In the annual ranking of the Emerald Coast’s Most Useless Son and Most Exemplary Heir, my stepbrother, Owen, and I clung to our top spots. Predictably. The results had barely been published when the photos dropped: my fiancée and Owen, entangled and exposed, blazing across every social media feed. Against the backdrop of the penthouse’s floor-to-ceiling windows, Seraphina—the woman held up as the paragon of virtue, molded by the three thousand rules of the Sinclair Code—was pressed against my stepbrother, shifting into one shameful position after another. The entire Emerald Coast was waiting for my reaction. After all, the last man who dared to get too close to my fiancée was still recovering in the hospital. I spent the whole night smoking. Watching the thousands of images scroll by, one by one. Near dawn, Seraphina finally called, her voice strained with a clumsy explanation. “I had too much champagne last night, Linc. I… I mistook you for Owen.” “Please, go public and clear up the scandal immediately. Otherwise, Owen’s reputation will be ruined for good.” This was the ninth time she’d confused me with Owen. Listening to her threadbare excuse, I slowly ground the tip of my cigarette onto the part of the marriage contract that bore her name. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” It didn’t matter who was in the pictures. Seraphina didn’t matter anymore, either. She could mistake the man she was supposed to marry. I could certainly marry someone else. 1 “Hmph. That Sinclair girl is too much. Does she truly believe we’re desperate to marry only her?” After I hung up, Uncle Marcus—my mother’s brother—snorted, then had someone deliver a thick, leather-bound compendium. “Linc, this catalog contains every eligible daughter from the Gold Coast’s most established families. Pick anyone you want. Your uncle will handle the rest.” I stared at the volume for a long moment. It wasn’t until the ash from my cigarette burned my finger that I reached out, pulling a random entry from the stack. “This one.” Uncle Marcus took the book, glancing at the name, and a surprised noise escaped him. “Her?” After a pause, he asked again, his tone tentative. “Linc, are you certain you want Ember Blackwood?” I nodded, watching the sun rise over the coast. I didn’t notice the look of confusion or apprehension on my uncle’s face. Ever since my own mother was driven to her death by Elias Harrington’s mistress, I had stopped believing in the concept of love or trust. Seraphina, the one woman who had almost broken through my cynicism, had just slammed that reality back into my face. They were all the same. It truly didn’t matter who I married. After catching a few hours of sleep, I drove to my usual spot, a club called The Vault. I also blocked Seraphina’s number on every single platform. “No way. The great Sera Sinclair is completely unhinged. I’ve heard of mixing up a date, but sleeping with your fiancé’s stepbrother? She knows you despise Owen, right?” My best friend, Daniel, said, pouring me a Scotch. This was the ninth time Seraphina had confused me with Owen. The first was merely taking the wrong hand. The second, leaning on the wrong shoulder. Now, she couldn’t even repeat the position. Our glasses clinked. Expressionless, I unclipped the watch from my wrist and tossed it into the swirling crowd on the dance floor. Daniel’s eyes widened. “Isn’t that the custom watch the Sinclairs’ grandstanding bid for you at that charity auction?” I took a sip of my drink, indifferent. When Seraphina had first presented me with the watch, the whole spectacle had made the headlines. Everyone envied the man whose future wife would spend a fortune for him. But no one knew that I had practically begged her for it. The Sinclairs had found a priceless rare diamond in their family mine, which they crafted into a timepiece to mark our engagement. Yet, because Owen once mentioned in passing how much he liked it, Seraphina immediately gave it to him. I lost it. I caused a terrible scene. The next day, she made a public show of buying this replacement watch at auction, a grand gesture that was entirely transactional. It was a careless object she used to placate me, yet I wore it faithfully, never taking it off. Now, it was laughable. “Come on, dwelling on a woman is boring.” Daniel stopped me from pouring another drink and dragged me toward the floor. I loved music, and I loved a good drink. But the Sinclair family code was notoriously strict, and Seraphina was obsessively disciplined. As her fiancé, I was forced to be a suitable partner, giving up all my vices and hobbies. The thought sent a wave of resentment through me. I yanked at my collar, ripping open my tailored white shirt to expose my chest. A sudden cheer erupted from the dance floor. I was about to take my partner’s hand when a piercing scream cut through the music. Seraphina had stormed in, slapped the woman I was with to the ground, her usually beautiful eyes clouded with a chilling rage. “Lincoln Harrington!” Her cool, clear voice was laced with undisguised fury. I thought I was hallucinating. Seraphina would never set foot in a place like this. Just as I prepared to turn away, she delivered a sharp, stinging slap across my face, then grabbed the bottle of Scotch on the table and doused me in it. “You disgust me, Lincoln.” Seraphina grabbed my arm, dragging me out without explanation. It wasn’t until she had shoved me into the back seat of her Maybach and was fastidiously wiping her hand with a silk handkerchief that I finally snapped. The situation was utterly ridiculous. “I disgust you, Seraphina? And what? When you were in bed with Owen, changing positions, you didn’t feel disgusted?” “Lincoln Harrington!” Her face instantly hardened, and her hand flew up, ready to strike again. I caught her wrist, a final, pathetic sliver of hope flickering inside my chest. “Tell me. Are you this furious because I found another woman, or because…” Seraphina laughed, a cold, sharp sound, and snatched her hand back. “I asked you to clear up the scandal, and you ran off to a dive like this to wallow. Yes, that disgusts me! If we delay the clarification and something happens to Owen’s reputation, I swear, I will make you pay!” Her words were a bucket of ice water. My intoxication instantly vanished. She only showed true, raw emotion when it concerned Owen. After a few seconds of silent, hostile standoff, Seraphina turned away, reverting to her usual cool, aloof demeanor. “To the Harrington estate.” The car sped toward the Harrington ancestral home. It was only then that I remembered: it was Owen’s birthday. As I reached for the door handle, Seraphina abruptly seized my hand, lacing her fingers with mine. My eyes flicked to the dark corners of the driveway. Sure enough, I caught the lens flare of hidden paparazzi. She intended to use me to force a clarification. I was about to pull away when my phone screen lit up with a text from Uncle Marcus. She agreed. The wedding is set for three days from now. The same day as my scheduled wedding to Seraphina. Before Seraphina could see the message, I tightened my grip on her hand. A new, dark idea took shape in my mind. “Sera!” Owen spotted the Sinclair car and hurried over, excited. His smile froze the moment he saw me. Watching the shock spread across his face, I grabbed the back of Seraphina’s head before she could react, pulling her face down and kissing her. “You wanted a show, Sera? Let’s put on a performance.” Seraphina’s initial struggle instantly stopped. She allowed the kiss. From Owen’s and the paparazzi’s vantage point, we were engaged in a moment of passionate, all-consuming embrace. I lifted my gaze, locking eyes with Owen over Seraphina’s shoulder. He stood there, fists clenched, shaking with impotent fury, before spinning on his heel and retreating into the house. My interest gone, I followed him inside, leaving Seraphina standing alone, her expression a mix of complication and confusion. The kiss was staged. We’d been together for years, and this was our first staged kiss. I had no interest in Owen’s birthday, nor did I think he deserved my presence. I only agreed to Seraphina’s arrangement because the Harrington estate held the only thing that mattered to me. “Go and bring all of my mother’s things to her room.” I sat alone in the room my mother died in while a maid went to retrieve the items. In three days, I would be leaving the Emerald Coast. I didn’t care about the Harrington legacy. But I had to take my mother’s possessions. “Oh no, Mr. Harrington! The jadeite cuff your mother left for you is missing!” I rushed downstairs. The banquet hall was filled with the clinking of glasses. Owen was at the center of the crowd, radiating smug confidence, showing off a black jadeite cuff on his thumb. I pushed people aside, barely keeping my rage in check. “Take the cuff off.” Owen raised an eyebrow, a triumphant, sneering curve to his lips. “Brother, I’m thrilled you came to my birthday. But this cuff was a gift from Dad. If you like it, maybe I can loan it to you for a few days once I’m tired of it.” “Take. It. Off.” The volume of my demand instantly silenced the room. The crowd pressed in. My stepmother, Veronica, clicked over in her heels. “Linc, darling, it’s a party. Please, for your mother’s