Everyone in the Elite East Coast Circle knew the routine. Whenever the heiress, Veronica Sinclair, and the scion, Harrison King, broke up, they’d launch their toxic, co-dependent game of emotional torture: the Surrogate Game. A fresh breakup meant finding an exact lookalike of the other, a grotesque ritual of mutual torment that they played with sickening relish. My tragedy? My childhood friend, Finn O’Connell, was chosen by Veronica. When they finally brought him back, he was barely alive. He was a vegetable. Permanently and horrifically crippled. His single mother’s hair turned white overnight. That same night, they drank a fatal draught together, never waking to see the next day’s sun. And just like that, I lost the only two people I had left in the world. Standing before their shared grave marker, I wiped my tears dry. “You played the Surrogate Game, using other people’s lives as your twisted foreplay.” “This time,” I whispered to the cold stone, “I’m the one taking a seat at the table.” Later, the Gold Coast Set would be turned upside down. No one could have predicted that Harrison King would personally push Veronica Sinclair into hell, all for the sake of a surrogate. 1 “OMG, I’m absolutely obsessed with Harry King and Ronnie Sinclair. They break up and immediately find a lookalike for each other, it’s basically their secret way of saying, ‘I still love you!’” “This isn’t a breakup, it’s peak, high-level relationship kink. The rest of us can’t even afford a therapist; they’re playing the Surrogate Game on ultra-hard mode.” “Seriously, their love is so real, even the fake versions have to be exact copies of the other.” “…” I scrolled through the cheerful online comments. And I fell into a deep, cold silence. No one ever asks what happens to the surrogates. I looked down at the bank card in my hand. It held a quarter-million dollars, no PIN needed. It was the money Finn’s mother gave me just before she drank the poison. I knew it was the price Finn had paid with his body and his future. The whispered rumors said Harry King had personally brutalized him. Of course, those kinds of messages were scrubbed from the internet almost as soon as they appeared. With a final lift of my chin at my reflection, I headed to Fairhaven. 2 “Veronica Sinclair, you already ruined my face, why can’t you just let me go? “Please, leave me alone. I swear I’ll never go near Harrison King again, I’m begging you…” The woman standing before me, wearing a cheap surgical mask, shrieked her desperate plea. Her eyes were wide with terror, the edge of hysteria cracking her voice. Around the edges of the mask, I could clearly see the crisscross of pale, angry scars covering her skin. I gently touched my own face. “Do I really look that much like her?” The difference in my voice made the woman freeze. “You… you’re not her?” I nodded. “I’m not her. But I intend to be. Help me.” She took the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. In return, she told me everything she knew about Harrison King. Three days later, thanks to her introduction, I was working as a cocktail server at The Zenith, a top-tier nightclub that catered to the Gold Coast elite. 3 The lead hostess looked at my face, a deeply knowing, cynical smile playing on her lips. “Honey, the money’s easy. The price is steeper.” She wasn’t wrong. The price the scarred woman had paid to Veronica was permanent. With that warning, she pointed me toward the “Onyx Suite.” It held the club’s most esteemed, powerful guest. When I pushed the door open, seven or eight pairs of eyes swept over me. They were appraising, expectant, and frankly, bored. The atmosphere immediately grew subtle, charged. The man on the main sofa was lounging back, toying with an amber crystal tumbler, seemingly absorbed by the city lights outside the window. The entire energy of the room centered on him, a heavy, silent pressure. Harrison King. I saw him. “New girl? Interesting choice. Harry, man, look at this. Little Miss Sinclair’s been out of the country for like, a minute, and someone already volunteered to be the next contender?” “Holy crap, she’s a dead ringer. Even more than that actress from the film academy last month. Especially those eyes. That jawline. The whole deal.” “Wait, is this one of Mr. Sinclair’s illegitimate kids? It’s not totally out of the question, haha…” The discussion was too loud, too close. Harrison King finally, slowly, turned his face toward me. My breath hitched, a pause I couldn’t control. His eyes were intensely dark, profoundly deep. When he saw me, a flicker of surprise crossed them. But the surprise was instantly replaced by unconcealed annoyance. He was about to speak when the man beside him cut him off. The slender-faced guy seemed drunk, leaning toward Harrison with a careless grin. “Harry, this one is insane, man. Looks completely untouched, totally natural. Since you and Veronica are ‘on a break,’ and she hasn’t found a replacement to piss you off yet, why not let your little brother have a turn with this one?” The moment the words left his mouth, the entire suite fell silent. Everyone stared at him as if he were an idiot. And then, just as expected, Harrison King moved without warning. He grabbed the nearest bottle of expensive scotch—a bottle that had cost someone’s salary—and, without aiming, swung his arm. Thud. A sickening sound. The slender-faced guy let out a tortured, desperate howl. Blood gushed from his temple. He pitched forward, crashing onto the floor in agonizing sobs. Harrison King slowly straightened up. He tossed the shattered neck of the bottle aside. Then, he walked straight toward me. He stopped directly in front of me, finally raising his gaze to mine. He watched me for a long time, his eyes filled with a terrifying nostalgia. His hand rose to cup my cheek, feeling the slight tremor in my fear-stricken body. After what felt like an eternity, he spoke, his voice hard and icy. “So much alike. Truly too much like her, exactly like Ronnie when she was younger.” “Your boss sending you here to me is both your luck and your misfortune.” “Because you will never marry. I won’t allow any other man to touch you.” He lifted my chin slightly. “And this place is certainly no place for you.” 4 Harrison King stashed me away in a secluded estate in the Fairhaven suburbs. There was only a quiet, gray-haired housekeeper, Mrs. Denton, who oversaw my meals and rarely spoke beyond necessary instruction. Harrison dropped me here without explanation, without a timeline. I didn’t care. I spent my days absorbing every detail of Veronica and Harrison’s relationship story, studying every video of Ronnie, mimicking her every gesture, every look. The arch of her smile. The fleeting glance in her eyes. The subtle tilt of her neck when she was listening. I painstakingly pieced together the past of the Gold Coast princess. Any fool could see that Harrison King despised the current Veronica—the one who fought him, the one who challenged him. So, I would give him the pliable girl from his memory. I never aspired to his love. My task was simple: To perfectly play the part of the Veronica who had loved him unconditionally, the one who obeyed his every whim. The teenage Veronica. The Golden Standard. Waiting was torture, but I had infinite patience. The image of Finn’s mangled body. The sight of his mother and him after they drank the poison. They surfaced every time I closed my eyes. That was more than enough to quell any restlessness I felt. Until that stormy dusk, when the rain was just beginning to fall. The front door was kicked open. Harrison King strode in. His hair was messy. The stench of alcohol was thick on his clothes. Raw fury was rolling off him. He spotted me instantly, sitting by the living room window, pretending to read a book. The moment our eyes met, he roared, his eyes bloodshot. “Veronica Sinclair, what the hell do you want now? Are you finding a surrogate overseas just to spite me? “Three years ago, when we had our first major fight, I was the one who deliberately found a surrogate to hurt you. I was wrong, fine. “But ever since then, you changed. You bring it up every other week to provoke me, then you go find a surrogate. Do you think I can’t match you? That Harrison King can’t find a lookalike? Are we destined to keep doing this forever? When does it end? Do you even love me anymore? Do you want to marry me? “Three years, and you’re still clinging to that one time I messed up? You’re so petty, so spiteful, it’s disgusting! “Listen to me, Ronnie, my patience is finite. The day I walk away from you, you will regret this so completely…” His chest was heaving. He was venting an explosion of emotion. I even saw a strange, desperate catharsis on his face. I guessed he and the real Veronica hadn’t had an honest conversation in a long time. My eyes were already brimming with tears. My expression was a mix of alarm and wounded innocence. I inhaled gently, and with the soft, timid, almost-pleading tone I had practiced countless times, I whispered. “H…” Harrison King’s every movement, every syllable, cut off instantly. The raging fury on his face froze. His eyes became vacant, lost. He was seeing the ghost of the former Veronica. H. It was the intimate nickname only she had ever used for him. And now, I was the second. At that moment, a single tear rolled down from my eyes—the eyes that so closely mirrored Veronica’s—and trailed down my pale cheek. A fleeting look of clarity, of self-disgust, flashed in Harrison’s eyes. Slam. A sharp, ringing slap hit my face. Hard. The force sent me staggering, collapsing back onto the plush sofa. “Who told you to call me that?” He let out a low growl. “Do you think acting like her, copying her voice, copying her nickname, makes you her? What the hell are you? A cheap imitation? You think you’re worthy of copying her?” It stung. It really, really hurt. My cheek was already swelling. But my heart was ice-still. Good. The bigger his reaction, the more effective the imitation. I kept my voice choked with sobs, channeling the desperate, pleading tone of a young girl trying to appease the man she adored. “H, please, don’t be like this. I’m scared. “I was wrong. Please don’t be angry, okay? I promise I’ll change. I won’t do it again. Just don’t shut me out, don’t be so cruel to me.” I even stretched out a hand to tentatively touch his tightly clenched fist. The moment of contact. Harrison King went utterly still. He looked at the tears staining my face. He looked at my careful, fragile, pitiable expression. His rage receded like a crashing tide. In that instant, a strange illusion of time travel surged through him. He was seeing the girl from years ago. The one who tugged on his sleeve and charmed him. The clean, innocent girl. The Veronica who hadn’t been hardened and weaponized by family politics. His Ronnie. He had fantasized countless times about her returning to the way she was. Now, it seemed to have happened. Emotions, complex and overwhelming, flooded him. In a quick, wrenching movement, he grabbed my arm and pulled me into his embrace. “Ronnie, yes, this is who you are, this is who you should be! Why did you change? Don’t change! “I told you that one time was my mistake, it was three years ago, why do you have to keep holding it over me?” He held me in a crushing embrace, his voice shaking, pouring out a torrent of desperate words. I felt the immense depth of his love for Veronica. No. His desperate, agonizing love for the former Veronica. Finally, Harrison’s body stiffened, and he gently pushed me away. My eyes remained tear-filled, fixed on him with a look that was helpless and pleading. He reached out, softly brushing the tears from my cheeks. “Listen. From today on, you stay here. You can’t go anywhere. You will be my Veronica.” I saw the crazed possessiveness in his eyes and obediently nodded. “And you’re only allowed to be her for me.” With that, he turned and strode out of the villa, leaving in a hurry. Watching his retreating back. I lowered my head and let a small, subtle curve touch my lips. 5 I didn’t sleep well that night. I dreamed of the year I was seven, the year my parents’ car plunged down the mountain ravine. I was pulled from the wreckage. I stood in a daze, staring at the two stretchers covered with white sheets. Relatives swarmed in. They fought, red-faced, over the insurance payout and compensation money. In my confusion, a stream of powerful uncles and aunts took turns looking after me. For two years, I ate every meal under their judgmental gaze. In the dead of winter, when I was nine, I accidentally broke my cousin’s toy. My aunt pointed her finger at me and screamed that I was “a curse, a jinx who killed her parents.” Finally, I was thrown out of the house, along with a few threadbare clothes. The snow was heavy. I curled up on a street corner, certain I was going to freeze to death. Mrs. O’Connell, Finn’s mother, found me while shoveling snow early that morning. She didn’t ask a single question. She took off her old coat and wrapped it around my nearly frozen body, leading me back to her tiny, third-floor walk-up. It was there I first met Finn O’Connell. He brought me hot water, clumsily rubbing my frostbitten, purple hands. He brought me a bowl of simple tomato soup with toasted cheese croutons, the most delicious thing I have ever eaten to this day. The dream shifted. Mrs. O’Connell kept me, carving out a slice of warmth from her meager salary. Meat and vegetables always ended up in Finn’s and my bowls. She always smiled and said, “The kids are growing, eat up.” At school. When I was bullied, mocked as an orphan, a piece of trash no one wanted. Finn was always there, standing in front of me, arguing on my behalf, never backing down even when his nose was bloodied. I had my sweet moments in life, too. “Char, I’m heading to the city to work first. Take care of Mom at home. I’ll come back for you just before the fall semester starts.” It was the summer after high school graduation. Finn was vibrant, full of hope for the future. I nodded. “Be careful in Fairhaven. You look too much like that awful Harrison King. I heard rich people like them play this surrogate game.” His ears turned pink. “You’re no better. You look exactly like Veronica Sinclair.” The atmosphere went quiet. Suddenly, he turned to me, his eyes shining. “Those rich jerks find surrogates to play their twisted games. Maybe us poor kids… can make do with each other?” He spoke playfully. But his eyes were serious. Brightly fixed on me. The evening breeze was hot, carrying the scent of cut grass. My heart skipped a beat. My cheeks burned. I looked away, mumbling. “Who said I’d ‘make do’ with you?” He didn’t say anything more. He just secretly extended his pinky finger and hooked it around mine. It was light, sweaty, but incredibly firm. Neither of us looked at the other. We just stood there, fingers linked, watching the sun set. Later, Finn called me. He said some woman had forcibly taken him, that he’d find a way to escape. Finn returned, just as he promised. But all the life had been drained from him. I watched Mrs. O’Connell’s spirit break. She never spoke a word of blame. She just handed me the bank card that had been sent back with Finn. That night, she said she was hungry. I went out to buy food. When I returned, I found both her and Finn foaming at the mouth, their bodies twisted, an empty bottle of lethal liquid on the floor. “Ah…” I woke up, screaming. My face was wet with tears. I bit down, brutally scrubbing the moisture away. Because now, I didn’t have the right to cry. Outside, the sky was a pale, pre-dawn gray. Day was coming. 6 Three days later, Harrison King returned. He brought me with him to a gathering of his peers. They saw me, and no one was surprised. The conversation revolved around mergers, polo matches, and overseas yachts. I didn’t understand any of it. All my attention was focused on Harrison King, my eyes fixed on him with a look of deep, practiced concern. He was drinking heavily, downing one glass of hard liquor after another. He accepted every toast. Anyone could see the deep irritation weighing on him. He’d likely just had another vicious fight with Veronica. “Come on, Harry, one more toast. We appreciate your guidance on the merger.” A portly man with a slicked-back hairline bowed slightly. Harrison nodded, poured the whiskey, and raised the glass without hesitation. But the next second, my hand pressed down on his glass. I looked the man straight in the eye, my gaze firm, allowing for no argument. “He’s had enough.” The suite went instantly silent. Everyone stared at me in disbelief, as if I were insane. Who the hell do you think you are? they seemed to ask. A surrogate? Daring to stop Harrison King from drinking? Everyone waited for him to explode. But he didn’t move. Harrison King looked dazed, lost in thought again. Since my arrival, this was the second time. Yes. His Veronica was exactly like this. The girl whose world revolved around him. The girl who valued him above all else. The one who couldn’t stand to watch him destroy himself. She would get angry, she’d worry. She would yell at him, her eyes red, and then she’d end up crying herself. She would never be like the previous surrogates, who just smiled and egged him on. “Whatever he drinks, I’ll take it.” Before I finished speaking, I grabbed his glass and downed the drink in one gulp. The raw liquor burned all the way down, making my stomach clench. Everyone was stunned, slightly confused. Because Harrison King didn’t show the expected fury. He was just staring at me. I didn’t stop. The second glass. The third. The fourth. I went around the table, taking the drinks for the men who hadn’t yet toasted him. When I picked up the fifth glass. I could barely stand. My face was pale. Cold sweat was beading on my forehead. Harrison King slapped the glass away. He gave a low roar. “Are you trying to kill yourself?” I looked up at him, forcing a weak smile. “H, my stomach hurts…” With that, I collapsed into his arms. Before I completely lost consciousness, I heard Harrison King’s voice, raw and panicked. “Get her to the E.R. now!” 7 After my discharge from the hospital, Harrison King’s visits to the estate increased. He never truly touched me in those early days. He would just hold me in his arms. Sometimes in silence. Other times, he would talk endlessly about the past. Finally, I delivered the line I’d prepared: “H, I have amnesia.” Harrison King suddenly came to his senses, pushing me away. He hissed at me. “Who are you? What is your purpose in getting close to me?” Tears welled up in my eyes. “I’m poor. I’m an orphan. I just want a good life.” Harrison King fell silent. He pulled me back into his embrace. “You succeeded.” I spoke softly. “From now on, my world is only you.” His body shook. He held me tighter. After that time, he started calling me “Char.” He would take me to the hole-in-the-wall diner in the old part of town. The old proprietor didn’t recognize me, greeting us with warmth. “Ronnie, Harry, you two haven’t been here in ages.” Harrison King paused slightly but didn’t contradict him. He took me to many places. I knew they were places he and Veronica had shared memories. I must admit, experiencing them deepened my understanding of their past. I became even more adept at manipulating Harrison King. He and Veronica had daily phone calls. But every conversation, starting calmly, ended in a screaming match. After he hung up, Harrison King always looked utterly drained. One night, he didn’t leave. That night, our relationship became intimate and physical. Afterward, he started hanging up on Veronica’s calls with blatant annoyance, seemingly having lost the will to even argue with her. When Veronica’s calls became fewer and farther between, I knew she was coming home soon. 8 The Onyx Suite. The second time I stepped into this room, I did so as Harrison King’s declared woman. Because of the drinking incident and the subsequent change in Harrison’s attitude, his friends treated me with noticeable respect. I stayed quiet throughout, only stepping in to stop Harrison when I felt he was drinking too