipped my travel mug into the side pocket of my backpack. “You forgot your coffee, kiddo.” I kept my chin down. I couldn’t let him see my eyes. He patted my head. “Alright. Dad’s off to work.” “Bye, Dad.” I intentionally fumbled with the straps of my backpack, buying time, waiting for him to leave first. The rhythmic tap-tap of his cane faded toward the front door. The latch clicked shut. I exhaled, the tension draining from my muscles. But then, the knob turned again. Without making a single sound, the door cracked open. Dad stepped back inside on the balls of his feet. He held his cane suspended an inch above the ground. Absolute, terrifying silence. He crept back into the living room, sat down on the sofa next to Mom, and together, they stared at me. Unmoving. — 3 A violent shudder ripped through me, my clothes instantly sticking to the icy sweat on my back. He didn’t go to work. Why was he back? I bit the inside of my lip so hard I tasted copper, forcing myself not to process the horror. I gripped my cane—the one I’d made sure to grab this time—and tapped my way to the front door. As I walked out, I saw them rise from the sofa. They followed me. I walked down the sidewalk, tapping my cane, staring straight ahead, while my “parents” stalked me on their tiptoes just a few feet behind. It wasn’t until I crossed the iron gates of my boarding school campus that the suffocating weight of their stares finally vanished. When I slid into my seat in the lecture hall, I immediately scanned the room for Dustin. He was a few rows ahead of me, sitting rigid. The professor was droning on at the front, his eyes glazed and vacant. All the students around me had the same hollow, unseeing gaze. Everyone was blind. But Dustin was shifting in his seat. Twitching. The second the bell rang, Dustin grabbed my arm and dragged me into the boys’ restroom, shoving me into a stall and locking the door. His breathing was ragged. “Gemma, have you noticed anything weird?” My stomach plummeted, but I kept my face utterly blank. “What do you mean?” “My parents,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Something is really wrong with them.” I raised an eyebrow, gesturing for him to keep going. He checked under the stall door, paranoid. Seeing him like this made my own hands curl into fists. Satisfied we were alone, he leaned in, his lips barely brushing my ear. “I can see. It came back this morning.” A shockwave hit my chest. I opened my mouth to say Me too, to tell him everything. But then the image of my own blood pooling on the hardwood flashed in my mind. DO NOT TELL THEM YOU CAN SEE. I swallowed the truth like broken glass. “Wait, really?” I faked a gasp of awe. “That’s amazing! I wish mine would come back. But what does that have to do with your parents acting weird?” Dustin looked terrified. He started rambling about his parents standing over his bed, about them tracking him with dead eyes. I murmured comforting words, validating his fear, but I locked my own secret tight behind my teeth. The warning bell rang. Dustin looked like he was on the verge of a breakdown. A pang of guilt hit me. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we were in the exact same boat and we needed to team up. Then, without warning, Dustin’s hand shot out, his index finger jabbing directly toward my left eye. Every instinct screamed at me to flinch. But the sheer, paralyzing terror of what my father had done to me overrode the reflex. I forced my eye to stay wide open, my face completely slack. His fingernail stopped less than a millimeter from my cornea. Dustin tilted his head. The panic on his face evaporated, replaced by a chilling, clinical emptiness. He stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Slowly, he lowered his hand. “I guess so,” he muttered, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. “We should get back to class. Maybe I’m just losing my mind.” “Yeah,” I breathed. Cold sweat trickled down my temple. He had been testing me. If I had blinked, I’d probably be dead on the bathroom floor. I made the right choice. I couldn’t trust anyone. — 4 After the incident with Dustin, I existed in a state of hyper-vigilance. Everyone was a threat. I went through the motions. Classes. Lunch. Small talk. Heading back to the dorms. I played the perfect blind girl. My plan was to lay low for a few days, gather supplies, and figure out a way to run. But during afternoon cleaning duty in the library archives, I found something. A diary. It was shoved behind a loose baseboard. The cover was worn leather, with several frantic, red warning symbols etched into it. I frowned, tracing the cover. More importantly, it wasn’t written in Braille. Since the Great Blindness