sake, don’t…” “What are you? A gutter-raised mistress who clawed her way in. You don’t get to invoke her name.” Veronica’s false smile instantly shattered. I had lost all patience. I grabbed Owen, intending to rip the cuff from his hand. “Lincoln Harrington!” Elias Harrington, alerted by the noise, stormed out of his study. Seeing me grappling with Owen, he roared, “What are you waiting for? Separate those boys!” I didn’t move. My fingers dug into Owen’s neck, my eyes blazing at him. I held the position until Elias made a move to intervene himself. With a powerful wrench, I yanked the cuff free. A scream tore from Owen’s throat. His thumb was instantly fractured, twisted at a grotesque angle. “Lincoln Harrington!” Elias’s eyes bulged. He lunged forward and delivered a vicious, open-handed slap across my face. My ears rang. I wiped the blood from my lip, holding up the cuff. “Did you forget this was my mother’s final memento? What, Elias? Did driving your first wife to her grave not satisfy you? Do you now need to beat her son to death for the sake of your mistress and her bastard?” “You!” Elias’s face was beet red with fury. He raised his hand for another strike, but a figure blocked me. Seraphina turned to face me, her expression so dark it seemed to drip with shadow. “Lincoln Harrington, apologize to Owen.” I laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “He’s not worth the breath.” Elias stepped forward, raging. “You are a disgrace! If you don’t apologize to your brother, I swear, you are no longer my son!” “Who cares!” I shoved Seraphina aside and walked out, not looking back. The door slammed shut, sealing off the screaming behind me. I pulled out my suitcase, carefully placing my mother’s retrieved items inside. Just as I prepared to leave, the door opened again. Owen, the toxic shadow, had followed me in. I stepped around him, cold. “Leave now if you value your life.” The next second, my wrist was grabbed. Owen smiled, a predatory gleam in his eyes, and half-dragged, half-shoved me onto the balcony. Simultaneously, the sound of fireworks erupted from the yard. The dazzling display illuminated the entire Emerald Coast Harbor. Owen’s lips curved into an expression of pure, poisoned malice. “Beautiful, isn’t it? You were looking for your mother’s belongings, right?” “Those fireworks? They were made with that dead old woman’s ashes. Do you like them?” My blood surged to my head. I stared blankly at the explosions in the sky. Owen looked immensely satisfied, as if he’d just scratched an unbearable itch. “Lincoln Harrington, I hear Sera still won’t let you touch her.” “You have no idea how incredible she was last night. We came at least seven times, and she still wanted more.” He lifted his chin, radiating arrogant triumph. “You’re useless. You don’t deserve her. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll call off the engagement yourself, or else…” I didn’t let him finish. I gripped his neck and slammed his body against the balcony railing. “Owen, you came up here to provoke me. I know you’re trying to set another trap, you weasel.” Owen’s face froze. I smiled, a genuine, terrifying smile. “Well, you succeeded.” “If you want to die, I’ll be happy to oblige.” “Lincoln! Stop!” Screams echoed from the lawn below. Expressionless, I raised my fist, putting all my strength into the blow, and sent him flying over the railing. “Owen!” Seraphina screamed, rushing to cradle the fallen body of my stepbrother. “Brother! I came to make peace, and you tried to murder me!” Owen coughed up a large amount of blood before his eyes rolled back, and he passed out. Seraphina snapped her head up, her gaze piercing me with a chilling, bone-deep coldness. I knew Owen’s disgusting, low-level tricks by heart. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out, unwilling to spend another second in that house. But before I reached the main gate, I was surrounded by a swarm of security guards. Just then, the family doctor yelled, “He’s lost too much blood! The hospital is too far! We need an immediate transfusion!” Seraphina’s voice was a whip-crack. “Bring Lincoln here now!” “Seraphina, don’t you dare!” I struggled as they forced me back to the scene. Seraphina’s voice was dangerously calm. She grabbed my arm, her grip so tight I felt my bones might crack. “Draw his blood.” The needle pierced my skin. Sweat beaded on my forehead. “You will regret this, Seraphina.” Her face remained impassive. “Lincoln Harrington, I always thought you were merely spoiled and rebellious, but you are arrogant enough to treat human life like dirt! How can I ever convince my family elders that a man like you can follow the Sinclair Code?” I gritted my teeth, a retort spilling out before I could stop it. “Who said I’m marrying you? You’re not my wife!” “What did you say?” Seraphina’s expression darkened. “It seems you still haven’t learned how to obey the rules.” She stepped back, then delivered a sharp kick to my knee with her heel, forcing me to collapse and kneel beside Owen’s unconscious body. She then ordered the guards to seize my head and smash it against the marble floor. “Apologize! Confess!” I bit down on my lip until it bled, refusing to speak a single word of submission. Seeing my resistance, Seraphina decided she was done negotiating. She had the guards bring in my carefully packed suitcase. One by one, she had them smash my mother’s precious mementos on the ground. “Stop it!” I looked up at Seraphina, my eyes bloodshot. “I’m… sorry!” Owen, on the bed, pushed himself up slightly, a triumphant smirk playing on his lips. “Sera, I feel a little dizzy.” At his call, the entire family rushed him to the hospital.

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The possessive paranoia from my online boyfriend was finally too much. I blocked him, deleted the chat, and tossed my phone onto the bed. Barely a minute passed before my bedroom door was pounded on. Asher Reed, my stepbrother—the guy who usually acted like I was part of the furniture, or worse, a stain—stood in the doorway, his face dark with a furious anxiety I’d never seen. His voice was raw, a desperate mess. “Tell me how to apologize to a girl.” “My girlfriend won’t answer my calls.” I blinked, taking a small step back. I glanced down at my phone on the bed. Wait a minute. Wasn’t that my online burner account? My brain flatlined. The clingy, whiny, controlling guy who called me ‘baby’ and sent me gifts—the one I’d just deleted in a fit of rage—was Asher? The ceiling was coming down. 1 The online lunatic I’d personally blocked a minute ago was standing right in front of me, radiating pure, murderous tension. “Talk,” Asher snapped, his tone laced with impatience. “Are you mute?” I swallowed hard. “Is this your… girlfriend?” Asher impatiently ran a hand through his perfectly styled dark hair. “Just started dating. I asked her who she was playing games with, and she blocked me. Just like that.” He glared at me. “You’re a girl. What does she want? What is that supposed to mean?” I edged back, trying to put more space between us. “Maybe… she felt like you were being too much of a psycho?” I offered gently. “Too much?” Asher let out a cold, humorless laugh. That face, the one that made every girl in our high school swoon, was twisted into a dark, menacing sneer. “I’m her boyfriend. I’m not allowed to ask a single question?” “Are all girls this high-maintenance now?” My mouth twitched. Who was it that sent dozens of texts morning, noon, and night? Who was it that frantically audio-called if I didn’t reply in five minutes? Who was it that had a meltdown because I had a male teammate in one of my casual mobile games? I didn’t dare say any of that. I had to play the idiot. “…Bro, are you… really into her?” Asher paused. A flicker of awkwardness crossed his face. Even his ears turned a suspicious, faint pink. But he quickly hardened his expression, glaring at me with malice. “None of your damn business.” “Sloan, don’t think that just because I’m asking for your help, you suddenly get to act like my sister.” He jabbed a finger in the air between us. “In this house, you’re still just an outsider.” Everyone knew Asher hated me. The day my mother and I moved in, he’d kicked my suitcase down the stairs. He’d pointed a finger right at my nose and yelled, “Take your trash and get out.” “I have one mother, and she’s dead.” “You and your gold-digger mom don’t deserve to set foot in a Reed house.” In the years since, he’d stopped the physical assaults, but the cold war never ended. And yet, here he was. Begging me for help with an online girl. “Then don’t ask me,” I took a deep breath, reaching for the door. “I’m an outsider. I have no right to manage your affairs.” A hand slammed flat against the door frame, stopping me. The veins on Asher’s hand stood out, blue and bulging. He stared at me, his teeth gritted. “Sloan, don’t push your luck.” “I’ve asked everyone I know. Nobody understands how to handle a girl who’s got a temper, a wild streak, and blocks you without a word…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. I almost laughed out loud. That was my burnout account, the one I used to vent and be as toxic as possible! And he actually liked that version of me? “I don’t know either.” I shoved the door again. “Go ask someone else.” Asher didn’t move. Suddenly, he pulled a credit card from his jeans pocket. “There’s five thousand on this.” Asher looked down at me, the arrogance returning to his eyes. “Get her to unblock me. The money’s yours.” “I know you need cash. Didn’t your pathetic biological father just track you down looking for support payments?” I snapped my head up. He investigated me? He knew about my gambling-addict dad hitting me up for money? “Take the cash, do the job.” Asher turned to leave, tossing one last icy sentence over his shoulder. “I want her to add me back tonight. If you fail, you can pack your bags and get out of this house.” 