much. He smiled faintly and, without needing to be told twice, stopped drinking. This surprised everyone and earned me a quiet, deeper level of regard. They weren’t fools; they saw the change, the clear difference in Harrison King’s feelings for me. Suddenly, a loud crash. The suite door was violently thrown open. A woman walked in. Her presence was immense, a towering wave of authority that outmatched everyone in the room except Harrison King himself. It was Veronica Sinclair. In that instant, our eyes locked. We were both slightly stunned. We looked so much alike. The difference: her features were sharp, hard-edged, while mine were soft, yielding. The contrast was stark. The whole room was frozen. Just then, the man behind Veronica—her surrogate—spoke carelessly. “Ronnie, my hands are incredible. When you finish your evening, I’ll give you the best massage you’ve ever had.” Veronica’s red lips curved into a smile. She walked straight to the sofa opposite Harrison, crossed her legs, and stared directly at him. “That sounds lovely,” she said. My gaze fell upon the man behind her. His brows were strikingly similar to Harrison King’s. And devastatingly, similar to Finn’s. A sudden, icy terror gripped me. I felt like I was seeing the scene Finn had faced. The cold pierced me to the bone. Just then, a warm hand closed around mine. It was Harrison King’s hand. Don’t be afraid, his touch seemed to say. I’m here. I knew he thought I was terrified of Veronica. Afraid of the oppressive power of the true owner of the face I wore. He clearly had no idea what I was truly afraid of. That intimate moment was seen, without error, by Veronica Sinclair. The lazy smile instantly froze on her face. She watched Harrison’s tightly clasped hand on mine. She watched the raw, protective posture he took. I felt a gaze, poisonous and scalding, fix on me, wanting to rip me to shreds. Harrison King didn’t notice her change. He stood up and walked toward the surrogate. I couldn’t focus on Veronica. My eyes were fixed on Harrison’s every movement. One foot. I watched the most savage kick I’d ever seen. It went straight for the man’s groin. “Aargh…” An agonizing, inhuman scream echoed through the suite. The surrogate curled up on the floor, his hands clamped over the bloody mess between his legs, rolling in pure, unadulterated torment. Everyone watched the scene with cold indifference, their expressions bored, as if it were a common occurrence. Veronica Sinclair was the same, her entire focus still fixed on me. I sat there, my body rigid as stone. Did Finn face this exact scene? I began to tremble, my vision tunneling to black. The man’s pitiful screams merged with the imagined cries of Finn. It felt like my nerves were being torn apart. Tears poured from my eyes, uncontrolled and real. Harrison King ignored the man writhing on the ground, kicking him repeatedly in the head until he finally fell unconscious. “Somebody get him out of here. Same rule: give him a quarter-million.” Then, he turned to walk back to me. But Veronica moved. “Same rule, Harry. My turn.” A steak knife appeared in her hand. She walked straight toward me. The people around us still didn’t change their expressions. Clearly, her next action was predictable. The looks they gave me held a hint of pity, perhaps because I had blocked the drinks for Harry. But pity wouldn’t change the outcome. I wasn’t looking at Veronica. I was staring, tear-drenched, at Harrison King, my mind consumed by the brutal image of Finn suffering this exact humiliation. That’s how a vibrant, hopeful boy was destroyed. Veronica closed the distance, the knife aimed, without hesitation, directly at my face. I still didn’t move, entirely submerged in my own world of pain and memory. Just as the tip of the blade was about to touch my skin…

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I was about to give birth, my body wracked with contractions, yet my husband stood there, his face a mask of cold indifference, barring my entry to the delivery suite. “You don’t deserve this VIP suite,” Harrison said, his voice flat. I collapsed to the floor, clutching my stomach as pain tore through me. A gaggle of relatives approached, wrapping their snickers in faux whispers. “Harrison, you truly have the patience of a saint. You spent three years coaxing this counterfeit heiress to carry your child, but from now on, you’ll only acknowledge the real one.” Moments later, Veronica, the “real” daughter who had been switched at birth twenty years ago, walked past me. She was wearing the same maternity gown I was. Supported gently by Harrison’s arm, she glided into the VIP suite. Nurses swarmed them, ushering them away. I tried to struggle to my feet, but my own biological parents held me down. My father, Dr. Whitman, the hospital director, spoke with a heavy, final tone. “Veronica’s constitution is weak. She can’t handle stress. The VIP resources must go to her.” My mother, a former head nurse, wiped a tear from her eye. “Sarah, Veronica suffered so much living on that farm. She’s finally home. Don’t fight her for this.” My grandmother, Nana Rose, who had always doted on me, let out a sigh. “You stole twenty years of a luxurious life from her. Giving up a delivery room is the least you can do. Consider it a bargain.” They ignored the plummeting heart rate of my unborn child. They ignored the medical indicators screaming for a C-section. They wheeled me toward a general ward for a natural birth. I gripped the hem of my gown until my knuckles turned white. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. But the corner of my mouth twitched upward. I couldn’t hide the smile. 1 After failing to find any family members willing to sign for me, the nurse handed me a thick stack of surgical consent forms. I signed without hesitation. As the pen lifted from the paper, a mechanical prompt echoed in my mind. “Host life threat detected. Trigger ‘Cost Liquidation’ mode to exit?” Trigger, I recited silently in my heart, my fingertips pale from the pressure. “Please confirm liquidation targets: Husband Harrison King, Father Dr. Whitman, Mother Linda Whitman?” Add one more. I watched Nana Rose through the open door, standing on her tiptoes, haggling with the nurse for the “most economical” natural birth package. My voice was ice. And Veronica. “Liquidation targets locked. Host vital signs currently meet the criteria for ‘Desperate Counterattack.’ Initiate immediate protection mechanism?” Initiate immediately. I had arranged everything long ago. Even the midwives were my own hires; I hadn’t let my parents’ staff near me. The nurse came back, looking uncomfortable. She told me the family’s consensus was to use the cheapest package just to get the baby out. Even the consent form regarding “save the mother or the child” had been left to me to decide. My heart turned to ash. I grabbed the nurse’s hand, pleading. “Give me the best natural birth package available. I have my own money.” This was my twenty-fifth year in this world, and the first year since Veronica had been found and brought home. Before her return, I was the princess, held in the palm of this family’s hand. In my original world, I had a miserable marriage and parents who favored my brother. So when the System first approached me, I refused to leave. I wanted to accompany my parents and Nana Rose into their old age. Now, it seemed, it was all smoke and mirrors. All they cared about was the blood that bound them. Ten minutes passed. The delivery team the nurse summoned saw that my vitals clearly indicated a need for a C-section. They called the family in again. Nana Rose walked in, clutching the consent forms, her face a storm of displeasure. “Your belly looks heavy, but the baby isn’t that big. What do we need all these people for? Stop thinking about a C-section. You think our money grows on trees?” The doctor couldn’t stand it and interjected. “The fetal heart rate is dropping rapidly. We need to operate immediately.” I was sweating profusely from the pain, but Nana Rose dismissed everyone else, claiming she needed to speak with me alone. She walked up to the bed and held up her phone, her voice dropping to a threat. “Everyone is busy with Veronica. You be a good girl. There’s twenty percent of the company shares waiting to be transferred to your name after the birth. If you don’t cooperate, you won’t see a dime.” I looked at my grandmother, usually so gentle, now glaring at me with undisguised disgust. It was as if the love she had shown me for decades never existed. I reached out to press the nurse call button. She slapped my hand away. She picked up the phone and barked an order. “Send two men in. This girl isn’t cooperating. She still wants a C-section. She’s obviously trying to compete with Veronica!” Moments later, two bodyguards carrying stun batons walked into the delivery room. 2 I screamed for help, but Nana Rose clamped her hand over my mouth and nose. “This is our hospital,” she hissed. “You could scream until your throat bleeds, and no one would come.” Harrison pushed the door open then, carrying a gift bag from a high-end jeweler. He frowned when he saw me, drenched in sweat, my lips ghostly pale. “We’re doing this for your own good, Sarah. Natural birth has a faster recovery time. I’ve already spoken to the doctor.” “Spoken to them? You mean you told them to suppress my C-section indicators?” I slowly lifted my head, my gaze sweeping over their evasive faces. “Harrison, last week you told me the company had cash flow issues. You made me mortgage the house I bought two years ago. Was that just to get cash for Veronica?” Harrison’s face flushed red. “What are you talking about? That was strictly company business.” “Is that so? And maxing out my supplementary card to buy a twenty-thousand-dollar bag for a ‘client’—was that real too?” I let out a bitter laugh. Suddenly, a sharp, tearing pain radiated from my abdomen. The fetal heart monitor began to scream an alarm. Harrison looked panicked for a second, then composed himself. “Stop screaming! You’re making it worse by getting agitated. Dr. Lee is coming. She’ll handle it.” “Handle it? You’re forcing me to forego surgery because you want me and the baby dead. That way, you and Veronica can be together legitimately, right?” My body shook with agony. The System prompt chimed in my head. “Immediate protection mechanism active. Automatically contacting the emergency team from the rival Tier-1 Trauma Center. Estimated arrival: ten minutes. Evidence of Dr. Lee’s malpractice detected. Synchronizing with the State Medical Board reporting channel.” Dr. Lee rushed in. Her face paled when she saw the numbers on the monitor. She opened her mouth to speak, but after catching a glimpse of Nana Rose’s dark expression, she steeled herself. “Don’t be nervous. It’s just Braxton Hicks. I’ll give you something to suppress the contractions…” “No need.” Dr. Lee’s hand trembled in confusion, dropping the syringe to the floor. Harrison grabbed my wrist, his brow furrowed tight. “What the hell are you trying to do?” I waved my phone, a weak smile curling my lips. “Nothing much. Just letting you know that I’ve been livestreaming everything in this room.” “I met the criteria for a C-section thirty minutes ago. You disregarded my life and the life of my child. The internet will call the police for me.” Harrison signaled the bodyguards. They swarmed forward, smashing my phone to pieces. The men pinned me down, rendering me immobile. Harrison walked up to me, his eyes bloodshot with rage, and grabbed my chin. “You still think you’re the Princess of the King family? You’re nothing but a switched-at-birth mistake! A mutt!” “Even if you meet the surgical standards, so what? Until Veronica delivers safely, there is no place for you.” I suddenly laughed. “So, in a hospital this big, other mothers’ lives are worthless?” I struggled furiously. Harrison, in a fit of rage, slapped me twice across the face. Blood trickled from the corner of my mouth. No one raised a hand to wipe it away. Nana Rose stood by, listening to the frantic beep-beep-beep of the alarms, acting as if she heard nothing. Seeing my gaze fixed on her, she sighed lightly. “Veronica is different from you. She can’t handle pain.” I looked down at the amniotic fluid flooding the bed, my eyes reddening. So, I can? The bodyguards didn’t let go. Until, three minutes later, a group of people burst into the delivery room. The police were with them. “We received a report. This hospital is engaging in malpractice. We need to transfer this patient immediately!” 3 The police quickly secured the scene. The chaotic delivery room fell into a stunned silence. When Harrison saw the doctors from the rival hospital checking my vitals, he stepped angrily in front of me. “Sarah! Do you want our family on the front page of every tabloid?!” “Stop this nonsense! Give me your phone and record a clarification video right now!” Just then, my mother, the head nurse, walked in upon hearing the commotion. There were still bloodstains on her white coat. Seeing my body convulsing and my face devoid of color, she asked with concern, “Did the hospital make a mistake in the scheduling? Why are there outside experts here?” My father charged in right after her, furious. He threw my broken phone onto my chest. “The hospital is undergoing its accreditation review! You know that! Are you trying to cause a medical scandal?!” “How cruel can you be? Veronica needs her parents’ warmth right now, yet you force us to come here to deal with you!” My mother saw the blood on my forehead and reached out to wipe it, but Harrison pushed her hand away. “This is all a show she directed herself. She wants sympathy to gain leverage.” Mom muttered a few more words to me, but after receiving an urgent page from the operating room, she dragged Dad away and rushed out. I struggled to sit up, pointing a trembling finger at Harrison. “He blocked my treatment the entire time! Arrest him!” The doctor from the rival hospital saw I was bleeding profusely. He shoved Harrison aside and opened his medical kit to bandage me. With the police watching, Harrison couldn’t get physical. Instead, he pulled out his phone and recorded the rival doctor treating me. He sneered. “Entering an operating room without scrubbing in? You’re a hack. Wait for the lawsuit!” Harrison forwarded the video directly to the hospital board right in front of us, demanding they file a report immediately. Terrified, I called out to the System in my mind. “Host, rest assured. The team filed all necessary paperwork before arrival. The outcome will not be affected.” Relieved, I murmured, “When does the liquidation begin?” The System didn’t reply, but Harrison caught the tail end of my whisper. He pointed at me, enraged. “What liquidation?! Who are you liquidating?!” The doctor finished bandaging me and stared at the latest test results, stunned. “The fetal heart rate dropped three times in the last hour! Preeclampsia is setting in. She’s in critical condition. We need to move her to surgery now!” Harrison didn’t care. He blocked the gurney. “Taking her away won’t help. If I don’t sign, no one dares to operate on her!” The doctor grabbed the diagnostic report and showed it to the police. Finally, with my consent, they pushed me out of the delivery room. I felt fluid leaking continuously from my lower body. I grabbed the doctor’s sleeve. My mother, who had been signing papers nearby, saw the blood soaking my pants. She covered her mouth, her eyes tearing up. “You… it’s this serious? You need a C-section immediately!” Harrison, who had been blocking my exit, recoiled in shock when he saw the blood-soaked bed. Mom held my hand, whispering comfort. “I’ll arrange an operating room for you right now!” My eyes were red as I gripped her wrist. “I have something to tell you.” Just then, the doors to the other operating room opened. Veronica was wheeled out. Harrison immediately grabbed a bouquet of flowers and rushed over, shouting, “You did great, honey!” 4 Dad rushed forward too, carrying two bags of luxury goods. Listening to the family’s joyous celebration, I couldn’t help but speak up. “Can I go in for surgery now?” Harrison walked closer, holding a baby boy, his face twisted in disgust. “Your sister just came out of surgery. The family is gathering around to say a few words. Do you have to be such a killjoy?” The nurse pushed Veronica’s gurney in front of me. She looked at me twice, then handed me a red woven bracelet. “Harrison prayed for this specifically before the birth. I’m passing my good luck to you.” I let out a cold laugh and refused it. Veronica’s eyes instantly reddened. She reached out and tugged at my sleeve. “Is my little sister blaming me? In that situation just now, I really had no choice. The doctor said I needed surgery immediately.” Before I could speak, the relatives Harrison had kept waiting nearby rushed over with gifts. Seeing my dark expression toward Veronica, they voiced their dissatisfaction. “Sarah, you’re both mothers now. Your sister just finished surgery. Isn’t your attitude a bit excessive?” Seeing this, Veronica started to cry. “Don’t blame Sarah. It’s my fault for taking the operating room without asking her. Please don’t be mad at her; it’s bad for the baby.” In the three months since she returned, she had outwardly defended me at every turn. She even insisted on taking the nanny’s room opposite mine, claiming sisters should be close. But behind the scenes, anything I looked at, she would buy at double the price. Then she would fake a smile and say, “Dad told the sales clerk to save the good stuff for me. If you like it, I’ll give it to you.” I snorted and shook off her hand, my tone icy. “Move! I need to give birth!” Unexpectedly, Harrison grabbed my wrist, forcing me to stop. “Apologize to Veronica. Now!” “Harrison!” Veronica’s voice trembled. “Let her go have the baby!” Harrison patted her hand gently to comfort her, but when he turned back to me, his eyes were cold. He enunciated every word. “Sarah, you must apologize to Veronica today. Otherwise, you aren’t going anywhere.” I was shaking from the pain. The contractions in my lower abdomen were coming in rapid waves. But Harrison stood before me like a mountain, with no intention of moving. The surrounding relatives accused me of being immature and willful. I finally snapped. “Harrison King, so you would rather see me and the baby die than forgo this apology, is that it?” Harrison stepped forward, grabbing my hair and forcing my head up. “I don’t want to say it a second time!” The police finally stepped in to control the situation. The monitors beside the bed began to scream their alarms. My consciousness started to blur. I looked at the time. Soon. Five more minutes and I could leave this world completely. Now, all I needed was a push. Fighting through the agony, I ripped the sensors off my body and threw them aside, screaming. “I’m not giving birth! You want me dead? Fine! I’ll die for you right now!” The doctor from the rival hospital saw me giving up and rushed to persuade me. “Don’t be foolish! Your life matters. If the hospital cooperates, we can start surgery in ten minutes.” Harrison exploded in rage. He picked up the monitor and smashed it onto the floor, pointing at me and cursing. “You shrew! What? You want to take revenge on us and extort money?!” The faces of the relatives instantly changed. Mom, having arranged the operating room, stopped in her tracks upon hearing this, looking at me in disbelief. “Sarah, why must you always compete with Veronica? She is different from you.” I laughed out loud, my vision blurring into vague shapes. “Yes, I’m just the fake heiress! I’ll give my life back to you!” Harrison sneered. “Mom, Dad, let’s take Veronica back to the ward first. If she wants to throw a tantrum, let her.” The System’s voice echoed in my mind again. “Host blood loss indicators have reached the agreed value. Detach immediately?” I murmured a response. “Immediately.” The next second, I let out a pained scream and completely passed out. The doctor looked at the heart monitor and panicked. “The patient has lost vital signs!”