hit, almost all printed text had been converted to Braille. Traditional books were incinerated or recycled as scrap. Written words simply didn’t exist anymore. Who wrote this? Was it the same person who painted my walls? The other students were busy sweeping. No one was looking. I smoothly slid the book up my sleeve. I didn’t dare pull it out until I was back in my dorm room, safely hidden beneath my heavy comforter with a flashlight. — 5 The entries were a chaotic mess. The sentences were disjointed, punctuated by grotesque, scribbled illustrations. At first, my heart sank. It read like the fever dream of a terrified child. I risked so much to steal this, and it was just nonsense? But as I flipped the pages, a cold knot formed in my gut. March 7: Toby and I got our sight back a week ago. He didn’t believe the writing on the wall. He said it out loud… He’s gone. I looked everywhere. Mom and Dad keep dragging me from town to town. I don’t know what we’re running from. I’m so scared. April 1: He’s dead. Toby didn’t run away. He’s dead. His body was shoved in the… No wonder I couldn’t find him. April 7: Dad has Toby’s watch in his pocket. They killed him. But they loved him the most, didn’t they? April 15: They asked me today if I could see. I said no. It’s the only thing keeping me alive. I stopped reading, my breath shallow in the stale air under the blanket. Was this real? If it was, why were the dates marked 2036? That was ten years from now. And if the parents were on the run, why would they murder their own kid? The logic was completely fractured. I rubbed the goosebumps on my arms, the parallels to my own life sinking in. If telling the truth meant death, did I have to fake being blind forever? What if I slipped up? Would I get to respawn again? Something deep in my bones told me no. I only had one extra life. This was it. The later entries grew shorter. The handwriting was erratic, deeply panicked. Several pages had been entirely blacked out with heavy ink, masking whatever horror the author had witnessed. May 2: There are more people running now. We passed three groups on the highway. What are they so afraid of? Is something chasing them? I looked back. I saw it—[heavily blacked out]. I pray to God I never have to look at that thing ever again. May 10: I finally found others like me! It’s not just Toby and me. There are so many whose sight came back, and they’re all hiding. They’re hiding in the… I clawed at the pages, frantic. Hiding where? Who is chasing them? Why the hell did they ink out the location?! I carefully tore out the page with the heavily blacked-out illustration and held it up to the beam of my flashlight. The light barely pierced the ink, but I could make out the faint silhouette of… something. It was vaguely humanoid, but the proportions were horribly wrong. Was that a person? I flipped to the end. The remaining pages were ripped out. There was only one entry left on the inside back cover. If you are lucky enough to read this, RUN. Run right now. Do not hesitate. I shivered. Run? My eyes drifted to the very last line, scrawled in tiny letters at the bottom corner. I wish I had stayed blind. A profound, bone-deep chill swept through me. I pulled my knees to my chest. It might have been paranoia, but the hair on my arms stood up. I felt like I was being watched. I whipped the blanket down and scanned the dark dorm room. Empty. Just me and the moonlight filtering through the blinds. A hallucination. It had to be. Knock. Knock. Knock. I jumped, nearly dropping the flashlight. “Gemma?” It was the dorm mother’s voice, muffled through the heavy wood. “Pack your bags, sweetie. Your dad is here to take you home.” My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. Boarding school students only went home on weekends. Today was Monday. He knew. He figured it out. I looked back down at the diary. Run right now. If I got in that car with my “father,” I knew with absolute certainty that I would never see the sun again. “Okay! Just a second!” I called out, forcing my voice to sound tired and compliant. I shoved my wallet, the diary, and a water bottle into my backpack. I opened my window, slipped out onto the fire escape, and dropped quietly into the bushes below. The night was pitch black, a thick, suffocating overcast hiding the moon. Normally, running in the dark would be terrifying. But I had spent three years living without light. The darkness was my element. I sprinted toward the woods bordering the campus, heading for the county road. Suddenly, from the tree line behind me, I heard it. The crunch of dead leaves. The wet, frantic sound of heavy footsteps. Something was hunting me.

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