2 Five thousand dollars was a massive amount of money to me, but all I felt was a knot of sickness in my stomach. Asher was always like this. He liked to use money to humiliate people. He loved to control everything from his high perch. Just like he did online. Baby, I bought you this new skin. Baby, sending you two hundred. Go get something good to eat. Baby, you can’t talk to anyone else. It makes me jealous. It wasn’t love. It was just his unchecked control finding a safe, digital outlet. I went back to my room and locked the door. I pulled out my burner phone, logging into the account named “WildRose.” In the block list, there was Asher’s main account. The profile picture was jet black, the username a single, cold “A.” Simple. Aloof. Trying too hard. Who would ever guess that behind that account was a frantic mess who hammered on my door because of a block? I opened his profile. The personal motto: Only Rose. My hand shook, and the phone almost slipped. When did he change that? The disparity was sickening. I pulled his contact out of the block list. Almost instantly. The message bombardment began. Baby! You finally answered me! I’m sorry, I was wrong. I shouldn’t have asked who you were playing with, I shouldn’t have snapped at you. Don’t leave me. You’re all I have. Could these pathetic pleas really have been typed by Asher Reed? I took a deep breath, typing my reply: We aren’t a good fit. You’re too extreme. I can’t handle it. Silence for a few seconds. Then, “A is typing…” He typed for a long time. Finally, one message came through: I’ll change. Anything. Just don’t break up with me. I’ll change anything. Please. In my entire memory, Asher had never begged anyone for anything. Even when his father cut off his credit cards, forcing him to grovel to his stepmother, he’d simply stiffened his neck and starved for three days without a word. Now, he was pleading for an online stranger? Footsteps suddenly approached the door. Then, Asher’s voice, cold and hard as iron, cut through the wood. “Sloan. Dinner. Don’t keep Mom and Dad waiting.” I jumped, quickly shoving the burner phone deep into my pocket. I opened the door. Asher had changed clothes. A crisp white button-down, black slacks, his hair perfectly combed. The aloof prince, untouchable. He didn’t even glance at me, turning and heading downstairs. In the dining room, Mr. Reed and my mother were already seated. The atmosphere was tight. Asher pulled out his chair and sat down with practiced elegance. I silently sat across from him, head down, pushing rice around my plate. “Asher, how’s the preparation for the regional physics competition going?” Mr. Reed asked, breaking the silence. “It’s fine.” Asher was curt. “Good. You have to win the gold medal this time. Don’t embarrass your mother.” Asher’s hand, holding his chopsticks, froze. “Got it.” His voice instantly chilled by several degrees. My mom quickly tried to smooth things over. “Asher is always excellent, I’m sure he’ll do fine. It’s Sloan, on the other hand…” She glanced at me, hesitating. Asher suddenly scoffed. “A girl who scores thirty percent on a physics exam? What’s there to even say?” “Mush for brains, probably.” I clenched my chopsticks, my knuckles white. “Asher!” Mr. Reed snapped. “Watch your language.” “Just stating a fact.” Asher nonchalantly picked up a piece of pork chop. “Some people are just born failures.” “No matter how hard they try, they’re just wasting resources.” My face felt hot. This was my weak point. The easy weapon he always used to humiliate me. Just then, the burner phone in my pocket vibrated. Asher picked up his own phone and began typing furiously. He ignored his dinner completely. A sudden, sharp impulse took over. I slipped my hand into my pocket and blind-typed a line of text, sending it. You’re truly annoying. Asher’s movements froze. He stared down at his screen, his face turning an ashen white. I watched him. Watching that look of utter devastation, as if the whole world had just abandoned him, a surge of twisted satisfaction rushed through me. Asher. You finally got what was coming to you. 3 Asher gripped his phone so tightly I thought the case would crack. Mr. Reed frowned. “What’s with the phone at the table? Did you forget your manners?” Asher suddenly stood up. “I’m full.” He turned, clutched the phone, and bolted up the stairs without looking back. “What the hell is wrong with that boy?” Mr. Reed slammed his chopsticks on the table. My mom offered an awkward smile. “Maybe… the competition is stressing him out.” I lowered my head and sipped my soup, hiding the smirk at the corner of my mouth. Back in my room, I pulled out the burner phone. The screen was full of messages Asher had sent. I won’t annoy you anymore. I’ll shut up. Just don’t be mad. Anything. Just don’t block me again. Baby… The last one was a 60-second voice message. I put on my headphones and pressed play. After a moment of static, I heard Asher’s low, ragged breathing. “I’m sorry…” His voice was hoarse, trembling noticeably. “I honestly don’t know what to do.” “I’ve never liked anyone before. You’re the first.” “I’m scared you’ll think I’m pathetic, scared you’ll think I’m boring, scared you’ll go find someone else…” “I only have the guts to tell you this online.” “In real life… things are bad.” “No one likes me. I hate everyone. Only you, Rose. Only you listen to me and play games with me.” “Please, don’t leave me, okay?” My scalp prickled. Was this really Asher? I could picture him hiding in his room, recording this voice note with red eyes. It was ridiculous. I took off the headphones, unable to listen anymore. Just then, there was a knock at my door. I walked over and opened it. Asher stood in the hallway shadow. He was looking down, his fringe covering his eyes, making his expression unreadable. Most of his anger was gone, replaced by a defeated, powerless slump. “What is it?” I asked coldly. He lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked like he’d been crying. But the moment he saw me, he snapped back to his usual icy, deadpan mask. The speed was startling. “You took the money.” His voice was hoarse. “Have you figured out a solution?” I leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “I have.” “What?” He urgently stepped closer. “Break up with her,” I said. “If it’s this painful, just let each other go.” Asher’s face instantly darkened. The fleeting vulnerability vanished, replaced by a terrifying rage. He grabbed my collar and shoved me hard against the doorframe. “Sloan, are you trying to get yourself killed?” “I told you to figure out how to get her back, not convince me to break up!” “Break up? Never in this lifetime!” He was yelling, his voice loud. His eyes were veined with red. I was choking, desperately batting at his hand. “Cough… Let go…” Asher abruptly released me. I clutched my neck, coughing violently. He looked down at me, his eyes cold as ice. “Don’t let me hear those two words again.” “Or I’ll make sure you can’t stay in this house.” With that, he turned and went back into his room, slamming the door shut. The enormous sound shook the wall. Leaning against the wall, gasping for air, I reached for my burner phone without a second thought, typing out one last message: We’re breaking up. This time it’s for good. Send. The next second, a massive crash came from the room next door, followed by the sound of breaking glass. Then, Asher’s heart-wrenching scream. “Ah—!”