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My mother ran The Serenity Creek Clinic her entire life. A simple dose of cold medicine and a consultation? Ten dollars. Maybe less if you were short on cash. When I took over, I honored her teachings, dedicating myself to the health of the community. But the moment I charged a returning local influencer sixty dollars for some specialized GI medication, the entire internet—and the whole village—called me a greedy monster running a predatory practice. Men, women, and children lined up, blocking my door, demanding I refund the money they were sure I’d swindled from them. I granted their wish. I handed back every cent I’d ever collected. Then, I personally locked the doors. “As you all wished, the clinic is closed,” I announced, the finality stinging my throat. “From now on, for your aches and fevers, please drive yourselves to the county hospital thirty miles away. I truly wish you all the best of health.” The very next day, they were back, blocking the door again. Only this time, they were begging me to open up. 1 “Sixty dollars? Are you robbing people?” The speaker was Kinsley “Kinny” Rhodes, a young woman who’d recently returned to Serenity Creek to launch her career as a lifestyle vlogger. She was suffering from minor traveler’s diarrhea—a slight bout of food poisoning. I’d prescribed the most advanced, fast-acting, and gentle medication I could get. “Kinny, the wholesale cost of this medication alone is fifty-five. I’ve only charged you a five-dollar consult fee. That’s more than fair.” “Don’t lie to me!” She waved her phone in my face, the screen glaring. “I just checked Amazon Pharmacy. The exact same script is fifty dollars! Shipped! They’re even running a special. And you’re only charging a five-dollar fee? What about the federal rural healthcare grants for clinics like this? Are you just pocketing the difference?” Grants? I blinked, a bitter laugh dying in my throat. Dealing with that bureaucratic nightmare wasn’t worth the paltry sum they offered. My mother and I had always preferred to run to our trusted supplier—a small, regional pharmaceutical lab—to guarantee the highest quality meds with the fewest side effects. I’d graduated top of my class, turning down offers from major university hospitals. Five years ago, the mayor himself came to me, reminding me how remote we were, how hard it was for the elderly to travel to Oakwood City. I owed them for the kindness shown to my mother and me after my father died young. I’d promised to stay. Five years of service. I pointed to the price sheet taped to the wall. “The cost of every medication is public record. I don’t make a profit on the medicine itself. I’m charging you a five-dollar professional fee.” “Oh, very official.” Kinny folded her arms, a smug smirk twisting her lip. “But that kind of scam only works on people who don’t know better—like these country folks.” She rolled her eyes at me, then shouted to the small group waiting outside. “Hey, everyone! Look what this doctor is doing! He’s price gouging! He’s stealing from the good people of this town!” Heads turned. Eyes focused on me, filled with instant suspicion. Little Jenny, the girl from next door, squeezed through the crowd, puffing out her cheeks and glaring at Kinny. “That’s not true! Dr. Maxwell is nice! Last time I had a fever, he gave me medicine and a lollipop! He’s the best!” A flicker of warmth went through me. I smiled at Jenny. Kinny’s expression darkened. She scanned the barcode on the prescription bottle with her phone, then thrust the screen at Jenny. “Look closely, kid! It’s fifty dollars online, and he charged me sixty! He overcharged by ten whole dollars!” “Little fool! You’re bought for a single piece of candy. When you grow up, you’ll be stupid enough to be taken by a traveling salesman!” “You!” Jenny’s eyes welled up with tears. “Watch your language,” I said, my voice ice cold. “If you look closely, those are two different manufacturers,” I pointed out the flaw in her phone image. “Mine has a superior purification process. It works better, faster, and has fewer side effects. That’s why the wholesale cost is higher.” She looked like I’d just handed her a winning lottery ticket. “See? Excuses! Experts online have already debunked that! The active ingredients are the same, so the effect can’t be that different. You just want to make more money!” She pulled up a short video where a self-proclaimed “medical expert” was passionately ranting about how “high-priced medicine is a scam for the uninformed.” The collective gaze of the townsfolk solidified into judgment. That feeling of being fundamentally mistrusted was sickening. I knew arguing was pointless. I had other patients to see. “If you think they’re the same, then go buy the generic online.” I tried to reach for the box of medication. “I’m not treating you. My clinic doesn’t welcome you. Don’t come back.” She snatched the box to her chest, her face a mask of righteous indignation. “What? Guilty? Trying to destroy the evidence?” “I’m keeping this! This is my proof!” Utterly shameless. My fists clenched in rage. A patient from the back of the line tentatively poked his head forward. “Dr. Maxwell, my head is throbbing. Can you help me?” I stopped arguing with Kinny and simply pushed her toward the door. “Get out.” She left without paying a cent, medication in hand. I thought that was the end of it. The next morning, the moment I pulled up the metal security gate, I stopped dead in my tracks. A wall of people stood before my clinic. The entire town—every man, woman, and child—had shown up. The looks they gave me weren’t the usual warmth and respect. They were filled with anger and contempt. “Give us back our money!” Someone yelled, and the crowd erupted. “Leo Maxwell, give us back the money you overcharged us!” “We trusted you! And all along, you’ve been running a crooked scheme!” I stared at the sea of familiar faces, my mind blank. “What are you talking about? What money?” Mayor Thompson squeezed out of the crowd, his face etched with performative sadness. “Leo, how could you do this to your neighbors?” He held a phone up. The headline was a blazing dagger in my gut: Exposed: The Heartless Rural Clinic—A Vampire in a White Coat, Stealing Even the Change. The author: Kinsey Rhodes. The video was maliciously edited, showing only the moment I took the sixty dollars and the moment I pushed her out. The text was pure, inflammatory fiction, painting me as a greedy, unethical profiteer. The comments section was a savage, digital frenzy. [This doctor should have his license revoked and be jailed!] [Disgusting, preying on honest, hardworking farmers.] [Support the vlogger! The truth must shine!] I was shaking with fury. “This is a lie! She maliciously edited that video!” “In all my years, when have I ever overcharged anyone? I source this medicine at almost cost price, only charging a nominal fee! For people who couldn’t pay, I always covered it myself!” Just then, Kinny Rhodes emerged from the back of the crowd. She held a selfie stick, filming. “See, everyone? This is the face of a guilty, heartless doctor! Still lying!” “If it was such a losing business, why did his family run this clinic for forty years? He’s not an idiot. He’s been quietly profiting and basking in your naive gratitude!” “You let the whole town spin in circles… you’re a hypocrite!” The last word was the match, igniting their stored anger. Mrs. Davies, who I’d given free deep-tissue massage to for her back pain, shuffled forward, pointing a trembling finger at me. “The last time my back hurt, you took half a month to fix me! Were you intentionally using slow medicine just to make me pay more visits?” I froze. I’d used the most gentle, non-invasive method precisely to avoid causing her deeper long-term damage. At the time, she’d held my hand and thanked me profusely. Mr. Henderson shoved his son forward, his face red and distorted. “My boy broke his leg! You set the bone! You must have overcharged me, too! Give me back the money! Or I’ll tear this clinic down!” I remembered everything. His son was hurt late on a Sunday night. I’d jumped out of bed, worked until dawn, and charged him only three hundred dollars for the emergency materials. Then there was Billy, a young man whose life I’d saved. He was now grinning into Kinny’s camera, pointing at me like I was a freak show. “Folks, this is the quack who did the illegal surgery on me!” “My arm still hurts, so it must be his fault! It’s a permanent side effect from his terrible skills!” To save his hand from being mangled in a machine, I had performed emergency, life-saving debridement and stitching—in my unapproved clinic—at a moment’s notice. Now, my act of mercy was his “proof.” “You… you can’t be so heartless!” My mother, Eliza, stumbled forward. Her small, fragile body stood between me and the crowd, shaking with rage. “I know my son! To serve you, he gave up a top job at a major hospital and came back to this poor place. How… how can you do this to him?” No one listened. Their eyes were glazed over with manipulated rage and raw greed. Just then, a car marked “Health and Human Services” pulled up. Several people in uniform stepped out, their expressions severe. “We’ve received multiple public complaints alleging illegal practice and pharmaceutical price gouging.” “You are ordered to close the clinic immediately and cooperate with our investigation.” The comments section on Kinny’s live stream exploded. [The government is here! It’s confirmed!] [Justice served! Lock him up!] Watching the nightmare unfold, I felt dizzy. I took several deep breaths, then walked to the safe and pulled out every ledger and receipt I had from the past five years. “You want proof? Here is your proof!” “These are my inventory receipts and billing records! Look for yourselves!” “Not only have I not made a cent of profit, but I’ve also put over thirty thousand dollars of my mother’s retirement money into keeping this clinic running!” The mountain of receipts and ledgers momentarily stunned the crowd. But Kinny, ever the performer, immediately cut in, her voice shrill. “Who knows if these are real? Receipts can be forged! The only person who knows the real prices is you!” “Go outside! Call Oakwood City Hospital! Find out where their prices are lower than mine!” I shouted, my eyes burning. “These records are stamped and signed by the pharmaceutical supplier! How can they be forged? Go ahead and check!” I thought the tangible evidence would silence them. Instead, Kinny sneered, ready to throw her final, most devastating bomb. “Even if your prices were lower, what gives you the right to use that as an excuse to sexually harass your female patients?” Kinny’s words were a lightning strike. The silence was absolute. She grabbed a woman named Maria from the crowd and pulled her forward. Maria wouldn’t meet my eyes, mumbling in a whisper barely audible: “He… he treated my back last time. He used the massage as an excuse to touch me inappropriately…” The crowd erupted in a furious roar. Mayor Thompson seized the moment, pointing a finger at me. “And who says the amounts on those receipts are real? I heard you’ve been colluding with your supplier, exaggerating the wholesale prices and taking massive kickbacks!” A stranger—a man I’d never seen before—squeezed forward, claiming to be an employee of my supplier. “I can confirm it! The prices on his receipts are all fake! He and our boss have been working together to defraud the community!” The lead investigator from Health and Human Services looked at me, his face grim. “If any of this is true, you’re facing commercial fraud charges. That means jail time.” It was absurd. I pointed to the security camera in the corner. “The cameras will prove my innocence regarding the harassment.” “As for this so-called employee, I don’t know him! My supplier is not the one he claims! You can check my call logs and bank transfers right now!” The investigators immediately split up to verify my claims. Seeing one lie fail, Kinny spun another. “Don’t get distracted, everyone! His most serious crime is practicing medicine illegally!” She pointed triumphantly at Billy. “He permanently damaged Billy’s arm with his shoddy surgery!” Hearing his cue, Billy clutched his wrapped forearm and let out a theatrical yelp. “That’s right! He did an ‘illegal surgery’ in this unapproved office! My wound still hurts every day. It’s a permanent injury he caused!” The investigator’s face was now a mask of deep displeasure. “If the charges of illegal practice and causing bodily harm are verified, your medical license will be immediately revoked!” I tried to speak, but Kinny rushed toward my mother, her eyes full of venom. “Like mother, like son! The old one was no good, so how could the young one be any better?” My mother, already reeling from shock, gasped, her eyes rolling back. She fell backward, straight and stiff.

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Right before graduation, Rhys Maxwell convinced me to sneak in and taste the forbidden. I bit back the pain, but inside, I was ecstatic all night long, believing that my years of silent longing had finally paid off. It wasn’t until the day the SAT scores were posted that Rhys threw my pregnancy test results right into my mother’s face. “Ms. Reed,” he sneered, using her professional title like a slur, “didn’t you say getting involved with a punk was disgusting? Well, now your daughter is just as disgusting, knocked up by the very trash you hate.” “Too bad her kid will be just like her—a fatherless bastard with no one to claim him.” He left without a word, dropping a thick envelope on the counter—hush money, nothing more. Seven years later, I saw him again. He was Rhys Maxwell, the ruthless Head of the Maxwell Syndicate, a man whose name commanded fear. And I? I was just a disposable asset, the mistress of one of his mid-level crew chiefs. But Rhys, the kingmaker, was suddenly back—and acting like a madman, desperate to claim the role of father. 1 I was telling my six-year-old son, Leo, to go to bed early when my sugar daddy called me in to “entertain.” Just as I reached the door of the private lounge, I heard the casual, dismissive tone of the men inside. “Derrick, your girl is definitely top-shelf,” a voice drawled. “Heard she’s been with you since she was barely legal?” “Even the best product gets boring eventually. Marcus, if you’re interested, take her for a spin.” Derrick Shaw’s voice was thick with undisguised pride, as if he were discussing a trophy on his mantel. “She’s just a little pet I keep on the side. If you like what you see, Marcus, she’s all yours for the night. Have fun.” I’d been Derrick Shaw’s mistress for years; I knew how he liked to perform. He especially loved using me as conversation fodder, seeing it as proof of his status. So I pushed the door open, my expression blank, and that’s when I heard the familiar, chilling voice. “Excuse me, gentlemen, but my fiancée isn’t much of a drinker. I’ll take her glass.” The second my eyes locked with his, the crystal glass in his hand slipped, shattering on the Italian marble floor. His arm froze mid-gesture, a tableau of shock and sudden, violent recognition. I never imagined my reunion with Rhys would happen like this. Seven years had etched a cold, commanding authority onto him. Every calculated movement, every hard line in his face, screamed of the ruthless power he now wielded. Next to him sat a woman: polished, elegant, and clearly expensive—Seraphina Lowell. I suppressed the wave of nausea and fear, pulling up the practiced, sickeningly sweet smile I’d perfected over the years. I forced out the line that was now rote: “Derrick, baby, I missed you so much.” A heavy silence followed. The eyes in the room shifted: a few glances of raw appreciation, a flicker of pity, but mostly the flat, naked contempt I’d learned to ignore. Derrick reached out, yanking me onto his lap, his oily hand making itself at home on my waist. Rhys’s stare, which had started as a punch of shock, slowly curdled into undisguised, profound disgust. I knew he’d recognized me—and immediately understood what I was. Around the table, the men took turns toasting and encouraging me to drink. One expensive glass of scotch after another was poured into me. I pieced together the conversation and learned the identity of the woman next to Rhys. Her name was Seraphina Lowell. She was Rhys’s fiancée, a perfect match from a powerful family. They were clearly smitten. I remembered my mother’s words from all those years ago: Nothing good ever comes from getting mixed up with a punk. She was right. Now, my former punk boyfriend was draped in success, holding a beautiful woman. And I? I was a twenty-something single mother, being passed around for entertainment by men old enough to be my father. “Derrick, don’t keep all the fun to yourself! Let us see this beautiful girl’s talents!” Marcus King called out, his gaze glued to me, lingering greedily on my chest. Derrick, ever the shrewd businessman, recognized the opportunity. A used toy for a valuable connection—a worthwhile trade. Despite the last vestiges of his possessiveness, he chuckled and pushed me toward Marcus. “Marcus, she’s all yours. Enjoy.” A cold laugh caught in my throat, but my face only registered a practiced, coy smile. I obediently settled next to Marcus and poured him a drink. He was delighted, pulling a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills from his jacket and tossing them directly into my face. “Sweetheart, the night’s hot. Here’s a little something to cool you down.” He smirked, leaning closer. “Tell you what—for every ten bills you pick up, you take off one article of clothing. How about that?” The room erupted in loud laughter. The only sound that cut through the noise was the heavy, thudding impact of Rhys setting his glass down. I looked over, catching him in the act of watching Marcus’s crude display. His lips curled into a cold, mocking sneer. The contempt in his eyes was absolute. Fighting back the burning humiliation, I used my face to catch the scattered cash, then slowly removed my blazer. The second time, Marcus pointed to my blouse, urging me to continue. My fingers trembled as I unbuttoned it. The silk slid away, revealing my pale shoulders and collarbones, the ambiguous curves underneath barely hidden. All around me, I heard the sound of men swallowing. Someone sneakily pulled out a phone to take a picture. The third time, Marcus told me to choose between my skirt and my bra. He scattered the money deliberately this time, sending over a dozen bills skittering across the floor. I bent down, picking them up one by one. As my fingers reached for the last bill, a black leather dress shoe suddenly stamped down on my hand. The force was so heavy it felt like my bones were about to shatter. Rhys loomed over me, his voice colder than ice. “Women who choose to be mistresses truly are pathetic.” Ignoring his cruelty, I looked up, keeping that professional smile plastered on my face. “Sir, could you please lift your foot?” He held the pressure for a few agonizing seconds. It was Seraphina who lightly touched his arm, prompting him to reluctantly draw his foot back. I gathered the last of the money, preparing to take off the skirt, when a clear voice cut through the drunken clamor. “Wait a minute!” Seraphina Lowell stood up. “I’m feeling a little unwell,” she said softly. “I need to ask this young lady to accompany me to the restroom.” She was with Rhys; no one dared object. As we walked out, Seraphina slipped her cashmere shawl off her shoulders and draped it over me, covering my exposed skin. In the restroom, Seraphina didn’t rush to fix her makeup. Instead, she took out a moist wipe and began carefully cleaning the fingers Rhys’s shoe had pressed into the marble. They were already bright red. “You don’t look much older than I am,” she said quietly. “Why do this? Why make this kind of money, this way?” I studied her. Her Chanel suit was impeccable, her demeanor graceful. She radiated the pampered luxury of a life steeped in privilege. A person so wrapped in good fortune would never understand why someone with two working hands and a sound mind would choose this humiliating path. How could I explain it to her? Because I was desperate for cash. Because my six-year-old son needed to eat. Because my mother was lying in a hospital bed, needing an astronomical surgery fee to save her life. And the man responsible for the entire nightmare—the architect of my destruction—was her arrogant fiancé. When we returned to the room, the expected heckling didn’t resume. Because Tara Shaw, Derrick’s wife, had arrived. The sudden presence of the legal wife instantly killed the ambiguous mood. Everyone settled in, waiting for the inevitable fireworks, eager to watch me get publicly torn apart. I expected Tara to lose it, rush forward, call me a whore, and claw at my face. But she did none of that. She didn’t even look at me, as if I were an irrelevant piece of furniture. Tara simply smiled politely, socializing with Derrick and the other Crew Chiefs, her words perfect, leaving no room for complaint. I sat there next to her, my face expressionless, completely numb to the lack of shame. I was nothing more than an unsavory mistress, and I had long grown used to being ignored. When the night finally wrapped up, Derrick went to settle the bill. Only Tara and I were left in the lounge. She finally dropped the facade. She lunged, throwing her weight on me, straddling my chest, and delivering a resounding, stinging slap across my face. “You bitch! You slut who only knows how to use her body to please men!” “A piece of paid trash, how dare you show your face in a place like this? You fatherless tramp, you’re an embarrassment!” Her voice was sharp, a piercing, ugly sound. I wanted to tell her that she was right, I didn’t have a father. I wanted to tell her my mother was now a vegetable because of an accident, and no one was left to teach me how to live a respectable life. But I said nothing, simply enduring the barrage of hits and curses. My silence infuriated her. She shrieked, grabbing a wine bottle from the table and bringing it down hard on my head. Blood immediately gushed out, running down my forehead and into my eyes, turning my vision scarlet. Tara was preparing to strike again when a strong arm suddenly grabbed her wrist. “Enough! This is my club, don’t stain my carpet!” Rhys had returned. His face was thunderous, his entire body radiating a terrifying hostility. Tara, recognizing his authority, didn’t dare push it further. She shot me a final, venomous glare and stormed out. Clutching my bloody forehead, I stumbled out of the lounge and into the street. The accumulated injustice and agony of the night finally broke me. I collapsed next to a street dumpster and sobbed uncontrollably. I don’t know how long I cried. Behind me, the roar of an engine grew louder. A black Bentley pulled up beside me. The window slid down, revealing Rhys’s hardened face. “Get in.” I shook my head. “No, thank you.” Rhys frowned, saying nothing more. He got out of the car, scooped me up, and put me into the passenger seat. The pounding pain in my head made me dizzy. I didn’t bother to struggle, only managing to give him my address. Rhys didn’t use a GPS. He drove straight there. It was my old apartment. He remembered. Seven years ago, in the days leading up to graduation, he used to sneak over and we’d watch the stars from my fire escape. Now I knew that all that supposed tenderness was just a carefully orchestrated act. As we neared my building, Rhys broke the silence, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “It’s been years. How’s Ms. Reed doing?” My hand, resting on the door handle, froze. I stayed silent for a long time. It was long enough that Rhys lost patience. He reached over and seized my throat, his voice low and ice cold. “I remember Ms. Reed despised high school sweethearts. Does she know her precious daughter was dumped by a punk and now sells her body to lowlifes in the Syndicate?” “Oh, right. She’s not a teacher anymore. Is she spending the money you earn selling yourself?” Before I could process the words, he leaned down and bit my collarbone—hard. The pain was shocking, and I struggled against him. “Does Ms. Reed know how many times you’ve slept with that sugar daddy? So many times your body is covered in hickeys and bite marks!” Rhys spat out my mother’s name with mocking disdain. A bitter laugh echoed in my head. If he knew that my mother’s current state was entirely his fault, he’d probably be even more smug.

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On the fiercely competitive track of “Self-Preservation at All Costs,” I deserve an Olympic medal. Every time my husband, Rhys Harrington, prioritized his ‘untouchable first love,’ I found a new man. A diversion. A distraction. A silent, rebellious middle finger to a marriage that had withered down to a business contract. I sought out what felt like N different men, all to achieve one singular, necessary goal: making sure I came first. That I was taken care of. That I didn’t leave this awful situation empty-handed in the emotional bank. I made sure I wasn’t losing. The only problem? I have a profound case of face blindness. My friends would laugh whenever I showed up with a “new” date, their smiles dazzling and seemingly approving of my relentless pursuit of pleasure. I assumed they were commending my dating prowess. It took me three months to realize that the rotating cast of men—the flirtatious bartender, the brooding photographer, the sweet music student—was, in fact, the same person. And he was the one person in my life I should have never, ever gotten involved with. 1 I was just wrapping up a late afternoon at the office when a text from my college alumni chair popped up. A five-year reunion dinner. The venue was The Sinclair Club, a private society in the city where a single bottle of wine costs more than my monthly mortgage. The moment I pushed open the door to the dining room, the atmosphere curdled into a subtle, uncomfortable stillness. Rhys was seated at the head of the long table, and to his immediate right—the hostess’s seat, my usual seat—sat Serena Beaumont. Everyone had been laughing, teasing them, an undercurrent of warm, shared history swirling between them, but my appearance killed it instantly. “Oh, look who decided to join us! Ava Sullivan is here!” Someone called out loudly, attempting to shatter the awkward silence. Serena was wearing a pristine white sundress, making her look precisely as innocent and pure as the college sophomore who had originally captured Rhys’s heart. The One That Got Away, or so the legend went. Rhys didn’t bother to look up. I kept my expression neutral and settled at a place setting across the table, quietly serving myself a piece of the pan-seared Chilean sea bass. The fish was buttery, the glaze perfectly tangy. Rhys had brought me here once, years ago, telling me I would love it. He knew my tastes then, just as he knows precisely what it means for Serena to occupy that specific chair next to him tonight. The message was clear: Ava, the wife, was being shown the door. I excused myself to the restroom, battling the icy burn of humiliation in my chest. When I returned, the wine had been flowing, and the conversations were louder, looser. “Rhys, why are you letting Serena take Ava’s throne tonight? Aren’t you worried your wife will get jealous?” The laugh that followed the question was laced with curiosity and malice. Serena preempted Rhys’s response: “They’re getting divorced soon, aren’t they? There’s no point in keeping up appearances anymore, right?” The room fell into absolute silence. Rhys offered no objection, no protest. Serena’s voice, now thick with faux regret, picked up again. “I know everyone thought I broke them up back in college. But who can truly control matters of the heart?” She paused for effect. “Yes, Rhys and Ava were childhood sweethearts, but he never actually loved Ava. When Rhys confessed his feelings to me, and we started seeing each other, Ava refused to let go. She chased him to classes, showed up at his parents’ house, and eventually… threatened to hurt herself.” Her eyes welled up. “Rhys is a good man, he’s too kind-hearted. He was terrified she would actually do something drastic, so he felt he had to marry her.” “Enough,” Rhys finally cut in. It wasn’t a denial, or a defense. Just two quiet words. Enough. Yes. I agreed. It was more than enough. Twisted fragments of memory flashed through my mind: Didn’t I quietly step aside the moment Rhys told me he was in love with her? Didn’t she later take the payout from his parents and vanish? Didn’t Rhys come back to me, we started seeing each other again, and then he cheated with her? Didn’t I, genuinely battling depression, stand on the edge of my apartment balcony, only for him to rush out and hold me, his eyes red as he whispered, “I’ll marry you, just come down”? But the truth was irrelevant now. When a person chooses a narrative, every fact, every detail, is rearranged to fit the picture they want to see. And Rhys had clearly chosen his. I pulled up my phone, my fingers flying to the contact I had labeled “Sweet-Talking Golden Retriever.” My furious text: COME FIND ME TONIGHT. WEAR SOMETHING NICE!!! The reply was instantaneous: Yes, ma’am. All those exclamation points… not happy, are we? I’ll sing for you tonight. Don’t let them get to you, gorgeous. I stared at the screen, a genuine, albeit brittle, smile finally curving my lips. He always knew how to read the mood and shift the energy. The door to the restroom swung open. Rhys stood there. We made eye contact, his expression complex—a mix of guilt, discomfort, and perhaps a flicker of shame from overhearing Serena’s lie. I didn’t bother to speak. I simply brushed past him, my silence louder than any accusation. As the dinner approached its inevitable, awkward end, a server wheeled in a massive, three-tiered cake to celebrate the five-year anniversary of our graduation. I’d had too many glasses of Merlot. I stumbled slightly as I got to my feet. Clutching my wine glass, I weaved my way toward Rhys and Serena. Rhys watched my approach, his face a mask of weary caution. “What are you doing? Ava, sit down.” I lifted the glass with a shaky hand. “I came to toast you both.” “You’ve had too much to drink, Ava. Just sit this out,” he frowned. I ignored him, my voice slurring just enough to sound convincingly drunk. “A toast… to your happily ever after!” The air thickened with dread. Then, with a dramatic lurch, I threw myself forward, planting both hands squarely on the sides of the cake. The three-tiered structure collapsed with a muffled thud, cream and raspberry glaze splattering everywhere. I “conveniently” lost my balance and ensured Rhys’s face was pressed directly into the sugary wreckage. My other hand “accidentally” smeared a generous handful of pink icing through Serena’s meticulously styled blonde hair. Time stopped for two seconds. Then Serena’s shriek sliced through the silence. “Ah! My hair! My dress!” Before I could properly register Rhys’s expression—which I knew would be apoplectic—Zara, my best friend, was on me like a shot. “Oh, my God, she’s had way too much!” Zara’s voice boomed, drowning out the rising panic and gasps. “I am so sorry, everyone! She’s been having a rough week! I’m taking her home now!” She half-dragged, half-carried me out. I laughed, a real, full-throated laugh, as I licked the sticky, sweet cream from my finger. “That was quite the exit, you maniac,” Zara said, poking my forehead as we sped away. “Rhys must be absolutely furious.” “Let him be furious.” I shrugged. I pulled out my phone and sent a new message to the contact. Change of plans. Meet me at the usual place. I want you to sing to me tonight. At the discreet boutique hotel we frequented, my “Golden Retriever” showed up with bright green hair. I couldn’t help but burst out laughing. The last time Rhys had truly infuriated me, I’d jokingly demanded that the man I was seeing dye his hair green to match the color of my rage. I didn’t mean it, but to my surprise, he’d taken me seriously. “Well,” I grinned, “at least that vibrant green makes you easy to spot.” He offered a mock grimace. “Anything to make sure my favorite client, who happens to be face-blind, can pick me out of a lineup.” We moved into the room, and he sat on the edge of the bed, playing soft acoustic songs on his guitar. Later, we showered, and finally, we slept, the sheer physical exhaustion and release momentarily erasing all the night’s unpleasantness. I woke in the pre-dawn haze, nestled against his chest. My eyes fell on a familiar, tiny object hanging from a thin silver chain around his neck. It was a ring, engraved with an intricate, almost hidden pattern—a coiled serpent and a small cross. This distinct, one-of-a-kind signet wasn’t just a ring; it was the Harrington family heirloom, traditionally passed down to the eldest son, the heir. And Rhys’s grandfather had given it to Rhys years ago. Why would Liam have it? Liam stirred, his arm tightening around me. “Go back to sleep, gorgeous. You were practically begging for a nap a minute ago.” I was, indeed, spent, and the warmth of his skin was instantly soothing. I drifted back to sleep. But the question lingered, a tiny, annoying insect buzzing in my mind. When I woke again in the morning, the first thing I did was reach for the chain. Strange. The ring was now a plain, unadorned silver band. Liam woke up. “What are you looking at?” Had the wine and my lack of sleep caused me to hallucinate the elaborate engraving? I sat up and studied his face. “You look so much like my husband.” He responded flatly, “You’ve said that before, Ava. Didn’t you pick me the first time because we look alike? So you could vent your anger on someone who looked like the source of your problems?” I wrapped my arms around him. “Oh, my poor thing. You are so much more comforting than that monster. I’m not mad at you anymore.” He ran a hand through his vivid green hair. “So, can I finally dye this back to a natural color?” “I think I’d prefer red now,” I mused. He sighed, but his lips curved into an indulgent smile. “Fine. Red is better than green, I suppose.” We washed up, had coffee, and went our separate ways. I was halfway through the drive home when Rhys called. “Where are you? Where were you last night? Why weren’t you home?” It hit me then—the similarity wasn’t just physical. Rhys and Liam’s voices were so much alike. The deeper register, the subtle cadence. I drove home, needing a fresh start and a change of clothes. The first person I saw when I walked in was Serena. She was wearing my expensive silk pajamas, the neckline plunging just enough to hint at her curves. The sight of her made my stomach clench with disgust. I immediately changed direction and headed straight for Rhys’s private study. “I told you not to come into my study!” Rhys’s voice was sharp. I wasn’t allowed in there because, on a previous occasion when he had coldly blown me off to be with Serena, I’d lost it and completely trashed the room, ruining several important documents. But I walked straight to his massive desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, found the pre-prepared divorce papers, and signed them with a sweeping, fluid motion. “You said I could only come in here to sign the divorce papers. I didn’t break the rules.” Rhys stared at the signed document, his eyes wide. He stood there for a long moment, then, with a sharp breath, he tore the papers to shreds. “Who said I want a divorce? What are you doing?” His reaction was so theatrical I couldn’t help but smile, a bitter, hollow expression. “Rhys, darling, you’ve been preparing for this divorce since the day we got married…” My words caught in my throat. Around his neck was a simple leather cord, exactly like the one Liam had been wearing. My gaze snapped up to his face. The resemblance to Liam, especially when he was slightly irritated, was unnerving. Identical. Serena slipped into the doorway. “Rhys, honey, breakfast is ready.” I watched him turn, his back and his gait identical to the man I’d just spent the night with. No. Stop it. I instantly dismissed the wild thought. It was impossible. Rhys had no reason, no motive, to pretend to be a “golden retriever” to sleep with his own wife. I printed a fresh set of divorce papers and placed them neatly on the desk. Rhys gave me one cold look and left without another word. The company’s annual gala was that evening, the ballroom bathed in warm, glittering light. I scanned the crowd, spotting a solitary Serena, but Rhys was nowhere to be found. Zara walked up to me, two champagne flutes in hand. “What are you looking for?” I shook my head, accepting a glass. “Zara, do you ever think Rhys and Liam look alike?” Zara’s eyes flickered, then she burst into an overly bright laugh. “How? Liam has that crazy green hair, doesn’t he?” “I told him this morning to dye it red,” I said, but then stopped myself. “Wait. How did you know he had green hair?” “I… just guessed,” Zara answered quickly, her smile suddenly too wide, too forced. Before I could press her, the ballroom lights dimmed slightly. The Master of Ceremonies took the stage to celebrate the successful completion of the first phase of “The Dawn Initiative.” The spotlight hit the large screen behind him, which promptly blinked, flickered, and went a blinding, horrible blue. A wave of confusion rippled through the audience. Technicians rushed up to fix the failure. A few minutes later, the screen cleared, not to the planned video, but to a dense, scrolling data report. The MC’s voice sounded tight with panic. “Apologies, technical error, we will switch back immediately…” “Hold on.” A director from the board stood up. “That data… that’s The Dawn Initiative’s core parameters, correct?” His voice rose. “Why is there such an obvious error? This compatibility test data is completely skewed! That mistake would compromise the entire system architecture. If we proceed to phase two, all our upfront investment could be worthless! Who is the final responsible party?” A thousand eyes, sharp as needles, turned and fixed on me. I stood up, feeling the blood drain from my face. That file could only be accessed by me, Rhys, and the core project team. And I distinctly remembered that the last person to physically handle the final printed copy, besides me, was Serena. I turned to her. “That file,” I stated clearly, “you picked it up from my office last Wednesday afternoon. You said you were taking it to Rhys for his final sign-off. Is that correct, Serena?” Serena’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “Ava, I was just a courier! I took the envelope to the office, but Rhys was in a meeting, so I left it with his secretary! I never looked at the contents! Why are you saying this in front of everyone?” She started to sob, her shoulders shaking delicately. “I know you’re upset and arguing with Rhys, but you can’t push this responsibility onto me! You were the lead on the project! All the equipment, all the parameters, I was just following your directives…” “Are you deliberately trying to mislead people?” The whispering started—a low, venomous chorus. “Isn’t that the wife? Heard they’re getting a divorce…” “Makes sense. Trying to sabotage the project on her way out? Or just sheer incompetence?” “Treating a multi-million-dollar project like a childish game, that’s what happens when you marry into the top…” I saw several unfamiliar, sharply dressed people gathering near Serena, their expressions harsh. I didn’t recognize them as company high-fliers. Just as the suffocating tension reached its peak, Bang! The heavy double doors of the ballroom were thrown open. A man with a shock of vivid red hair strode in. He looked like Liam. The red hair was the exact color I had idly requested this morning. But the sharp lines of his jaw, the precise curve of his lips as he scanned the room, the cool, detached look in his eyes… He looked exactly like Rhys. Serena reacted first, rushing towards him. “Rhys! Thank God you’re here! Ava is trying to pin the project failure on me!” My face blindness could be playing tricks on me, but Serena called him Rhys. Who is he? Both a stranger and terribly familiar. I fumbled for my phone, found the contact “Sweet-Talking Golden Retriever,” and hit dial. My eyes never left the red-haired man. One second, two seconds… A subtle vibration started in the pocket of the red-haired man’s perfectly tailored suit. He reached into the pocket and answered the call without urgency.