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Hired as a featured photographer for National Geographic, I was on assignment to shoot the cover story at Mount Kemet. Barely halfway up, my lungs burned, my head throbbed, and my temples hammered like a drum. I recognized the sickening spiral of acute mountain sickness. I scrambled for my emergency oxygen canister and ripped off the cap. But the moment the gas hit my lungs, I knew. I whipped my head toward my fiancé, Marcus, who was standing beside me. “What is this?!” My voice came out as a ridiculous, high-pitched, cartoonish squeak—a squealing toy trying to sound serious. The sound sent Marcus and his intern, Skylar, into hysterical fits of laughter. “Gah?! Hahahaha! Oh my god, Anya, you sound like a Chipmunk! I’m going to die laughing!” They doubled over, shoulders shaking. Skylar even dramatically punched the snow with glee. In that horrifying instant, I understood. As a prank, a cruel joke, they had secretly swapped my life-saving oxygen for helium. When they finally managed to stifle their laughter, I fought through the nausea to gasp out the words to Marcus: “…The… the spare oxygen. Give it to me!” Marcus wiped a tear of laughter from his eye, utterly unconcerned, and waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, come on, Anya. Skylar’s body is a little fragile; she has the spare. You’re a seasoned high-altitude pro. Just power through it.” I didn’t argue. My trembling hand fumbled for the satellite phone. “Editor Albright, my emergency oxygen has been maliciously swapped. I’m experiencing acute mountain sickness. I need immediate rescue and extraction.” 1 The moment I finished speaking, Marcus Reid snatched the satellite phone from my hand. He saw the “distress signal sent” confirmation flash across the screen. His face flushed with anger, quickly twisting into a sneer. “Anya Wells, are you seriously this dramatic?” “It was a joke! A prank with a little helium! You’re calling in rescue for a mild headache? Do you know how long we’ve been planning this shoot? You can’t even handle this much altitude?” He made a show of threatening to hurl the phone toward a distant crevasse in the ice. I lunged, gripping his wrist with a death grip. The fierce headache and gut-wrenching nausea of the altitude sickness were already making my vision tunnel. Marcus and Skylar both wore oxygen masks, their faces rosy, plenty of spare tanks clipped to their packs. I was the only one clutching a ludicrous, useless helium canister. Skylar stepped closer, her voice laced with false, saccharine concern. “Anya, don’t blame Marcus. I’m just so useless; I got winded barely climbing this much…” “Marcus said you’re a veteran mountain photographer, and this altitude is nothing to you…” She took a deep, satisfying drag from the mask, then tilted her head, a hint of challenge in her eyes. I had pulled strings through my contacts to get a customized, medical-grade, high-concentration oxygen supply for this crucial cover shoot. Now, it was clipped to this petulant intern. Marcus adjusted her backpack strap, his tone sickeningly gentle. “Ignore her, Skylar. She’s just spoiled, thinks she’s a celebrity, and can’t handle a little discomfort.” When he turned to me, the impatience in his eyes was palpable. “Stop acting, alright?” “I looked it up. Altitude sickness is mostly psychosomatic. A little willpower and you’ll walk it off. It’s not that serious.” “Your ‘medical-grade’ oxygen tank is just a psychological crutch, and it’s heavy as hell. Skylar is the future of the studio. Her being out of commission would be a much bigger loss to the project than yours.” My hand trembled as I searched the outer pocket of my pack for the emergency altitude medication, but the pocket was empty. Marcus suddenly pulled the familiar pill box from Skylar’s jacket pocket, shook out two tablets, and handed them to her. “Keep these. You need them more than she does. Look, she can still stand up and fight for a phone. She’s hardly in distress.” “Does she really think she’s some sort of national treasure photographer who can’t handle an ounce of pain?” His self-righteousness was more suffocating than the thin air. My custom oxygen, my emergency medication, all repurposed to pamper his protégé. The other assistant photographers busied themselves with gear, pretending not to notice the conflict. I was the only one fighting for my life, like a patient with their oxygen line disconnected. “Acute mountain sickness can cause pulmonary and cerebral edema… It can kill you!” I managed to grind out through clenched teeth. “Cerebral edema? Who are you trying to scare?” Marcus rolled his eyes. Skylar played her part, shrinking behind him. “Anya, I know you don’t like me… but Marcus said you’re so experienced, you’ll be fine with a little high-altitude fatigue.” She even gave the Go-Pro clipped to her collar a small, satisfied smirk. The sight of her face, the calculated malice behind the fake fear, made me dizzy with rage. “Enough!” I reached out to grab my oxygen tank back. Marcus shoved me hard. I stumbled, nearly falling. “What are you doing! If something happens to Skylar, can you handle the fallout?!” Skylar immediately clutched her chest, her voice becoming thin and shaky. “Marcus, I feel a little light-headed again… Maybe I shouldn’t have come… Does Anya feel like I’m stealing her spotlight…” “You’re fine. She’s just self-obsessed!” Marcus quickly steadied her, his voice soft with concern. “She’s been coddled her whole life. She thinks the world revolves around her.” The wind and snow seemed to pick up, blurring my vision. I watched them, a picture of two devoted lovers, huddling together for warmth, utterly oblivious to me, his actual fiancée. Extreme fury and the primal terror of suffocation converged. I swung the useless helium canister and smashed it against a nearby ice-covered rock. “Marcus Reid! We are done! The engagement is canceled!” Marcus froze, his face contorting with shock and then raw anger. He stepped closer, his voice sharp and piercing. “Anya Wells! What the hell is wrong with you! You’re ending us over a stupid joke? Do you even hear yourself?” “A small thing?” I rasped, the sound torn from my chest. “Swapping my life-saving oxygen… is a small thing?” Skylar immediately stepped in, her voice tremulous. “Marcus, don’t be angry… It’s my fault for being so weak… Anya must be saying this out of anger because she hates me…” She looked at me, a flicker of undetectable triumph hidden in her wide eyes. A mountain guide named Gabe, who had been quietly adjusting his gear, looked up, his brow furrowed in concern. “Mr. Reid, Ms. Wells looks genuinely unwell. Altitude sickness isn’t a game. Maybe we should consider descending first…” “You don’t understand, Gabe!” Marcus cut him off with brutal finality. “She’s just out of shape and overdramatic! When is she not making a scene on a shoot? The last time, she had a heatstroke in the Mojave and held up the entire team. She’s doing the same thing now!” His words struck me like icicles. The last time, I had almost suffered heat stroke while risking everything to capture the perfect, fleeting light. In his eyes, it was all theatrics. “Exactly,” another assistant, who was friendly with Marcus, muttered under his breath. “Anya, Marcus is looking out for the big picture. Skylar is new; this is her first high-altitude project. She needs the extra care. You’re the veteran. You can tough it out.” Tears blurred my vision even more, not from sadness, but from physiological distress. “Tough it out? How… how am I supposed to tough this out?” My lungs felt packed with cement, my heart hammered madly, threatening to burst through my ribs. The blood vessels in my temples pulsed violently, a countdown to rupture. I knew the signs—the onset of cerebral and pulmonary edema. Seeing my condition, Skylar put on a show of great distress, her voice choked with tears. “Anya, please don’t be like this. I’m so scared you two are fighting because of me…” “Maybe… maybe I should just give you the oxygen back? I’ll be fine…” She made a move to take off her mask. Marcus slammed his hand over hers, his eyes filled with pity and rage. “Skylar, don’t be an idiot! She’s trying to manipulate you! Playing the victim is her best move!” He spun on me, his eyes cold with pure loathing. “Anya Wells, I was wrong about you!” “I never knew you were this selfish and petty, that you couldn’t tolerate a junior photographer! Does everyone have to bow down to your demands?” “Who risked everything to get people to rescue you the last time you were in danger?” “Now, because of a little headache, you want to ruin everyone’s hard work?” He brought up a time when the danger was caused by a shoot for his father’s company. Now, it was his evidence against me. The searing headache made it impossible to form a coherent defense. I could only gasp uselessly, broken, wheezing sounds rattling in my throat. Skylar, still hiding behind Marcus, let a quick, satisfied smirk cross her lips, then spoke in a worried tone. “Marcus, Anya looks terrible. She really might be…” “She’s faking! It’s all an act!” Marcus declared, his voice cutting and final. “She’s a great actress! She just wants to force me to cave, to get more control over me! I won’t let her!” He took his thermal flask, unscrewed the top, and held it to Skylar’s lips. “Here, Skylar, drink some hot water. Don’t mind her. She’ll calm down on her own.” The steam from the warm water wafted past me, a stark contrast to the cold that was leaching the warmth from my body. Despair, like the ancient ice under my feet, began to freeze me from the inside out. I slumped against the ice rock, my body sliding down uncontrollably, my consciousness beginning to drift. In my fading vision, Marcus protecting Skylar, their backs to me, and the other team members whispering as they packed gear, all blurred into swaying, monstrous shapes. That life-saving altitude medicine was on the ground by Skylar’s boot. Only three feet away, but impossibly distant, separated by a chasm of indifference. It was then that Skylar quietly knelt in front of me. She took off her mask, her face vibrant and healthy. She leaned down and spoke in a voice only I could hear. “Anya, how does it feel to suffocate?” A cruel, delighted smile spread across her face. “Marcus has been so tired of your control for ages. He said you were stiff and boring, like a mannequin.” “Once you’re out of the way, your reputation, your portfolio, and your man… I’ll be happy to take over.”