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My parents always said that kids were nature’s punchlines—born specifically to be the subject of their entertainment. That was why, every year on my birthday, they played a prank on me. My first birthday, a jack-in-the-box that screamed instead of singing. My second, they locked me in the laundry room with the non-venomous but terrifying pet boa constrictor. My third, they took me to the amusement park and forced me to wander through the most intense haunted house by myself. I grew to dread my birthday. But on my sixth birthday, nothing happened. My mom and dad even had my favorite cousin, Ruby, come over to play. It wasn’t until after we finished the cake that things went wrong. My parents exchanged a look, and then, in unison, they tipped back the glasses of sparkling cider we’d been drinking and drained them. They collapsed. When they woke up, they were hugging Ruby and calling her their sweet daughter. I was terrified. I grabbed at my mom’s silk dress, sobbing until I couldn’t breathe, asking them what in God’s name was happening. They held Ruby tight, their eyes flat and cold when they looked at me. “We drank the Forget-Me-Juice,” my mom, Seraphina, said. “It makes you forget your own child.” 1 My parents looked down their noses at me, their faces stern, and ruthlessly pulled away. “Who are you?” my dad, Elias, demanded. “Why are you in our house?” I was so little. I couldn’t hear the forced laughter they were stifling. All I could do was cling to the hem of my mom’s expensive cashmere sweater, choking on my own tears. “Mom, I’m Daisy. I’m your daughter.” “It’s my sixth birthday today.” But she pushed me away and pulled a confused Ruby further into her arms. “I don’t know you. Ruby is my daughter.” “You strange child, you need to leave our house immediately!” My tears streamed down my face. “No, you drank the Forget-Me-Juice! You forgot me!” My mom frowned, acting as if she had no memory of the phrase she and my dad had just coined. “Forget-Me-Juice? Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no such thing in the world!” “You need to stop lying and stop trying to trick us!” My dad grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and easily lifted me outside. “Whose kid are you? Go on, beat it!” I screamed and struggled, the cold air hitting my face. But what strength does a six-year-old have against an adult man? No matter how I cried, they were determined to drive me out. I cried out to my cousin, Ruby. “Ruby… Ruby, tell Mom and Dad that I’m their daughter!” Ruby started to open her mouth, but my mom pointed toward the playroom door. “Ruby, you can only have whatever toy you want if you’re our daughter, you know.” Ruby blinked once, then took my mother’s hand. “Hurry up and make that strange girl leave!” My dad heard her, and with a decisive thud, he shut the heavy front door. It was snowing outside, and I was only wearing a thin, long-sleeve tee. The wind cut through me like a blade. The tears on my face froze dry, stinging my skin. But no matter how hard I banged on the door, my parents had no intention of opening it. I stumbled over to the floor-to-ceiling window, trembling. I saw my mom open the playroom door, retrieve the stuffed animal I slept with every single night, and hand it to Ruby. My clothes, my piggy bank—everything was being given to my cousin. Ruby’s family wasn’t wealthy. My Aunt Caroline and Uncle Owen couldn’t afford a lot of toys or new clothes for her. Now, my parents were giving Ruby all of my things. I scratched at the cold glass, the tears never stopping. Inside, my parents were still cooing to Ruby. “Why is Ruby so sweet? Will you be our daughter forever and ever?” Ruby nodded excitedly. “Yes! But what about Daisy?” “Did you really drink the Forget-Me-Juice and forget her?” My parents looked at each other and burst into loud laughter. “How could we?!” “We’re just messing with her, that’s all.” “We’ll let her come back home in a few days once we’ve had our fun.” The voices from inside were muffled and fractured. But I heard enough. I didn’t understand much about the world yet. But I understood that. There was no Forget-Me-Juice. This was just another one of their pranks, and I was their toy. 2. The snow got heavier and was now up to my shins. I stumbled blindly away from the house, my feet slipping. The security camera mounted over the front door shifted, centering on me. But the people inside made no move to come out and open the door. I didn’t know the streets, or where to go. My whole body ached with cold; my exposed fingers were turning a sickly purplish-red. It was too cold. I really couldn’t hold on any longer. Up ahead, I saw a convenience store with a warm yellow light spilling out. I gritted my teeth and pushed the door open. “Ma’am, can I just warm up here for a minute?” “I promise I won’t get in the way of any customers.” The woman behind the counter, a plump, kindly-looking woman named Linda, looked down, and her eyes widened instantly. She quickly took off her own thick, puffy coat and wrapped it around me. A wave of warmth washed over me, and the tears in my eyes were uncontrollable again. “Oh, darling, you came out with so little on?” “Where are your mother and father?” I clutched the coat tightly, my voice a whisper: “They don’t want me anymore.” “They are somebody else’s mom and dad now.” Linda didn’t understand what I was saying. She turned and poured a cup of warm water, pressing it into my hands, and then pulled a steaming hot dog from the warming roller behind the counter. I sipped the water, and my body slowly began to thaw. Linda said she needed to call the police to find my parents. I huddled in the corner and shook my head. “I remember their phone numbers.” Linda dialed my mother, Seraphina. She answered quickly. But when Linda mentioned me, Seraphina flatly denied it. “I don’t know this child you’re talking about.” “My daughter is right here playing with her new doll!” In the background, I could hear Ruby and my dad discussing how to build a LEGO set. I lowered my head, and my tears fell silently onto the borrowed jacket, soaking in and disappearing. Linda quickly reassured me. “Maybe you wrote down the wrong number for your mom. How about your dad?” I said nothing, just listened as she dialed my dad, Elias. He answered. But his voice was full of irritation. “Didn’t my wife just talk to you? We haven’t lost a child!” “That kid, just figure it out. Don’t call this number again!” Linda stared at the phone, which he had hung up, and laughed out of sheer disbelief. “Sweetheart, are you sure these are your mom and dad?” As she asked the question, she already knew the answer. No child could accidentally get the phone number of two random people who happened to be a couple. I shook my head, my voice shaky. “Ma’am, they are Ruby’s mom and dad now.” Linda took me home with her. She lived in a small, two-bedroom apartment. That tiny spare room became my temporary bedroom. Linda bought me thick new clothes, cooked me a bowl of steaming hot noodles, and even added two eggs. I stared at the noodles. My mom used to tell me that you always ate longevity noodles on your birthday. But I’d never had them. Did my mom… not want me to live long? I gripped the chopsticks, desperately holding back tears. Suddenly, a warm hand rested on the top of my head. “Don’t cry.” “Happy birthday.” I looked up in surprise. Linda sighed and held her phone out to me. I couldn’t read all the words, but I recognized the number that had sent the text message: it was my dad’s. Linda read the words out loud, her voice flat: “Dear Madam, today is Daisy’s birthday. We claimed to have drunk Forget-Me-Juice and kicked her out of the house.” “On the surface, it’s a prank, but in reality, it is to train her ability to live independently. We ask that you not interfere.”

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The only reason my mom ever needed to believe I was faking was the two sick days I’d taken. Two times was all it took for her to decide I loved playing hooky more than I feared failing. When my temperature spiked again at school, the principal’s office called my mom. But all I heard was a cold snort from the receiver. “Ms. Harrison, please don’t let her fool you. Willow is capable of anything to get out of class.” Ms. Harrison’s voice was firm. “Lydia, Willow has a fever of 104 degrees. If it goes any higher, it could be life-threatening.” Only then did my mother agree to come. I waited in the nurse’s office for what felt like an eternity, but my mother never showed. I had to brace against the biting December wind and walk home alone. The moment I managed to open the front door, Mom’s hand shot out and pressed against my forehead. Then, with a cold, cruel smirk, she shoved me back and slammed the door, locking me out. “I knew you were faking it again! Your forehead is ice cold, where’s the fever? Willow, you are truly a disappointment. You’ll stop at nothing to get out of studying, will you?” The wind outside intensified. My vision was swimming in black spots. As consciousness started to fade, I had one desperate, silent thought: Mom, can you please believe me this one time? 1 The winter wind felt like a thousand tiny knives, scraping my face raw. My body was radiating heat now, my brain slow and thick with fever. All my strength was leached away; I couldn’t even stand straight. My eyes rolled back, and the world tilted until I collapsed heavily onto the cold, unforgiving concrete path. All I could hear was the howl of the wind and my own harsh, ragged breathing. Each breath seared my throat, like inhaling fire. A primal instinct for survival flickered to life. I dragged myself toward the iron front door and used every ounce of remaining energy to pound on the metal. “Mom… I’m not lying.” “Mom… I feel so sick. I think… I think I’m going to pass out…” I pressed my ear against the wood, and the sound of approaching footsteps sparked a tiny, desperate flame of hope. Did she believe me? Is she feeling sorry for me? Is she finally going to let me inside? The joy was suffocated the moment I heard her voice, ice-cold, from the other side of the door. “It’s been two minutes, and you’re already making a scene about dying! Two minutes!” “Why can’t you put this much effort into your grades? You’ll stay right there and think about what you’ve done!” She let out a dramatic sigh. “Willow, don’t blame your mother. I’m doing this for your own good.” “If you don’t suffer through the pain of studying now, you’ll suffer through the pain of a worthless life later! You can have a good reflection out there!” I wanted to plead, to explain, but her footsteps were already receding. It had only been two minutes, but with the freezing wind whipping around me, it felt like an eternity. A familiar rhythm of footsteps cut through my fading consciousness—Dad was home. He spotted me curled by the door and his face immediately darkened. He rushed forward and knelt, pulling me into his arms. “Willow! What are you doing out here? You’re freezing!” “Get inside now! It’s too cold to leave a kid out in this!” He lifted me onto his back, and the familiar warmth pulled me momentarily back from the edge of the void. But as soon as he cracked the door open, Mom burst out. She slapped Dad’s arm away, her voice a sharp screech. “Don’t you dare let her trick you! This girl is faking sick to skip school!” “Look at her report card—she dropped ten points and two whole ranks! All her energy is spent on these cheap tricks!” Dad frowned, looking at my ghostly pale face, his tone wavering. “She doesn’t look like she’s faking, Lydia. What if she really is sick…?” “And it’s freezing out here. She’s small. She can’t handle this.” “Sick? What kind of sick?” Mom grabbed Dad’s hand and forced it onto my forehead. “Feel it yourself! She’s clammy and cold. Does she feel like she has a fever?!” “She’s just putting on a show for sympathy so she doesn’t have to study!” Dad’s hand touched my skin. I was so far gone that my body had broken out in a cold sweat. To his touch, I really didn’t feel hot. He hesitated, and the worry on his face visibly softened. Seeing this, Mom immediately cranked up her volume. “See! What did I tell you! She’s an actress! So young, and already learning these rotten little ways!” Dad knitted his brows. “Still, this punishment is a bit much.” She roughly pushed me away from him. “Locked out? So what? We go for walks longer than two hours in this weather! What could possibly happen in two hours?” “If we don’t teach her a lesson today, she’ll try to fake sick again next week!” Her eyes flickered over my purple-tipped fingers, but she hardened her heart and spoke to Dad. “Grant! I am doing this for her future. What will she do if she doesn’t study now?” “We won’t be here forever to protect her. She can eat a little suffering now, or a lifetime of it later. Can’t you see the difference?” Dad seemed convinced. He carefully set me down by the door. “Your mother is right. You need to think about what will happen to you if you don’t focus on your studies.” With that, he followed Mom back inside. Mom slammed the door again—a deafening thud—and the lock clicked into place. The cold wind whipped dry leaves and ice flakes onto me. My whole body shuddered. My consciousness was receding again. My body temperature was dropping, point by painful point. Life felt like it was draining slowly out of my fingertips. I struggled to keep my heavy eyelids open, staring at the closed door, holding onto one final, hollow thought: But Dad and Mom, do I even have a future to worry about anymore? 2 I don’t know how much time passed, but miraculously, a strange warmth began to bloom inside me. My mind cleared slightly, and I couldn’t help but laugh at myself, a dry, bitter sound. Mom was right. I’m a stubborn fool. Even this isn’t enough to kill me. “Willow, it’s been an hour already. She must have learned her lesson.” Dad sighed, watching Mom continuously glance toward the door. “Lydia, what are you proving by going head-to-head with the kid?” “Who said I care about her! I just want to see how much backbone she has!” “An hour, and she still hasn’t admitted she was wrong. She still thinks she’s right, doesn’t she!” “She’s still fighting me! Fine, we’ll see how long she can hold out!” Mom’s shrill voice pierced the howling wind and burrowed into my ears. I offered a weak, desolate smile. It had always been this way. Why did I keep clinging to the vain hope that it would change? The sharp, mean-spirited insults continued from inside the house. Every word was a needle dipped in ice, pricking my heart over and over, making my whole body tremble. “What a wretched child! A dead weight! She’ll do anything sleazy just to avoid studying!” “That time she missed her period for three months—she tried to lie and say it was stress!” “Stress? She’s a teenager with a roof over her head and food on the table! What stress could she possibly have?” “She was fooling around with some boy, got knocked up, and had her head turned! No wonder she couldn’t focus on her books!” “Lydia! The doctor said she wasn’t pregnant!” Dad’s voice rose in protest. “Not pregnant? She was throwing up and missed three months! How is that possible?” “And I found birth control pills hidden in her nightstand!” “She probably didn’t want me to know, so she sneaked out, bought the pills, and took care of it herself!” Those words were like a rusted key, violently twisting the lock on a deep-seated, forbidden memory. The crushing fear and humiliation from that time surged up, an icy tide threatening to drown me. It was after the first round of exams in my junior year. My rank had only dropped five places. I had barely handed the report card to Mom before her open palm cracked across my face. She dragged me by the arm and forced me down onto the cold, unforgiving tile of the living room floor, making me kneel. Hands on her hips, she paced in front of me, her eyes burning with a hatred that felt like it could strip the skin from my bones. “You’re a failure! You worthless piece of nothing! With this level of competence, why even bother with school?” “If you don’t get your rank back up next time, you’re done! You can roll out of here and get a job—screwing bolts in a factory or wiping tables! Be a nobody for the rest of your life!” “Other girls your age are already married! Who else is still coddling you with books?” “If I hadn’t made you study, you’d already be carrying one baby and pregnant with another!” “If you get this score again, forget school. Find a husband while you’re still young enough to catch a good one.” I lay on the floor, my knees aching on the hard tile, tears of shame mixing with the cold sweat, but I didn’t dare make a sound. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, engraving her words into my memory. I was terrified. Terrified of being thrown out, terrified of having nowhere to go, terrified of being forced to marry a stranger. I did remember a time, though. Back in middle school, when I won the top spot in the whole grade. Mom secretly bought me the fountain pen I wanted. She even left a note: Keep going, Willow. You are your mother’s hope. Another time, when I had a fever, she stayed up all night, wiping my face, holding me, and whispering, “Willow, get better soon.” But somewhere along the way, she stopped seeing me. All she saw were my scores. The gentleness vanished. I studied myself sick, just wanting to see her smile at me again, even once. But that smile never came back. From that moment on, I became a wind-up toy, sleeping only two hours a night. I was at my desk before dawn, reviewing notes. When my eyelids got too heavy, I splashed cold water on my face. Late at night, the only light in the house came from my bedroom. I worked problems until my fingers were stiff and my eyes burned, my nerves stretched taut, like a string about to snap. The constant stress finally broke my body. My period became irregular, then the flow dwindled, and then it stopped completely for three months. I hid it, terrified to tell her, but she found out anyway. She didn’t ask. She didn’t scream hysterically. She simply grabbed my wrist and dragged me out of the house toward the school. And that quiet, cold demeanor frightened me more than any rage. 3 I had no idea what she planned to do, I just stumbled along, her grip like iron on my arm. As soon as we reached the school, she turned and glowered at me. “Today, we’re going to find that boy who led you astray! The whole school is going to see what you’ve done!” The main entrance was full of students. Their eyes felt like needles piercing my skin. I hung my head, my arm feeling dislocated, the tears clogging my throat as I pleaded over and over. “Mom, I didn’t. It’s stress, it’s really just stress…” She wouldn’t listen. She kicked open the door to the main academic building, pulling me down the hallway, yelling at anyone in sight. “Listen up, everyone! She’s three months from her final exams! I work myself ragged to pay for her education, and she’s out here sleeping around and ruining her future!” “The boy who did this to her—show yourself! If my daughter doesn’t get into a good college, her life is over! Can you pay for that?!” I bit down hard on my lip, my nails digging into my palm, my face burning with shame. Ms. Harrison, my class advisor, rushed over when she heard the commotion, quickly trying to pull my mother away. “Lydia, please calm down. Willow is still a minor. Let’s discuss this quietly.” “Quietly?” Mom violently shook off the teacher’s hand, then raised her own and slapped me again, the impact leaving my ears ringing. “Don’t you know that education is your only way out?! You do this now, and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life!” “You don’t understand the sacrifices I’ve made! You don’t know what I’ve given up so you can have a decent future!” I clutched my face, the tears finally bursting free. I choked out the words, screaming at her. “I didn’t do anything! Why do you never, ever believe a single word I say!” Ms. Harrison could no longer stand by. She pulled me behind her and spoke to my mother with a grave authority. “Lydia, making a scene like this is damaging Willow too much.” “I’m taking Willow to the doctor right now. When the results come back, we’ll know the truth.” Mom jutted out her chin, refusing to back down, but couldn’t withstand the teacher’s insistence. She only glared at me with pure venom. “Fine, let’s go! I want to see how long you can keep up this little performance!” At the clinic, the doctor finished the checkup and looked at my mother with a weary expression. “Ma’am, your daughter is not pregnant. She has severe hormonal imbalance due to chronic stress. She just needs rest and adjustment.” “Adjustment?” Mom sneered, pointing her finger at my face. “Not pregnant doesn’t mean she hasn’t done filthy things! She was probably fooling around with some boy, which messed up her body and her grades!” “I saw the birth control pills in her drawer! If she’s not doing anything ‘filthy,’ why would she have those dirty things?” Ms. Harrison’s usual calm finally broke. She frowned and spoke with cold authority. “Lydia, the birth control pills were my advice.” “They can be used to delay a period. I told the girls who are under severe pressure to have them on hand and speak to a doctor about managing their cycle for high-stakes exams.” Mom was momentarily stunned, but immediately pivoted, pointing a finger at me again. “Then who wrote you that love letter?! That boy in front of you? Why are you so shameless?” I froze, the blood in my veins turning to ice. The years of pent-up humiliation and anger finally exploded. I stared at her, my voice trembling but stubborn. “Even if someone else wrote me a love letter, you would still find a way to make it my fault!” “I haven’t done anything wrong! Not a single thing!” It was the first time I had ever truly fought back. Mom was first shocked, then her face went crimson with rage. She raised her hand to strike me again. “Oh, you dare talk back now! That boy has turned your head completely!” “You little tramp! You’re just a slut in the making! You should quit school and go sell yourself instead!” “Lydia!” Ms. Harrison stepped in front of me, her body shielding mine. “Willow’s grades are excellent! If she maintains this, she has a real shot at a top university!” Mom’s furious expression froze. She abruptly changed tack, moving as if to touch my head, but I flinched away. She didn’t get angry, a rare response. Instead, she offered a brittle, forced smile. “Well, in that case, why aren’t you hurrying back to class with your teacher?” “Your teacher says you’re doing so well. You must study hard. You are our last hope, Willow.” Ms. Harrison looked at Mom, said nothing, and simply took my hand, leading me back toward the school. But walking back, a new wave of terror washed over me. I couldn’t face the other students. I was afraid of their pity, their mockery, their staring eyes…

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Three years into my relationship with Rhys Davenport, the Crown Prince of the East Coast Elite, we were finally supposed to get engaged. But at the engagement party, he was nowhere to be found, leaving me to face the humiliating crowd alone. His friends offered dry platitudes about the endurance required of an elite wife. They were mistaken. I took every penny Rhys had given me over those years and vanished completely from the City. The truth is, I knew the end of my story with him the moment it began. I was worrying about my next meal when I happened to overhear a girl sweetly clinging to his arm. “Big Bro, our student council president has a huge crush on Sutton. Go sweep Sutton off her feet so I have a chance with him!” Rhys just smirked. “If you insist, then I suppose I must obey.” Between the two of us, there was never a single shred of genuine emotion, not from the start. 1 The starting time on the invitation had come and gone an hour ago, but Rhys still hadn’t shown. Catching the pitying, slightly mocking stares of the guests, I sighed, a gesture of mild regret, and slowly began to unclip the expensive high-jewelry necklace from my throat. His friend, Grant, was leaning against the doorway, his voice thick with its usual condescension. “Sutton, what’s the rush? Rhys got held up. You want to be a Davenport woman, you need a little more patience than this.” I ignored him, turning to the mirror to unhurriedly take off my diamond earrings. Another girl scooted closer, feigning concern. “Sutton, don’t be sad. Rhys wouldn’t do this on purpose. He’s probably just held up by something more important.” She bit down hard on those two words, her pretty face momentarily twisting with the emphasis. Watching her in the mirror, I suddenly smiled. “Sad?” I repeated the word, placing the earrings gently on the velvet tray where they made a faint, delicate clink. “Why would I be sad?” The dressing room fell silent for a moment. I turned around, my gaze calmly sweeping over each of them. “I wasn’t waiting this hour because I expected him to show up.” Grant frowned, demanding to know what I was trying to do. I stood up and began to pull down the invisible side zipper of the couture gown. “I’m changing clothes. Can’t you tell?” My tone was as casual as commenting on the weather. “Sutton! Don’t push your luck!” Someone nearby started loudly talking. “Rhys has spoiled you rotten! Are you seriously trying to use a runaway-bride stunt to blackmail him? You walk out that door today, and tomorrow you’ll be nothing!” The zipper reached its end, and the expensive fabric slid to the floor, revealing the simple white T-shirt and jeans I’d already put on underneath. I bent down into the silk heap and retrieved the old canvas backpack—a bag that looked utterly out of place in this gilded room—and slung it over my shoulder. Then, I looked at everyone in the room and answered their question very seriously: “I was never ‘anything’ to begin with.” “So, I’m not afraid to lose anything now.” Without another word, I didn’t wait to see the mixture of surprise and offense on their faces. I walked straight to the side exit. Rhys was the ultimate prince of this elite circle, the undisputed leader of these high-society kids. They had always looked down on me because my family was utterly insignificant compared to theirs. They couldn’t understand why Rhys was with me, and they always spoke to me with a barbed edge. Even on the verge of becoming his wife, their tone remained one of barely concealed derision. Rhys was the one who fled the engagement, yet they were all ready to dump the entire disaster on my head. I should have argued with them, let out three years of pent-up bitterness. But I didn’t have the time. My flight out of the country was booked for today. I wasn’t surprised at all by Rhys’s non-appearance. A week ago, the high-jewelry set he’d ordered for me had just been delivered. I was about to call him when I heard his sister, Cassidy, screaming hysterically in his study. “You’re really going to marry that low-class bitch, Sutton! You only got with her to help me hook up with Dean, didn’t you? You didn’t actually fall for her, did you?!” Rhys’s indifferent voice floated back, airy and dismissive: “How could I? I could never like someone so boring. Relax. I’m just setting the stage for you, little sister.” Cassidy’s mood changed instantly. She sounded delighted. “Are you going to dump her at the engagement party, Bro? I knew a charity case like her could never fool you.” A single wall separated us, but I could picture Rhys’s familiar, playful smile as he consoled his pouting sister. What a picture of sibling devotion. If the “charity case” being discussed—the one who was about to be publicly dumped at her own engagement party—hadn’t been me, maybe I would have admired the scene. 2 It was no secret that Rhys spoiled Cassidy. Early in our relationship, when he wanted to introduce me to his friends, he had a special evening gown made for me. It was a beautiful pale blue, and I loved it. When I stepped out of the fitting room, Rhys’s eyes lit up. “Sutton, blue looks incredible on you.” The spoiled young man, who usually had a three-minute attention span, spent the entire afternoon with me, helping me pick out accessories and waiting while I got my hair and makeup done. That evening, I was still nervous. The hand clutching his sleeve betrayed my anxiety. Rhys chuckled softly. “Don’t worry. Everyone’s friendly.” The atmosphere was good. His close friends and the girls from their circle were gathered, playing cards. They greeted us warmly. “Hey, Rhys! Hello, Little Lady!” Rhys arranged for a few of the girls to play poker with me, while he was pulled away by his brothers to play pool next door. No sooner had he left than Cassidy walked in. She looked me up and down, her expression clearly mocking and malicious. “Ugh, isn’t that the dress I asked the maid to throw out? You picked it up and wore it. You certainly know how to choose cast-offs.” I didn’t even get a chance to explain before Cassidy waved a hand to cut me off. “Ah, whatever. It’s too big on me anyway. Consider it recycling.” Hearing the commotion, Rhys quickly came out of the next room to intervene. “What are you bothering your sister-in-law for? You don’t even own a blue dress.” Seeing Rhys, Cassidy became instantly saccharine. “Oh, but I like it, Big Bro! I don’t care, you have to buy me ten of them!” Rhys laughed, indulging her. “Alright, alright, you always get your way.” Cassidy mumbled happily and settled into the seat next to him, contentedly enjoying the cake Rhys handed her. Everyone’s expression in the room became awkward. The girls who had been acting like my best friends minutes ago suddenly found the floor endlessly fascinating, completely isolating me. It was obvious to everyone that Cassidy was intentionally trying to humiliate me. Rhys saw it too, but he did nothing to help. Only after Cassidy left to go play with her friends did Rhys lean in to quietly apologize. “Cassidy’s got a weak constitution, she can’t get upset, so we always give in to her. I’m sorry I put you through that, babe.” From then on, Rhys kept Cassidy and me mostly separated. I knew why. But I didn’t care. Because every time I was slighted, the compensation—a random piece of jewelry or a gift—was worth a luxury condo. So, what was a little humiliation? A person can’t choose pride over money. 3 Because everyone knew Cassidy and I were at odds, they never thought I’d last long with Rhys. I never managed to fit into their circle, and when Rhys realized it, he didn’t say anything publicly, but he quietly funneled even more money into my accounts. That’s why our engagement surprised everyone. A week before the party, Cassidy insisted on throwing a bachelor/bachelorette bash. She chose an ultra-exclusive members’ club and invited the most notorious party girls in their circle—all stunning, flirty, and eager. I remained unfazed. Rhys, however, frowned and muttered in a voice only I could hear: “What is my sister playing at? If you don’t like this, we can make a brief appearance and leave.” He put an arm around my shoulder, guiding me toward the lounge, but Cassidy cut him off. “Sutton, you haven’t been to one of our parties in ages. I get why you’re uncomfortable.” She was dressed provocatively, handing a glass of champagne to both Rhys and me. “You know, in our world, this kind of socializing is normal. It’s a little different from a strictly transactional relationship.” I laughed softly, took the glass, and took a sip. I smoothed the fabric of my dress, my voice utterly calm as I spoke to the siblings. “It’s fine. Have fun, but don’t stay out too late. Cassidy, take good care of your brother for me.” Rhys looked momentarily stunned, clearly not expecting that reaction. Cassidy, missing her brother’s pause, smiled triumphantly and hooked her arm through his. “See, Bro? Your fiancée gave you permission. What are you waiting for? Come on in!” “Some of the girls who used to have a massive crush on you are here. Last chance to be a bachelor!” My heart no longer reacted to Cassidy’s juvenile provocations. I simply gave Rhys a serene wave. To my surprise, he grabbed my arm, his expression darkening. “Sutton, what is this? Are you trying to push me toward other women?” Push you to other women? You were never mine to begin with. Amused, I looked up at him. “Well, if I asked you not to go, would you stay?” The lighting in the room was dim and suggestive, the music deafening. I watched Rhys quietly. Before he could answer, Cassidy’s voice rose, a little panicked. “Big Bro! You promised me!” Rhys instantly snapped out of his daze. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he reluctantly let go of my arm. “Sutton, wait for me to come back.” He didn’t finish the sentence before Cassidy forcefully dragged him into the room. The last few words were swallowed by the bass, as if they were never spoken. The moment Rhys entered, the women swarmed him—some pouring drinks, others leaning in to whisper, practically plastered to his side. Rhys looked distracted, his eyes constantly flicking toward the doorway, as if waiting for something. I stood in the hallway, took one last look through the crack in the door, and turned away. I didn’t look back. He’d never know how much I hoped he would fall apart that night. The more reckless he was, the more justifiable my departure would be. Rhys didn’t fall apart. He came home around 3 a.m., smelling of smoke and liquor. I was still awake, organizing paperwork for my upcoming study abroad program in the study. He came up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder. His warm breath, mixed with the scent of alcohol, tickled my ear. “Why are you still up? Waiting for me?” Perhaps it was the alcohol, but his voice was a little husky, laced with amusement. I didn’t turn around, continuing my work. “Yes. Did you have fun?” “It was fine. The noise gave me a headache.” He nuzzled my neck, his tone seeking praise. “I kept checking my phone. You didn’t send me a single text.” I honestly didn’t have the energy to placate him, but he was unusually clingy when drunk. He pulled back and looked into my eyes. “Are you jealous? I swear, I didn’t touch any of those girls. Didn’t even take their numbers.” I met his gaze for a long moment, sighed, and resignedly helped him into bed. 4 I first truly met Rhys next to a dumpster in the alley behind an off-campus bar. I was arguing with the bar owner, who was trying to stiff me on my wages. The air reeked of stale beer and trash. “You agreed to eighty an hour. I worked five hours. That’s four hundred dollars.” I tried to keep my voice steady, but my hand was shaking, and not just from the cold. The owner, cigarette dangling from his lip, squinted at me. “That imported glass you broke? That was two hundred. The other two hundred is a lesson fee. The real world isn’t a university, got it?” I was about to argue when a lazy, drawling voice cut in. “Oh? What kind of glass costs two hundred? Let me see.” Rhys appeared, leaning against the streetlight at the alley’s mouth. The light framed his perfect profile and tall, imposing figure. Two equally expensively dressed, amused-looking men stood behind him. The owner froze. He clearly recognized Rhys’s bespoke suit and his entourage, and his bravado deflated. “Mr. Davenport? What are you doing in a place like this? It’s just this little worker, she doesn’t understand…” “Cut the crap.” Rhys walked past the owner without a glance, coming straight up to me. He took off his cashmere overcoat and, without a word, draped it over my stained, worn jacket. The coat smelled clean, of expensive soap and subtle warmth, immediately blocking out the stench of the alley. He turned back to the owner, his tone quiet but carrying undeniable pressure. “The money.” The man, who minutes ago was a bully, immediately fumbled for his wallet. Rhys took the crumpled bills, didn’t look at them, and shoved them into my hand. Then he told the owner, “The cost of the glass. You can collect it from the front desk at Davenport Industries tomorrow.” The owner was nodding and bowing, barely daring to breathe. “Let’s go.” Rhys casually placed his hand on my shoulder, guiding me out. His friends whistled softly and walked ahead. Clutching the crumpled four hundred dollars and the coat still warm from his body, my heart, already hardened by the constant struggle of my life, accelerated uncontrollably in the frigid night air. He drove an expensive sports car, its interior so clean it looked untouched. He told me to get in, offering to take me back to campus. The heat was on high in the car. It was so quiet I could hear my own breathing. I sat with my head down, staring at the creased four hundred dollars. “That kind of place isn’t for you.” He spoke, his voice deep and pleasant in the confined space. “I need the money.” It was the simple truth. I was desperately poor. He glanced at me, said nothing. A moment later, while waiting at a red light, he asked abruptly. “What’s your major?” “Finance.” “Coincidence. My company is looking for interns. The hourly wage is much higher than what you were making, and it’s safe.” His tone was casual, as if discussing the weather. “Start tomorrow?” I knew this was sudden, that something was wrong. There’s no such thing as a free lunch. Combined with the conversation I’d accidentally overheard between him and Cassidy days earlier, the answer was obvious. This was a calculated meeting, the opening move in a hunt designed to pave the way for his sister. Every rational part of me screamed to walk away. But I turned my head, looking at his long fingers gripping the steering wheel, the surprisingly low-key but incredibly expensive watch on his wrist, and his handsome, almost aggressively perfect profile. He could effortlessly solve the problems I agonized over. He could offer a wage I couldn’t refuse. He could pull me out of that chaotic, disgusting alley. With him, I wouldn’t have to worry about my next meal or next semester’s tuition. The car stopped on a quiet street near campus. He didn’t rush me out, just rolled down the window, letting the night air rush in. “Why did you help me?” I heard myself ask, my voice dry. He smiled, his finger tapping lightly on the steering wheel. The streetlights played across his eyes, flickering. “I find you… interesting.” He paused, then added,