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Asher always insisted on boundaries. Pathological ones, if I’m being honest. When we married five years ago, he bought both units on the top floor—a classic two-unit landing. He lives in the penthouse. I live in the condo across the hall. Except for our scheduled, once-a-week encounters, he absolutely forbade me from setting foot in his apartment. Tonight, after the obligatory performance, I was exhausted. I reached for a glass on his nightstand, not thinking, and drank from it. He watched me, his expression hardening with a visceral disgust I’d only ever seen reserved for me. He didn’t just toss the cup; he used a paper towel to handle the glass, then dropped the expensive crystal tumbler into the trash like it was biohazard waste. The slam of the door. He didn’t just close it; he detonated the sound, shutting me out and sealing me in the cold hallway. The accumulated sting of years rushed up, hot and fast. I found myself unlocking my phone and posting a rant on a popular forum, venting about my husband’s almost clinical need for distance. I never expected the post to go viral. [Oh my god, isn’t this the famous ‘Penthouse King’ from the city’s old gossip threads? Asher Wilde.] [The one who chased Willow Avery? He’d buy any apartment she rented and then offer her free rent just to get her to live near him.] [LOL, he was absolutely obsessed. Total simp.] [I used to see them at the university night market. She’d take one bite of something and drop the rest in his bowl. He’d just eat it, grinning like a fool. He didn’t even care if it was gross.] 1 [Wait—the poster isn’t Willow Avery! Holy hell, the OTP broke up?] [Goes to show, for a guy like that, if he can’t have the one he truly wants, everyone else is just a consolation prize.] [Asher was so publicly devoted to Willow, and now he’s married to the poster and acting like this? The irony is incredible.] [Y’all are really dragging the OP through the mud here! She’s the one married to him!] Six thousand eight hundred comments. They didn’t just piece together a man; they constructed an Asher Wilde I had never met. Not the cold, distant husband who always walked into Hawthorne Corp. ten minutes ahead of me to ensure we never crossed paths. They described a boyfriend who was earnest, dramatic, and intensely public with his love. He had once leased the largest digital billboard in Midtown for an entire week, broadcasting only her photo and the caption: Willow Avery, I love you. It was never about boundaries. It was about me. The truth was brutal: I had never, for a single moment, been inside his heart. The only boundary he needed was the one separating me from the woman he loved. So why had he married me? I moved my suddenly leaden legs. I broke his cardinal rule—never approach him at Hawthorne Corp.—and pressed the button for the executive floor. I desperately needed an answer. The elevator doors opened onto a hub of excited chatter. “Ten years at Thorne, and I’ve never seen Mr. Wilde look so panicked.” “I know! He never cancels for personal stuff. Liu the driver said he was speeding home.” “I think I heard him whisper ‘Will’ as he was leaving…” “His ex must be back. Looks like Hawthorne might finally get a real First Lady.” Five years of marriage. Five years of my cajoling, crying, and silent treatments, and Asher never once agreed to make our relationship public. Willow Avery achieved it with a single phone call. Was he avoiding the trouble of a public marriage, or was he afraid his ex would be upset, jeopardizing their reunion? I managed to steady my hands, drove home, and started knocking. He wasn’t answering his phone. Every time we slept together, he changed the lock code before I woke up. I lived in the separate unit, isolated and alone. I used to tell myself he simply had a quirk, an inability to share his space twenty-four/seven. Now, I realized I was just the woman he summoned and dismissed. His temporary placeholder. His… The word was too humiliating to even form in my head. I stopped knocking and started pounding. “Asher! Open this door!” The door finally opened. But it wasn’t Asher, and it wasn’t Willow. It was a haggard, middle-aged woman with stark white hair. She turned, her voice hoarse, and called toward the kitchen, “Ash, a friend is here for you.” Asher emerged, carrying a bowl of steaming broth. He gave me a cold, dismissive look. “I did not authorize your entry.” I gripped my fists tightly and pointed at the woman. “Who is she?” “It’s none of your concern.” “And Willow Avery?” Asher flinched. He clearly hadn’t anticipated me knowing her name, much less confronting him so directly. The older woman answered first. “You know my daughter?” She was suddenly seized by a violent, hacking cough. Asher rushed to her side, gently patting her back. He shot me a look of pure impatience. “Willow’s mother is sick. My place is close to the hospital, so they’re staying a few days.” I watched Asher fuss—adjusting the pillow, pouring warm water, covering her with a soft blanket, his voice low and solicitous, asking if she was comfortable. It ripped a memory out of me. The day my own mother arrived in the city for chemotherapy, having hidden her stomach cancer diagnosis from me and taken a seven-hour bus ride to save money. She was sitting, exhausted, with all her bags, on the stoop of the building. I was stuck in traffic and called Asher, begging him to let her rest in his apartment for a little while. His cold refusal was immediate. “Sienna, for God’s sake, maintain some boundaries. I am not running a hospice here. I’ll have a driver take your mother to a hotel.” I hadn’t understood his rigid prejudice then, or why he wouldn’t feel any compassion for my sick, road-weary mother. I could only compromise. Now, I finally understood. He didn’t love me. He didn’t care about my family. Perhaps sensing my thoughts, Asher cleared his throat and changed the subject. “Sienna, why don’t you go back to your place and relax? Once I get Mrs. Avery settled, I’ll take you to see The Quiet Hours tonight.” I had begged Asher multiple times to see that movie, and he’d always coldly refused. No matter how I pleaded, he wouldn’t even look up from his phone. “That kind of sentimental indie flick is beneath us, Sienna.” Now, he was offering a bone, a quick bribe to keep me from pressing the issue of Willow’s mother living here. Everything, it seemed, was negotiable when it came to Willow. I dug my nails into my palms, ready to refuse, when the door to the primary suite was pulled open. A woman stepped out. She was wearing a soft, oversized cotton shirt—definitely Asher’s, and definitely not meant to be seen. Her fair skin was dewy, and her long, dark hair was still wet, water spotting the polished hardwood as she walked. It felt like a punch to my chest.

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I had my pets practically on a pedestal, pampered and impossibly sleek. My rich friend was obsessed with them, always joking, “Your little darlings are so gorgeous and well-behaved, why don’t you just sell them to me? Name your price!” I never took her seriously, but then the floating text appeared above her head: When is this cannon fodder going to die! If you can’t care for them, don’t keep them. Our male leads are starving on her cheap food, it’s heartbreaking! They wouldn’t even bother with her if they didn’t need her for their transformation! Soon, soon! The cannon fodder has a brain tumor and no money for treatment, she’s going to die any minute now. Once she’s gone, the three male leads can go home with the female lead and start their happily-ever-after! Heh, right before she dies, the cannon fodder will beg the female lead to take them. Little does she know, the male leads are intentionally letting her die, they’ve been waiting for this day… Looking at the three creatures—the ones currently purring and charming my friend—a cold rage settled in my stomach. “You know what? I will,” I heard myself say, the words tight and sharp. “Ten thousand a piece. Take your pick.” 1 The living room went silent. The smile froze on my friend Zara’s face. The calico cat, Apollo, the one who was the master of affection, stopped rubbing his cheek against her chin. The small, black snake, Styx, unwrapped from her neck and raised its head. Even Gizmo, the poky little hedgehog on the adjacent sofa, stopped grooming his paws. All their eyes were suddenly fixed on me. The bullet screen above my head erupted like a lake hit by a boulder: ??? What did I just hear? Ten thousand a piece? How dare this dead cannon fodder set such a price! HOLY CRAP! The wicked cannon fodder reveals her true colors. Just a second ago she was acting like a doting owner! She must be desperate for cash. Is she trying to swindle our sweet female lead? I knew it! She only kept pets to curry favor with Zara. What a manipulative btch!