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The day I finally cut ties with Asher Vaughn, I changed my number, my email, and my life. For years, he would send a lavish holiday package—Christmas, my birthday—but he never otherwise attempted to contact me. That stopped at a company dinner a few nights ago. His call went straight to my boss’s cell phone. Mr. Davies answered, his face a careful mask of deference and terror, then stared at me, dumbfounded. “Mr. Vaughn says his daughter is sick. He wants you there.” The entire table went silent. 1 My co-workers, with their honed instincts, had already spotted our CEO heading toward our table and lifted their glasses in salute. I was prepared to do the same, ready with a professional toast. I hadn’t prepared for the words that came out of his mouth. Around me, my colleagues exchanged glances. “Sienna, when did you get married?” “And you have a kid? I don’t remember you taking any maternity leave.” Asher Vaughn and I were not, and never had been, the marrying kind. I ignored them, rising from my chair. “Mr. Davies, did he say which hospital?” He waved me back down. “No rush, Sienna. Eat first. I’ll arrange a car; I’m taking you myself in a minute.” He signaled his assistant, Riley, and left the room in a hurry. A co-worker leaned in. “He’s right, eat something. Rushing won’t help now.” “What does your husband do? The boss is treating this like a matter of national security.” “Seriously, why wouldn’t he just text you? Why the whole detour?” I offered a dismissive answer. “I’m single now.” A collective, quiet hmm went around the table. They leaned back and nodded, a knowing glint in their eyes. “Well, that explains it.” “Young people have too much pride. Wait till you’re my age. You’ll realize you can’t block an ex-husband. When you need him, one text, and he’ll still show up for you.” “You had a kid, and I bet he’s loaded. Why’d you break up?” I said nothing. Riley tapped my shoulder. “Car’s here. Mr. Davies is waiting.” 2 I got into the passenger seat and glanced at the backseat in the rearview mirror. “You can just drop me at the subway station.” “Nonsense. A child is sick; I’m coming to check on her. Gotta send my regards.” He chuckled, making an attempt at a joke. “We have hidden powerhouses in this company. Getting married so young, was it an arranged family thing?” Arranged. The word was laughable. The first time I met Asher Vaughn, I had just graduated college. I was twenty-two, had been jobless for two months, and was eating an eight-dollar container of greasy takeout on a freeway overpass late at night. I was staying in a thirty-dollar-a-night hostel, and my entire life fit into a single twenty-four-inch suitcase and a backpack. My parents had called me, asking about my interviews. They told me not to be so picky. Work hard, they said. Maybe offer to clean up the office before the interview—the manager might see I was a serious, humble girl and hire me on the spot. I slowly refuted every suggestion. Finally, they relented, suggesting I just come home and start a business. What business? Where would the money come from? If all else failed, they said, I could open a breakfast diner. We could borrow a bit of money from a friend. Having some work, even if it lost money, was better than lying around. If you lie around too long, you lose your drive. Besides, I was a college graduate now. It was time I sent some money home. I hadn’t been lying around. I had spent the last of my savings hopping between hostels in different boroughs. I worked weekend gigs for a few hundred bucks to cover food for the coming week. On weekdays, I submitted resumes and went on interviews. Every HR person told me I lacked standout experience. The only place that seemed interested, an electronics factory, said, You’re a college grad, you’ll find a good job eventually. You won’t stay here long. When I posted my frustrations online, I got DMs suggesting I try working in clubs. I hung up on my parents. The food in my mouth turned to dust. I thought, I’ll just finish this and jump. The street below was sparsely populated with cars. A sleek, black Range Rover with tinted windows drove by several times. It finally killed its engine and parked right below me. I wiped my face, took a deep breath, and walked over to the car, tapping on the window. “Is your car broken?” “You can’t park here.” “There are cameras up there, and traffic patrols. You’ll get a thousand-dollar ticket for five minutes.” The window rolled down slowly. A hand holding a cigarette emerged. Asher Vaughn looked up at me and suddenly smiled. “Let them ticket me. It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to see how long you were going to stand on this overpass.” I froze. My eyes welled up instantly. The first tear broke free, and the emotion that followed was like a dam breaking. I turned my back, still holding the unfinished box of food, and went back to the railing, trying to keep eating. The car door opened and closed behind me. Leather soles tapped lightly on the pavement, stopping a few feet away. The smoke drifted to me. He didn’t say anything. I sniffled, turned, and held out my hand. “Can I have one?” He raised an eyebrow, the cigarette dangling from his lips. “It’s the middle of the night, and a man is following you. Shouldn’t you be running? You’re asking for a smoke?” “This place has more cameras than your driving test center! Besides, if you were a creep, would I outrun your car?” He coughed, choking on the smoke a little. He pulled out a metallic case and offered a cigarette. I leaned in to borrow his lighter. I didn’t tell him the rest of the thought: I wasn’t planning on living anyway. Whether a predator was following me didn’t matter. With a little luck, I could trade my life for his. The thin cigarette had a subtle scent of sandalwood. He stood three feet away, hands in his pockets. “What happened? Tell me about it.” “Work,” I said. “If I can’t find a job soon, I’m going back home to start that breakfast diner.” He seemed genuinely surprised. “You can’t find work in New York?” I cast him a sideways glance. Our eyes met, and his shock didn’t seem fake. I took a deep drag and gestured wildly. “Do you know how impossible it is out there?” “I applied for a video game writer position, talked for an hour, and they told me they mixed up the forms—they needed a graphic designer.” “I applied for an Operations role. I got there, and they asked if I wanted a Sales job instead. A complete waste of a trip.” “One time, I took the subway for two and a half hours for an interview, and it was a tiny startup. They were hiring for one position, but I had to be the HR, the admin, the accountant, and the boss’s assistant!” “I kept applying. Added one hiring manager on LinkedIn to discuss the role, and he sent me a voice note. The music in the bar was louder than his voice.” “The rest of the listings are for streamers or club hosts.” “I finally found a normal listing. I checked the time. The HR person was still active online at 3:00 a.m.” “I asked the HR person if the company offered vacation time. He said, ‘We haven’t removed vacation time yet.’” “I asked, ‘What’s the core strength of your company?’ He said, ‘The strength is that employees leave after a few days.’” I cursed and laughed at the same time. God, my life is a joke. He narrowed his eyes slightly, politely pursing his lips. I leaned on the railing, looking at him. “You look like you’re in government or something respectable. You wouldn’t understand how hard it is.” “I understand more than you think,” he scoffed lightly. “I once worked on a development project. I wore this jacket, and I was with a reporter. A villager said I was only there for the photo-op, and that the jacket I was wearing cost more than his annual income. Nothing I said helped.” I glanced at the brand logo on his sleeve. I wiped my eyes and looked closer. “Here’s my advice,” I said. “Next time someone says that, first, reassure him. Tell him it’s perfectly normal not to recognize a high-end technical brand. Tell him not to feel insecure.” “Then, clarify. Tell him the jacket is actually much more expensive than he thinks—it’s worth eight years of his income, maybe more.” “And finally, tell him you’re not there for a photo-op. You’re there to make serious money.” He stared at me, then finally burst into laughter. The takeout container was empty, down to the last few grains of rice. I picked them up one by one, looking at the dark water below the overpass. The wind dried my tears. I didn’t feel like jumping anymore. I felt foolish for being so dramatic. How could I let something so small push me to the edge? I took a deep breath and turned to him. “Thank you. I’m going home now. Goodbye.” “Wait.” He stopped me, pulling a business card from his wallet. He got back in his car to grab a sleek fountain pen, then scrawled a few words on the back. “The junior partner at this firm is a college friend of mine. If they have a suitable opening, tell them I referred you for an interview. Tell him to do me a favor.” Aura Tech. The front of the card held a simple name, contact information, and an office address: Asher Vaughn. I wondered if he was just trying to hook up with me. But after spending the night tossing and turning in my rented room, I went to the company. 3 I got the job. Two months passed, and I never saw Asher Vaughn again. I started to relax. The job wasn’t a dream, but it was surprisingly good. The workload was split between me and a woman who was out on maternity leave. What used to be one person’s job was now two, which made life easy for everyone. One evening, after work, I saw the black Range Rover again. Asher was parked on the side of the street. He didn’t get out but asked about my life. I gave him a stammering update. I finally found the courage to ask for his phone number. “I’ve been wanting to thank you. Sending money or an expensive gift is too much for me, and too little for you. My family sends me some specialty goods from home. If you don’t mind, I’d like to send you some.” “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “My number is on the card. Call me if you need anything.” I insisted, got his address, and mailed him a package of goods from my hometown. Asher texted me a simple thanks, saying his mother enjoyed them very much. He traveled constantly between the coasts. When he was free, he would often come by and meet me for coffee. Mutual attraction was inevitable. A year into the relationship, I found out I was pregnant. The baby was completely unplanned. By the time I checked, I was already seven weeks along. I often heard HR complaining about female employees who got hired and immediately took a marriage or maternity leave. When I was hired, I promised I wouldn’t have a child for at least five years. If I didn’t terminate the pregnancy, my career would be on hold for at least a year. Was twenty-four too young to get married? But this was our first child. I already loved it. I wanted to have a real home with Asher. What about my job? I sat in my room for half an hour, holding the sonogram report. I decided to wait for Asher to get back from his trip. We would talk it through: marriage and the baby, or a quick termination. A few days later, his flight landed. The moment he walked in, he dropped his jacket, scooped me up, and held me high. His eyes were wide and beaming. He looked incredibly happy. I understood instantly. “You already know?” “Of course I keep an eye on your medical records.” He knelt, his hands gently holding my hips, his gaze fixed on my flat stomach. “You can’t even tell yet.” The anxiety that had been swirling inside me suddenly found solid ground, leaving me feeling soft and weightless. Asher wanted this baby. I stroked the back of his head, feeling incredibly happy. “Do you want to keep it?” He smiled. “Why wouldn’t I?” The scales tipped immediately. I hardly had to think. Even if my life of freedom and singleness was over, even if my career stalled, it didn’t matter. “When are we getting married?” I asked, blushing. “The wedding can wait, but we need to tell our parents first.” He was six years my senior. I hadn’t even told my parents I was dating an older man. Asher’s smile didn’t falter, but his tone was easy, almost playful. “Our Sienna is so young, and she’s already thinking of settling down?” I bristled, a mix of shame and anger. “What do you mean, I am? If I weren’t pregnant, I wouldn’t be pushing for marriage so soon!” He stood up, ruffling my hair. “That’s right.” Silence stretched for several seconds. I slowly processed his words and looked up. “What does that mean?” He pulled out a cigarette, preparing to light it, then pinched the tip and put it away. He walked to the window and lit a fresh one, taking his time. “Sienna,” he said, his expression calm and gentle. “I can give you everything you want, except for marriage.” “Oh. So…” I was so angry, I almost laughed, but my throat closed up instantly. “So you want me to be your mistress, have a child out of wedlock, and then have other kids call her a bastard with no father, say her mother is a…” He cut me off. “You are not a mistress. The child will be under my name. I will provide a life of absolute luxury. No one will ever dare to speak ill of her.” I stared blankly at his profile, seeing the cold finality in his decision. There was no room for discussion. “I understand,” I finally said. “You never intended to have a real life with me.” “And you should have had the decency to break up with me properly! My parents raised me to be a respectable woman. How dare you insult me like this?” “Break up… Can we even use that word?” I mechanically wiped my face. “We’re done. I’ll move out in a few days. And I’m getting an abortion.” “Sienna!” He violently crushed the cigarette butt on the windowsill. His sandalwood-scented hand cupped my cheek. “Were you happy with me?” I just stared, silent. The moisture of my tears was absorbed by his thumb. His voice was steady. “I am relaxed when you are with me. I don’t need a piece of paper. I will be responsible for you, in every way—as long as I’m standing.” “And what makes you think you can talk like that?” I slapped his hand away and turned my back. Knock, knock, knock. A pause, then another patient, repeated knocking. I dabbed my face with a tissue and opened the door. Four men in suits stood outside, holding numerous shopping bags. Pink baby outfits, tiny socks, and designer diaper bags. I leaned weakly against the wall, staring at the extravagant baby things. I finally understood. I had just gotten the blood test results, but he already had the baby’s gender information. His family background was far more powerful than I had imagined. Asher Vaughn had the power to make that promise. “Think about it one more time.” He walked up to me and paused, raising a hand. I turned my head away just as his fingertips brushed my ear. “Keeping this child will only benefit you.” “Right. Become a wealthy mother, a one-way ticket to prosperity! Asher, are you treating this like a business deal?” The man in front of me let out a soft sigh. His face was still calm, but I could tell his patience was wearing thin. “You haven’t been. If you were, I wouldn’t have kept you around. I wasn’t looking for a transaction. But if you insist on seeing it that way, fine. You name your price. I’ll write a blank check.” That day felt like the world had turned upside down. I agreed to keep the baby. Our relationship returned to a semblance of its former sweetness. The pregnancy was smooth. Every night, as he gently held me, I kept thinking: My first love became my sugar daddy. Maybe my morals weren’t so high after all. … Security guided the car into the underground garage. The hospital was quiet; nurses wheeled elderly patients through the courtyard. I scrolled through my phone impatiently, looking toward the main entrance. I wondered how Asher was managing to raise a child. A little girl shouldn’t have to be in the hospital. Maybe I should have just raised her myself. Mr. Davies retrieved a gift box from the trunk and motioned for me to follow. We were directed to the VIP ward. Two men were standing in the hallway outside the room, chatting easily. “Kids get sick all the time. Why the big fuss? Everyone from the family estate is here.” “You can say that to my older brother’s face.” “Ha. How many heads do I have to lose? One wrong word, and before Asher moves, the grandmother and the wife will slap me silly.” “You forgot my fist. Holly is my niece. I don’t tolerate anyone speaking ill of her.” The man’s soft laugh was oddly reminiscent of Asher. I focused on the viewing window of the hospital room. I could vaguely see a small hand resting on the edge of the bed. As I approached, a bodyguard standing by the door silently blocked my path. The men nearby turned at the sound, frowning slightly. Mr. Davies stepped forward before I could. He held out his hand. “Declan. You’re here too? How is the little one?” Declan. So, this was Asher’s younger brother. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Davies.” Declan Vaughn’s lips were tight. He didn’t return the handshake. “My niece has a fever and doesn’t want to see anyone. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you both to go home.” I was about to speak, but my eyes met those of the child on the bed. Her lethargic eyes suddenly opened, and her lips moved. The soundproofing was too good; I couldn’t hear a word. Declan put his arm out, pushing me back slightly, looking annoyed. “Ma’am, is there anything else? Please don’t disturb her rest.” The door opened from inside. Asher Vaughn’s gaze fell on me, lingered for a few seconds, then shifted to Declan. “I asked her to come.”

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The lights were blinding. On stage, my six-year-old son, Asher, clutched his Best Child Actor statuette, thanking everyone. “First, I have to thank my dad. Without all his hard work and the great life he gives me, I definitely wouldn’t be here today.” “And next, I have to thank my dearest, dearest Sera-Mom. She doesn’t just teach me how to act, she takes care of me like a real mother.” “When I get sick, she goes with me to get shots, she gives me my medicine. On-screen and off, she’s the best mom I could ever have!” A reporter’s voice cut through the applause, sharp and playfully mocking. “So, you don’t have any thanks for your biological mom, then?” Asher Easton, the child I carried for ten agonizing months and nearly died giving birth to, just scoffed. He stared into the camera with utter disdain. “She’s just a housewife. What does she do besides waste Dad’s money?” “What right does she have to be compared to Sera-Mom, who is already an Oscar-winning actress?” “Plus, she always smells like gross cooking grease. Not like Sera-Mom, who smells fresh and expensive. Really, really good.” I was scrolling through the social media clip when I immediately called Rhys Easton. He was at a post-ceremony gala with Asher and Seraphina Lowe. He didn’t try to soften the blow—he just laughed, cold and dismissive, when he heard my complaint. “Did Asher say anything that wasn’t true, Eliza?” “An aimless housewife, perpetually smelling of the kitchen.” “Do you think Asher is the only one who doesn’t want to come home anymore?” I hung up, stunned, and stared at the impeccably clean house, the prepared dinner cooling on the counter. I realized, in that stark, quiet moment, that for years I had only existed as Mrs. Easton or Asher’s Mother. I had completely forgotten that I was, simply, Eliza Stone. My own person. 1 The front door rattled just after midnight. It was the familiar, heavy pounding I was used to, but this time, I didn’t rush to open it. I sat quietly on the sofa, slowly closing the photo album I’d just unearthed. Thirty seconds later, a key scraped in the lock, and a cloud of heavy liquor rushed into the room. I started to rise, intending to help Rhys, but stopped short. Standing in the doorway, supporting him, was Seraphina Lowe, still in her backless, strapless designer gown. Guarding her side like a tiny sentinel was Asher. Seraphina gently eased Rhys onto the sofa, pulling a lace handkerchief from her clutch to dab the sweat from his brow. She didn’t spare me a glance, issuing a casual order into the room. “Eliza, can you get Rhys some warm water? Add just a little honey. Don’t use too much—he doesn’t like it overly sweet these days.” I stayed rooted to the spot, my gaze locked on her hand, which Rhys was holding—so tightly, yet so tenderly. He held her as if he wanted to dissolve her into his very bone marrow, yet was terrified of causing her any discomfort. The next second, Asher’s small body slammed into mine, shoving me aside. His voice, still bearing the high pitch of a child, was laced with entitlement and open fury. “Are you deaf? Go get Dad his honey water, now!” “Sera-Mom works so hard taking care of Dad outside the house, and all you do is hide in here being lazy! You didn’t even open the door, and now you won’t get the water. What good are you, honestly?” His strength was negligible, but the surprise of the push threw me off balance. My abdomen slammed into the sharp corner of the coffee table. The pain took my breath away. It was a cruel twist of fate that the spot where I hit was the angry, jagged scar left by the emergency C-section, the result of a near-fatal hemorrhage when I gave birth to him. Biting back a gasp, I straightened up. Seraphina, already impatient with my delay, had poured the honey water herself and was delicately feeding it to Rhys, who sipped obediently. Asher stood guard beside them. My eyes finally landed on the television screen, still on from the day’s coverage. It was looping a scene from their award-winning film. In the clip, they were staged just like this: the devoted, gentle wife and the understanding child caring for the exhausted father, a perfect, heartwarming family of three. I glanced down at the old family portrait peeking from the photo album—a stiff, formal picture taken when Asher was six months old. A single, desolate tear traced a path down my cheek. The coffee table was more than a piece of furniture; it was a chasm. On the other side, a picture of domestic bliss. On my side, only a solitary, isolated woman. My phone buzzed with texts from my friend, Jenna. “Liz, this French director has been following your early work for years. She’s seriously interested.” “This screen test is a huge opportunity, and she specifically asked me to reach out. You can’t miss it.” “I know you worry about the family, but Asher is old enough, and Rhys is right here. Seriously, are you even considering it?” I scrolled back through years of texts, realizing how many similar opportunities I had rejected—all for Rhys, and for this house. But this time, I couldn’t find a single reason left to say no. 2 I quietly retrieved the album and returned to my room, choosing not to “interrupt” them further. Passing the walk-in closet, I stopped. My reflection was a study in neglect: tired eyes, hair that needed attention, the dull uniform of a woman who had given up on herself. Then I glanced at the wall, where a stunning woman in a custom silk bridal gown smiled radiantly in a photograph. I hadn’t realized how much I had changed. The date stamped on the wedding photo read: June 2015. In the image, Rhys wasn’t looking at the camera; he was gazing at me—at the goofy face I was deliberately making—his mouth curved in a smile of pure, undisguised adoration. Ten years ago, I was at the peak of my career, the undisputed queen of the new generation of Hollywood darlings. And he was utterly infatuated with me. For me, he’d fought his family, his friends, even risked being cut off from the Easton fortune. But whenever we were together, he’d smile like that—tender, wild, and utterly consumed. My career was on fire, but growing up, I’d been an orphan, and my early life in the industry was mostly exploitation. I had never experienced such a deep, visceral love. Falling for him was inevitable. The story was textbook: the starlet and the wealthy heir overcame all obstacles. Things only seemed to improve after Asher was born; even Rhys’s cold, judgmental parents softened toward me. Everything was moving toward a perfect future. Except for my marriage to Rhys. 3 I sat up until the early hours. Rhys never came into our room. When I finally crept out, the living room was empty. But the light was still on in the guest suite. And Seraphina’s small, jeweled heels were neatly placed outside the door. I drew a long, shaky breath, a familiar, pinprick pain spreading across my chest. The bottle of anti-ulcer medication, which Rhys needed nightly for his stress-related stomach issues, crinkled in my hand. I was about to turn back, pretend nothing happened, and seek the refuge of the master bedroom, when the guest suite door suddenly opened. Seraphina, wearing my silk slip nightgown and with her hair still damp, walked out to get a glass of water. Seeing me standing awkwardly in the living room, a thin, knowing smile touched her lips. “Oh, still awake, Liz? You know, women who don’t get enough sleep age faster. Kind of… like you look now.” “You don’t have to worry. I’ve settled Rhys down. I mean, I was the one who traveled with him and took care of him on location for years, right? I’m much more experienced at handling him than you are.” “But then again, I’m not like you. I didn’t give up my career to marry into money. And now… well, now you’re paying the price.” She dismissed me with a cool sweep of her eyes, her gaze filled with undisguised contempt. I simply watched her. My voice was steady and flat. “Even so, I at least have the title.” “What do you have, Sera?” Seraphina’s smile instantly froze. I didn’t want the useless sparring. I just wanted to go to bed. But as I turned, I saw them: Rhys and Asher, one large, one small, wearing the matching designer loungewear I had bought them, standing stone-faced in the guest suite doorway. Asher immediately ran to Seraphina’s side, wrapping his small arms around her protectively. He glared at me, his voice a low, furious snarl. “Stop bullying Sera-Mom, you mean woman!” My heart, already numb from pain, fractured completely under the weight of Rhys’s look of raw distaste. “Eliza Stone, don’t think for a second that being Mrs. Easton gives you any leverage.” “Seraphina is ten years younger than you, and she’s already an international award winner. You? What have you done in the ten years since you married into this family? Besides becoming a slovenly, unkempt woman who smells like the kitchen, what have you accomplished?” “Besides flaunting your title, what can you actually boast about?” He seemed to be barely controlling his rage, pulling a visibly tearful Seraphina into his arms and shielding her. But when he looked at me, his gaze was pure, naked disgust. “I’m letting this go only because you are Asher’s biological mother.” “But if you ever bully Sera again, I swear, you’ll regret it.” His words pierced my eardrums. Asher, meanwhile, was clutching Seraphina’s hand, staring at me with repulsion. “If I could choose, I’d pick Sera-Mom to be my mother!” “Who would want you, you bad woman? You’re an embarrassment! You never should have walked through the front door of this house!” The pain of a thousand cuts left me dizzy. I looked at the father and son I had devoted a decade to, who now despised me. And I laughed. My palm opened. Rhys’s stomach medication and Asher’s emergency asthma inhaler both clattered onto the polished marble floor, the sound echoing harshly through the hall. I looked at the two of them. Just as they turned, preparing to escort Seraphina back into the guest suite, I spoke, my voice deceptively calm. “Rhys. Let’s get a divorce.” 4 The guest suite door closed. Rhys and Asher had completely ignored me, treating my calm, agonizing declaration as nothing more than air. I didn’t care. I went back to my room, pulled out my laptop, and emailed my lawyer about the divorce proceedings. The lawyer was apologetic and straightforward: even if I divorced, my share of the assets would be limited. Fighting for primary custody of Asher was a fantasy. I paused, my finger slipping as I scrolled down to Seraphina’s newly updated social media post. The photo showed her and Rhys tucked into a bed, gently watching a sleeping Asher. The caption read: “A warm family… is there anything better? When will I get a family of my own?” The comments section was flooded with fans. “Rhys and Sera together again! Are they co-starring, or are we seeing a real family? I’m obsessed!” “Sera is so gentle and sweet. I want a soft, wonderful mom like her.” “Little Asher is definitely having fun. Can I be Sera-Mom’s kid for a day?” “Obsessed with this scandalous-but-real-life pairing. Sera and Rhys are so much better together than Eliza Stone.” “The ultimate power couple!” I scrolled down. When the page refreshed, Rhys’s comment was pinned at the top. He wrote: “Am I chopped liver?” He even added a playful, dog-face emoji. Ten years of marriage, and this was the first time I had ever seen him use a cute emoji in a casual conversation. This was the man who once hated playfulness, who would coldly tell me to stop being “so childish” if I used an ellipsis or an exclamation mark in a text. Now, for another woman, he was breaking his own self-imposed rules again and again. I smiled faintly, wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes, and typed a single thought into my laptop: “I don’t want it anymore.” Him. The child. The money. I only wanted freedom. 5 The next morning, I woke up to an empty house. Only the messy, abandoned breakfast setting on the dining table proved that anyone had been home at all. I clenched my fists, noticing my silk nightgown—the one Seraphina had worn—tossed casually into the trash can. The pain was sharp, but I swallowed it down. With the draft of the divorce papers from the lawyer in my bag, I hailed a cab to the Easton family estate. Since marrying Rhys, I rarely visited the mansion. I knew his parents didn’t like me; they tolerated me only because of him. I arrived at a terrible time. Pushing open the heavy mahogany doors, I saw the main hall filled with high-profile guests, clinking glasses and mingling. Rhys, dressed in an immaculate suit, had his arm securely around a radiant Seraphina in a sweeping red gown. He was laughing, socializing with a director, and constantly shooting tender glances her way. My arrival brought the buzzing hall to a dead, sudden silence. Rhys’s face instantly darkened. Seraphina glanced disdainfully at my plain, orange cotton t-shirt and smiled a mocking, knowing smile. Asher started to open his mouth to demand I be removed, but Rhys’s gesture to the head butler was faster. The butler approached me with a patronizing tone. “Delivery person, right? You have the wrong address.” “We’re hosting a very important event. You need to leave, now, and not disturb our guests.” When I stood my ground, he lowered his voice and frowned in sharp reprimand. “Ma’am, please. Can’t you see the Master is busy? There’s a limit to how much you can disrupt things. Do you really think this is the place for someone like you?” A bitter, self-deprecating smile touched my lips. I kept my eyes fixed on Rhys, whose expression was pure thunder. After a long moment, I spoke softly. “I have a company document here. Mr. Easton needs to sign it.” The guests collectively breathed a sigh of relief and resumed their careless mingling. Rhys patted Seraphina’s shoulder, offering her an assuring smile. He then stalked over to me, ignoring the document I held, pulling out his own pen, and scribbling his signature with practiced ease. He glared at me, issuing a low-voiced threat. “Eliza Stone, take your drama home. This is not the place for your hysterics.” “There are major investors here interested in Sera. If you screw this up, I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your life.” Asher sidled up, his eyes wide and spiteful. “Go home, you filthy woman! You smell like cooking oil! This isn’t a place for a gross housekeeper who just cooks all day! Everyone else is beautiful and classy, and you’re old and ugly. Are you trying to embarrass Dad and me?” A single tear slipped from my eye. I looked at the son I had endured a twenty-four-hour labor to bring into the world. “But Asher,” I whispered, “I used to be like them.” “Before I married your father, I was a top actress. I wore dresses even more beautiful than hers.” “What exactly made me the ‘slob’ and the ‘housekeeper’ you despise? Do you two truly not know?” Rhys and Asher exchanged a quick look, a flicker of guilt passing between them. But Rhys was too seasoned for shame. He sneered, his sharp gaze falling on my wrinkled shirt like a scalpel. The disgust was palpable. “You made your choice, Eliza. You wanted the easy life, the money, the title. You can’t regret it now.” “Besides, did I ever deny you anything? You didn’t want to work—that’s on you. Now get out!” He took Asher’s hand and turned away. The grand hall doors slowly closed, a heavy finality, separating his world from mine. In my last glance, I saw him hold Seraphina’s hand like a prince. Through the small gap before the doors fully shut, I saw Seraphina give me a victorious, chilling smile. It didn’t matter anymore. I stared at the paper in my hand—the divorce agreement, signed in his own, careless handwriting. I thought: It’s time to go. 6 Back at the house, I found servants moving furniture and belongings. Seeing me, they looked away guiltily. Only the old butler, who had always treated me with a measure of respect, sighed apologetically. “Ma’am, the Master said he needs to prepare for his new role. He’s having Miss Lowe stay here for a while.” “He said… to make the feeling more authentic, they’ll be pretending to be a married couple. So he needs Miss Lowe in the master suite, and you’ll be in the guest room for a few days.” I nodded calmly and walked to the master bedroom to pack my things. When I was finished, I realized that all my possessions didn’t even fill a single suitcase. The wall where my wedding photo had been proudly displayed now held a massive, framed photo of Rhys and Seraphina from a movie—a staged wedding scene. His smile was still bright and joyous, but it was no longer for me. I laughed, a dry, bitter sound. I dragged the suitcase out of the cage that had held me for ten years. Before I left, I placed a second copy of the signed divorce agreement on the master bed pillow. On the way to the airport, my phone rang. Rhys. His tone was just as cold as ever. “Have the butler take you shopping later. You need an outfit for an important gala tomorrow.” “Because of your stunt today, there are already rumors flying about Sera. You need to publicly clarify that you two have a great relationship and that our living situation is just for the film.” “Sera’s career is at a critical juncture. She can’t have any scandal. Of course, I’ll transfer money to you as compensation after you’ve done your job.” I started to laugh, a loud, tearing sound that made the cab driver jump. “Rhys, have you forgotten why my career stopped in the first place?” “Why I was so quick to retire?” Rhys fell silent, and I answered for him. “Because right after we got married, you were in a terrible car accident, and your leg was shattered.” “I retired to take care of you.” “Five years of my life went into your recovery. In return, I was completely cut off from the world.” “You and Asher look down on me as a ‘slob’ and a ‘housewife,’ but who created this situation? Don’t you know?” “Eliza Stone!” Rhys spat my name. “What exactly do you want?” I didn’t speak. At that moment, the airport announcement echoed through the cab’s speakers. “Passengers for flight CA989 to Paris, your flight is now boarding…” Suddenly, the coldness in Rhys’s voice was replaced by a flicker of panic. “Eliza Stone, where are you going?” “Even if you don’t want me, are you abandoning your son too?” A gasp of raw, desolate laughter escaped me. “Haven’t you realized yet, Rhys, what it was you just signed?” “What are you talking about?!” he roared. I ended the call.

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