* Zara was the first to recover. She looked awkwardly from the pets in her arms to me. “Elena, what are you talking about? I was just kidding,” she said, her tone laced with embarrassment. “Aren’t they your absolute treasures? How could you sell them to me?” I kept a relaxed, almost weary smile on my face, pretending not to see the text attacking me. “They are my treasures, Zara, but reality is a factor now.” I sighed, managing to sound genuinely distressed. “You know I lost my job recently, and nothing solid has come up. Keeping these three—the imported food, the vet visits, the special habitats—it’s a huge, constant expense.” “To be honest, I can barely afford it anymore.” I met Zara’s eyes, making my gaze sincere. “They’d probably be happier with you, anyway! “Look, the fancy cat tree, the organic mice, Gizmo’s climate-controlled habitat—didn’t you buy most of that for them? “Instead of scraping by with me, they’ll actually have a good life if they go home with you!” Zara opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. “I’m really in a bind right now. “If you truly love them, and you’re willing to help me out, ten thousand each. Any one you want.” “Think of it as bailing me out. Please?” Zara fell silent. The bullet screen raged again: Psh! Talk about sounding fake! Isn’t this just emotional blackmail? Female lead, darling, don’t believe her! She’s exploiting your kindness! A bind? LOL! You have a fatal illness that money can’t fix anyway. Jinx! Male leads, bite her! This black-hearted woman doesn’t deserve to be your owner! Zara hesitated, finally biting her lip. “Okay… maybe I’ll just take one for now? I wouldn’t want you to be completely alone…” I was practically itching for her to take all three and save me the trouble. They were ungrateful vipers, and they needed to be gone. Sold. All of them. But I knew a sudden change in attitude would arouse suspicion. One step at a time. “Fine, whatever you think is best. Go ahead and choose.” “Take whichever one you’ve bonded with most.” 2 Zara knelt down, still holding Apollo the calico. She peered at the little black snake and the hedgehog that had scooted closer. Styx seemed to sense something was off. He raised his head higher, turning slightly toward Zara. His tongue flickered out quickly. Gizmo the hedgehog shifted his tiny paws, his black bead eyes fixed on her. That’s when Apollo, the cat in Zara’s arms, made his move. He let out a soft, sweet “Mrrrrow,” then rubbed his velvety head frantically against Zara’s chin. His tail stood straight up, the tip curved into a perfect question mark, and he began to knead her soft cashmere sweater. He looked utterly, desperately devoted. At the same time, his back legs, seemingly accidentally, gave two tiny, swift kicks. They landed precisely on the heads of the approaching black snake and the hedgehog, causing both to tumble backward. HAHAHAHA! Nice one, Kitty! That’s how you win the attention battle! All hail Cat King! We knew you loved our Zara the most! Poor Snakey and Gizmo, but sorry, I’m siding with the cat. Zara’s attention was instantly captured by the passionately affectionate, adorable fluffball in her embrace. No girl could resist a purring, cuddly cat, especially one as beautiful and cunning as Apollo. Watching Apollo’s performance, I felt a chilling emptiness inside. It was almost funny. When I first found him, he was skin and bones, filthy, and followed me for blocks just for a scrap of food. When I brought him home, he was exactly like this—doing everything to charm and please me. Rubbing my legs. Rolling over at my feet. Purring loudly. My heart softened, and even though I already had Styx and Gizmo, I thought, What’s one more? I brought him in. And what was the result? Once he was comfortable, he reverted to being cold and distant. If I tried to pet him, he’d impatiently pull away. Sometimes he’d even lash out, leaving me with a bloody scratch. He ignored every toy I bought. His day consisted of eating and napping in the sun on the windowsill. Only when Zara arrived did he transform back into the clingy, affectionate darling, begging her for imported tuna. I realized then that his loyalty had been skewed all along. No. He had no loyalty. All his actions were driven by a clear goal. Just as the bullet screen said: they were only “borrowing my life force for their transformation.” They were enduring me, waiting for me, the “cannon fodder,” to exit the stage. Zara gently squeezed Apollo’s tiny paw, her face alight with affection. “He’s just so attached… Fine, I’ll take Apollo. It seems he’s just as eager to come home with me.” She pulled out her phone and tapped a few times. My phone immediately chimed: “Ding—$10,000 deposited into your account.” “There you go, Elena. I transferred the money.” She scooped Apollo up and placed him inside a very luxurious, designer pet carrier. “So… I’ll take him home now? Don’t worry, I’ll take the very best care of him.” “I know you will.” I nodded, my voice perfectly level. “If you ever want to get him a companion, you know where to find me. I still have two here.” I gestured to Styx and Gizmo on the floor. Zara paused, but then smiled and replied, “That sounds good,” before carrying her new ‘favorite’ out the door. 3 The living room was quiet again, save for myself and the two remaining pets. I turned to face them, meeting two pairs of eyes. Styx the snake had raised almost half his body off the floor without me noticing. His cold, vertical pupils were locked onto me, his tongue rapidly flickering. It was a sign of a snake under duress. And Gizmo, the habitually slow hedgehog, had shed all his usual languor. His tiny claws gripped the rug, and every one of his quills was standing on end. They seemed incapable of understanding why their formerly meticulous, always-accommodating “servant” had suddenly become so ruthless. The bullet screen was loving the show: Hahaha! The remaining two are stunned! They got abandoned! That’s what you get for not being as good at groveling as the cat! But wait, isn’t this weird? The cannon fodder was absolutely devoted to these three. Why did she agree to sell them the second the female lead asked? She needs cash, duh. Look, even the biggest pet influencers love their animals, but that doesn’t conflict with using them to make money. “Alright, playtime is over.” I walked toward Styx, intending to put him back in his box. But the moment I reached out, I saw a black blur. I snatched my hand back, but not quickly enough. A snake tooth grazed my skin. I narrowed my eyes, a silence settling between us. In the past, if he bit me, I would act like all the pet owners I knew. I’d patiently, repeatedly, tell him, No, we don’t bite. That’s not right. But now, I had no patience left. I was annoyed. Deeply annoyed. I had neither the time nor the energy to play this game of blood-and-flesh devotion anymore. With lightning speed, I pinched Styx firmly behind his head, lifting him up. I tossed him directly into his ten-thousand-dollar, climate-controlled habitat. The lid slammed shut with a thunk. I secured the latch. He hit the climbing branch, clearly stunned. No, no, no! How dare you treat our Snakey so roughly? You horrible cannon fodder! I hope he bites you to death! It’s so strange. The cannon fodder has suddenly lost all her passion for the pets. Did she get possessed? Good. Let her hurry up and die from the tumor. Then the three male leads will transform and live a glorious life with sweet Zara. Hee hee hee, four limbs only, sounds hot. The hedgehog on the rug was completely frozen now. Seeing me reach for him, he immediately rolled into a tight, defensive ball. His quills stood like needles. Normally, this would make him impossible to handle. But now, I simply grabbed a thick bath towel and draped it over him. Through the towel, I accurately flipped him over, exposing his soft belly. Then I dropped him back into his hedgehog villa. I quickly secured the lid. The world was finally silent. The bullet screen had gone ballistic, filling the air with curses and death wishes directed at me. But I didn’t care. I pulled out my phone and booked a full-body checkup at the best hospital in the city. Three days later, the results were in. I sat in the oncologist’s office. He told me clearly: “Ms. Elena Vance, your test results are back. We found a tumor in your brain. The location is difficult, and the size is significant. Our preliminary diagnosis is mid-stage.” He paused, a note of relief in his voice. “The good news is we caught it in time. If you had waited any longer, it might have been irreversible.” “There’s still a chance for surgery, but it will be highly complex and risky. As for the cost, we estimate at least…” “Two hundred thousand dollars.”

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The killer, on the run for years, suddenly posted a confession online. He wrote that he had a terminal illness and didn’t have much time left. He wanted to apologize to the last victim, the young woman who died tragically by his hand. “There were twenty-three victims,” the post read. “Twenty-two of them were hardened criminals. Wicked scum.” “Only the last one, the young woman, was innocent.” “I was misled and killed an innocent person. I regret it deeply.” “I hope that whoever reads this can help me find her body.” “She deserves to be buried properly, to finally rest in peace.” The post didn’t gain much traction; most people were skeptical. Some said the poster was clearly desperate for attention. Others cursed him for exploiting tragedy for clicks. Only one person replied. “Lily Ashton, stop the act. I know it’s you.” 1 All these years, Owen Archer’s profile picture hadn’t changed. It was still the photo I’d taken of him back then. But his username was now a couple’s name, matching Daisy’s. It seemed they were still going strong. As I watched, a few more snide comments appeared below. The killer, frustrated, started explaining himself. “I’m really not lying. The last person I killed was a young woman.” “She looked so young, barely twenty.” “She was about to get married, but she died by my hand because of a terrible mistake.” “God, the regret is suffocating.” “I shouldn’t have listened to those rumors. I shouldn’t have killed an innocent life over a misunderstanding.” To convince the public, he detailed the time, place, and the full process of the murder. How he broke her legs so she couldn’t run. How he made her suffer the prolonged agony. “It was deep winter, and the ground was frozen solid.” “Disposing of her body was difficult, so I had to take extreme measures.” “Her organs were washed into the river, and the bones were scattered nearby.” “That area is wasteland, nobody goes there. If you look now, you should still be able to find them.” “I’m dying, and I don’t have the strength. I can only beg for your help.” “I know I deserve to die, but I just want her soul to find peace.” Such a complete and detailed account of the crime was undeniable proof. The tide in the comments section began to turn. The post’s heat level exploded. People were frantically tagging online police, digging for any useful information. Some voluntarily organized a “Bone Search Squad” to give the poor girl a proper burial. Amidst the diverse reactions, Owen’s comments stood out, defiant and off-key. He stubbornly posted the same messages over and over again under the killer’s thread. “Lily Ashton, stop the act. I know it’s you.” “We’re grown-ups now. Your little games won’t fool me.” “You were the one who left me first. Nothing you do will ever make me forgive you!” “Also, Daisy and I are getting married soon.” “I hope you’ll stop this desperate attempt to break us up.” Watching that string of comments, I could almost feel his anger. Owen thought I was trying to lure him back, to rekindle our past. He believed I had deliberately disguised myself as a killer to post this, just to get his attention. But what he didn’t know was that I… …was the twenty-third body.

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It wasn’t until after my sophomore year exams that I finally got the news: My parents, who had left the village a decade earlier to “make it” in the city, hadn’t just become millionaires—they’d become the nation’s top moguls. And they’d adopted a girl my age—Willow. To be “fair,” they presented us with two high school enrollment options, letting us choose. One was St. Jude’s Academy, a prestigious prep school a mere five hundred yards from their newly acquired mansion. The other was the best public school back in my tiny hometown. I didn’t want to be separated from them again. I chose St. Jude’s without hesitation. Willow nodded, agreeing. But right before school started, she burst into tears, claiming she was their daughter, too, and demanding to know why she always had to concede to me. My father, Randall, stepped in, his face etched with awkward impatience, playing the peacemaker. “Sloan, you’ve been officially acknowledged as a member of the family, and you won’t want for anything. Just… pick the school in the country, okay?” I let out a cold laugh, the sound catching in my throat. “Didn’t you tell me she was just a placeholder? Why should I defer to her?” My parents, knowing they were on shaky ground, eventually convinced Willow to take the country school spot. On the first day of class, I practically skipped home, my stomach tight with the anticipation of a family dinner—the kind of reunion I’d spent a decade fantasizing about. Instead, I found the house empty. Their belongings were gone. I frantically called them. Willow answered. “Oh, Mom and Dad?” she cooed. “They didn’t trust me to be alone in the country, so they moved everything to be with me.” “Gotta go. Mom just made me my favorite slow-roasted short ribs. They’ll get cold.” 1 All the way home from school, I’d been lost in the daydream: pushing open the front door and hearing my parents call me to dinner. To most people, this was just routine. But for me, a kid who’d been left behind in that sleepy village for over ten years, it was a holiday sight. I raced up the driveway, threw open the front door, and yelled, “I’m home!” The only response was the echo of my own voice. My heart sank. I tossed my backpack onto the entryway bench and took the stairs two at a time. I went to their master suite first. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open. In my father’s walk-in closet, his custom-tailored suits were gone, every hanger empty. My mother’s vanity, with its rows of unfamiliar, expensive bottles and jars, was bare. I ran to my sister Willow’s room—also empty. All the designer dolls, the limited-edition purses she guarded like treasures, nothing was left. Even the lace bedding had been stripped from the mattress. The whole mansion, except for the guest room I’d just moved into and hadn’t finished unpacking, looked like it had been professionally cleared out. I grabbed my phone and called my father. It rang and rang. Just as I thought he wouldn’t answer, a voice, sickeningly sweet, cut through the silence. “Hello? Is that you, Sis?” It was Willow. My heart plummeted. I tried to keep my voice even. “Where are Mom and Dad? I need to talk to them.” “Oh, Mom and Dad?” Willow’s tone was light, almost chirpy, “They didn’t trust me to be alone in the country, so they moved everything to be with me.” A buzzing filled my head. For a moment, I couldn’t process the meaning of her words. Willow’s voice drifted back over the line, slow and deliberate. “Oh, and by the way, Mrs. Rodriguez and Mike the driver came, too. Mom said she just couldn’t get used to the local help, the food wasn’t right.” “I can’t talk anymore, Sis. Mom just made me my favorite slow-roasted short ribs. They’ll get cold.” Click. The line went dead. I stood in the vast, empty foyer, clutching the humming phone. This so-called home, I realized, had been my solo performance all along. They were the family. And I was nothing more than an untimely outsider who had barged in. 2 For many days after that, I felt like I was back in the isolation of the village. I started to get used to the mountain of takeout containers near the front door. I got used to eating alone in the cavernous dining room, staring at my phone. I got used to the ever-present, crushing silence of the house. Sometimes, walking home from St. Jude’s, I’d even have the strange delusion that this was how I’d lived my whole life. This continued for several weeks, until a Tuesday evening. I was curled up on the sofa, studying, when I heard the familiar beep-beep of the electronic lock being entered in the foyer. I didn’t even look up. I figured it was the cleaning crew. It wasn’t until two figures, dragging matching leather suitcases, appeared in the living room that I lazily lifted my eyes. Randall and Vivian. My parents. They looked travel-weary, and their faces held a slight, unsettling tension when they saw me. “Sloan…” My mother, Vivian, spoke first, her voice a fragile, careful test of the water. I closed my textbook, leaned back into the plush sofa cushions, and just looked at them. The silence I offered was more cutting than any accusation. Vivian’s face grew more strained. She nervously rubbed her hands together and launched into an explanation. “Sloan, I know you’ve been feeling neglected, but Willow… she’s been spoiled since childhood. She just couldn’t adapt to the small-town life, and your father and I were honestly just too worried…” “She has no security,” I finished for her. My mother’s expression froze. She couldn’t get another word out. My father dropped his suitcase and strode toward me. His voice was deep and commanding. “Enough. That’s all in the past.” He paused. “Willow is settled now. We’re only back for a couple of days to handle some business, then we’re leaving again.” Not a single word in his explanation was a question about my well-being. I felt a sudden, strange amusement bubbling up inside. A corner of my mouth twitched upward, completely against my will. The smile seemed to sting him. He frowned, pulled his wallet from the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and slid a sleek, black card across the coffee table. “Take this. No PIN, no limit. Buy whatever you want, eat whatever you want. Don’t hold back.” He paused, then added, his tone softening slightly but still patronizing. “We’re family, Sloan. You’re the big sister. Be the bigger person, cut your sister some slack, and don’t be so petty.” I looked at the card, then up at him, then at my mother. I spoke calmly. “Got it.” I took the card. This wasn’t compensation. This was the severance package meant to buy out the last shred of my ridiculous, childlike hope. 3 I used that black card with a clear conscience. If it was severance pay, then it deserved to be spent like it. The prestigious school I’d chosen, St. Jude’s Academy, lived up to its name. It wasn’t a place for ordinary people. The students wore labels I couldn’t recognize, discussed yacht parties and exclusive equestrian clubs I’d never heard of, and looked at me as if I were a stray cat that had wandered into a porcelain shop—curious, but mostly condescending. Within three days, the entire school knew: A country bumpkin had enrolled in the freshman class. At lunch, I carried my tray, and in the enormous dining hall, no one would sit at my table. They would rather cram three people onto a two-person table than cross the invisible border around me. I didn’t have time for self-pity. They were isolating me; I was happy to ignore them. My first act was to convert the money on my father’s black card into knowledge inside my head. I called the city’s most exclusive prep program and made three simple demands: “The best tutors. One-on-one. All subjects. Schedule every hour.” The person on the other end of the line was silent for three seconds before responding with a tone that bordered on sycophantic. “Of course, Ms. Sloan. Would you like us to send a car to pick you up?” “No. Send the tutors to my house.” In addition to academics, I signed up for courses in basic finance, commercial law, and high-society etiquette. My etiquette instructor was a fifty-something Englishwoman. The first time she saw me try to cut a steak with chopsticks, she nearly fainted. But she was a good teacher. She told me that true elegance wasn’t about the designer label you wore; it was about always knowing what you wanted and knowing exactly how to get it. I took that to heart. The money flowed like water, but I could feel myself rapidly transforming, inside and out. My first business venture was born on an entirely random afternoon. I was sitting in the back row of a classroom, half-listening to a history professor the English tutor had hired to talk about European history, and half-watching the girl in front of me. Her name was Tinsley, her family was in real estate, and she was among the elite of the rich kids. She spent the entire afternoon frantically scrolling on her phone before slamming it face down and complaining to her friend. “I’m so mad! I asked three different personal shoppers, and none of them got me that limited-edition Birkin! It was sold out in Europe the second it dropped!” Her friend tried to comfort her. “Don’t be upset, Tinsley. Those things are all luck.” “I don’t care! I have to have it for my birthday party next week! I’ll pay anything!” I looked down and tapped my finger lightly on my notebook. I had connections. During my decade in the village, to help make extra money, I had learned a few tricks from far-flung relatives who were always traveling, and I knew all sorts of people. One of my distant cousins ran a small-scale trade operation in Europe. After school, I used a burner phone to call him. A half-hour later, I walked up to Tinsley. “I can get you the bag you want.” Tinsley looked up, examining me with suspicion. “You?” “Do you even know how much that bag costs?” “Nine thousand Euros retail, plus tax, plus my thirty percent procurement fee, delivered to your hand within three days.” I stated the price calmly, then handed her my phone. “Here’s my contact info. Text me when you decide. Fifty percent deposit.” I didn’t wait for a response; I simply turned and walked away. I knew she would text me. Because for her, it wasn’t about the money. It was about status. At ten o’clock that night, my phone chimed. I had a friend request and a five-figure wire transfer. 4 The day Tinsley got the bag, she practically swaggered through the school hallways, which, in turn, elevated my reputation. Before long, my inbox was flooded with friend requests from wealthy girls and guys who had endless money but zero access. My life was cleanly split into two worlds. At St. Jude’s, I was the “country kid” in plain clothes, a loner. In my phone, I was the mysterious fixer who could source any rare, limited-edition item imaginable. This fragile peace was broken on my father’s birthday. My mother called, her voice edged with a strange plea. “Sloan, your father’s birthday dinner is this Saturday at The Grand Hyatt. You… you absolutely have to be there.” “Okay.” I answered flatly. She hadn’t expected such an easy acceptance and all her prepared arguments got stuck in her throat. After a few seconds, she continued, “I had a dress prepared for you. The driver will drop it off tomorrow. Try it on and see if it fits.” The next day, Mike delivered a massive garment box. Inside was a champagne-colored gown. It was at least five years out of date, the waistline was loose, and the straps were horribly old-fashioned. I tried it on and felt like a child wearing an adult’s clothes, swallowed whole by a satin sack—awkward and ridiculous. But I wore the satin sack to the birthday gala anyway. As soon as I entered the ballroom, I saw my father, Randall, holding court at the center of a crowd, looking powerful and energized. My mother, Vivian, was on his arm, her smile perfectly poised and graceful. And beside them stood Willow, wearing a blush-pink, custom-made princess dress. Her fair skin made the dress look even more delicate, and a sparkling tiara was clipped into her hair. She looked exactly like a princess held aloft on a pedestal. The three of them stood together, truly looking like a family. A few guests glanced my way with searching looks, then leaned in to whisper to each other, their disdain and anticipation of drama thinly veiled. I didn’t care. I found an empty corner, grabbed a slice of mini-cake, and ate by myself. Midway through, I even pulled out my phone and processed two new orders. The party was in full swing. My father was engrossed in conversation with a couple of VPs and CEOs who looked incredibly wealthy. That’s when I saw Willow, a flute of red wine in her hand, weaving through the crowd toward me. I didn’t move, just silently prepared myself for the performance. Two steps from me, her foot suddenly “turned,” and her body lurched toward me. The wine glass arced in a perfect, calculated trajectory. The crimson liquid inside splashed, without losing a single drop, entirely onto the pristine white suit of the VP standing beside her. Splash. A vivid, red flower instantly bloomed on the VP’s chest. The entire ballroom went silent for a second. The next second, Willow’s eyes welled up. Tears streamed down her face. She turned to me, her expression a perfect portrait of victimhood. “Sister… I know you don’t like me, but… why did you push me… Mr. Jones’s suit is ruined…” Every eye in the room snapped onto me. My father’s face instantly darkened. He didn’t even look at me first, immediately turning to profusely apologize to the VP. Then he spun around violently, roaring at me. “Sloan! Haven’t you caused enough of a scene?” He grabbed my arm with a force that felt like he wanted to crush my bones, dragging me toward the VP. “Now! Immediately! Apologize to Mr. Jones!” I was surrounded by rubberneckers and judging eyes. Willow was still quietly sobbing nearby, and my mother was soothing her hand, looking helpless and pained. My father saw my lack of reaction. His fury intensified. He pointed a finger inches from my nose, forcing the words out one by one. “I told you to apologize! Did you hear me?”

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The memory—my wife, pinned beneath that scumbag—it’s the moment I chose to stand still, to do nothing. Because in my past life, trying to save her, I’d accidentally killed him. I was sentenced to twenty years in a federal pen. Eleanor, the Commander’s wife, promised, tears in her eyes, that she would wait for me. Twenty years later, I found out the ‘victim’ hadn’t died at all. He’d married my wife! My face burned with fury. The scumbag—Grant Bellamy—just laughed at me. “If I hadn’t met Ellie a year after your wedding, you wouldn’t have even gotten to marry her,” he sneered. “And if it hadn’t been for her rank, which made a messy divorce difficult, you wouldn’t have needed to rot in prison all those years.” “But you served your time, and now you’re a convicted felon. Why not go back in for thirty more years?” Before he finished speaking, my mother rushed in. In the ensuing chaos, Grant killed her. I was paralyzed with grief, pinned down beneath their weight. Ellie Shaw showed no mercy, shoving the murder weapon into my hand and using her authority as a Commander to convict me. In the end, I was executed. Reborn. Facing that same sight now, the choice was simple: I wouldn’t move. This time, they’re going down. 1 “Stop, stop it, Marc will be back soon, and if he catches us, we’re ruined!” Ellie’s voice, a sickening mix of protest and invitation, scraped across my hearing. I snapped my eyes open. I was back. Twenty years ago, standing right outside this door. This was the exact moment I’d first witnessed Grant Bellamy assaulting—no, enticing—Eleanor Shaw. In the last life, seeing Grant pressed against Ellie, I’d rushed in without a second thought, tearing him off her. Before she could even react, I was beating him, fist after fist. She’d tried to pull me off, but her ‘interventions’ ensured I took just as many blows from Grant. In a blind rage, I shoved him. His head hit the wall, and he slid to the floor, lifeless. Seeing him slump, I froze, all the fight draining out of me. Ellie had glared at me, then checked his pulse, declaring him dead and ordering me to turn myself in. Looking at her tear-filled eyes, I grit my teeth and agreed. Because the death was an accident, and because I’d acted to defend my wife, I was initially sentenced to fifteen years. If Ellie, in her role as a Commander, had pulled any strings, that sentence could have been reduced. But she didn’t just refuse to help; she used her rank to demand a harsher sentence! I stared at her, my eyes burning. She just looked back, coolly. “I’m the Commander, Marc. I have to set an example. If everyone acted like you, the world would descend into chaos.” “But don’t worry, I’ll wait for you.” With those words, my sentence was bumped up to twenty years. For two decades, I suffered constant harassment and torment in prison. When I finally got out and found Ellie, the truth shattered me: it was all a conspiracy engineered by her and Grant! Grant had never died. Ellie had sent me to prison—and demanded a harsher sentence—just so she could be with him. The men who tormented me were her doing, too. In my grief and fury, I’d moved to confront them, only for my mother to show up. In the struggle, Grant had accidentally killed her, and Ellie had framed me for it. I became a parricidal monster, condemned to execution, while they walked away free. The memory made my vision swim with red. I wanted to storm in and slaughter the traitors, but not this time. This time, I saw it clearly: Grant wasn’t forcing her. Ellie was a willing participant, soaking up the sick drama. As the sounds from inside became less suggestive and more explicit, I turned away from the door. I scanned the backyard, my gaze landing on the old utility shed. I slipped in, found the stored gear—mostly dry kindling and old boxes—and a lighter. A quick flick of the wheel. Let them burn in their little love nest. I knew that little fire wouldn’t kill them. So, I walked away, waited for the first wisp of smoke, and then bolted out the front door, acting like the panicked husband returning home. My panicked shouts soon drew the attention of our neighbors in the Base Quarters. A crowd quickly gathered, and seeing the smoke, they rushed to contain the fire. The flames spread fast. Finally, just as the fire was about to lick the edges of their room, Ellie and Grant lost their nerve. Ellie burst out, her clothes disheveled, her neck bearing raw, unmistakable marks. Seeing the gathered crowd, she instantly manufactured a sleepy-eyed expression. “What in God’s name? Why is our house on fire?” I barely contained the hatred twisting my stomach as I looked at her feigned innocence. She glanced at me. I smoothed the rage from my face and spoke calmly. “I don’t know, Ellie. It just started. Where have you been?” “And what happened to your neck, Commander?” Her face froze. She quickly covered her throat with a hand. “N-nothing. Just a bad mosquito bite.” Her stutter drew the attention of everyone nearby. But the fire was the priority. As the neighbors got dangerously close to the bedroom, cold sweat beaded on Ellie’s temples. If Grant Bellamy was found in the room—in their room—it would be impossible for her to explain away. Even with her rank, a scandal involving ‘conduct unbecoming’ would end her career. That’s why, in the last life, she’d gone to such twisted lengths instead of simply divorcing me. “Wait! Stop! That’s enough fire suppression, I can handle the rest myself!” Ellie finally broke, frantically signaling the neighbors to stay back. They paused, looking at her with confusion. I smirked. “Commander, the fire isn’t out yet. Why are you stopping them? Are you afraid they’ll find a hidden guest? Maybe a man you’re hiding in there?” I tossed the last part out like a joke, but my eyes were knives. Ellie’s face went dark. She lashed out, hard, striking my face. “Don’t you dare spread malicious rumors!” she hissed. “I just didn’t want to waste their time and resources. How could you think that of me?” She glared at me, a flash of pure guilt in her eyes. A deep ache flared in my heart. So, she was capable of guilt after all. I’d once believed she loved me. But Grant’s arrival had shown me what she was truly capable of: when she loved him, she threw away every principle, every rule, even human lives. I looked at her, a slow, mocking smile spreading across my bruised face. “If you have nothing to hide, then let them finish the job.” I took a step toward the room. In a panic, she shoved me. I stumbled, hitting my head hard on the concrete sidewalk. Blood immediately welled up. Ellie looked down at me with a mix of revulsion and panic. “Stop this drama, Marc!” The neighbors looked at me with sympathy. “Commander,” one of them spoke up, “why not just let him look? It’s almost out, anyway.” Under the public pressure, Ellie couldn’t refuse again. Her face was set in a tight mask of fury. As everyone waited, the fire was finally extinguished. “Report! There’s a structure fire on the north side. Commander, we need to redeploy immediately!” Just then, a real emergency call came in. In the rush, everyone—except Ellie and me—left. No one cared anymore whether there was a man in her room. But Ellie’s frantic reaction had already planted the seed of suspicion in everyone’s minds. Ellie glared at me, her eyes furious. “Are you satisfied now?” “You just ruined my reputation!” She whirled and rushed into the room, clearly concealing something. I limped after her, only to find the room empty. Grant Bellamy was gone. In a flash, I understood. Ellie had been stalling. The fire on the north side must have been Grant’s signal—a diversion to cover his escape. I fixed an icy stare on Ellie, but when she glanced back, I was expressionless. The house was ruined. As a Commander, she would be quickly relocated. She looked down at me, where I sat bleeding on the concrete. She sneered, a cruel, cold smile. “You were so capable just now, weren’t you?” “Now, find somewhere else to stay tonight. If you can’t, get off the base.” She turned and left, indifferent to my head injury or my embarrassing situation. I stood there, motionless, the night air chilling the blood on my head. I was prepared for this, yet watching her walk away, uncaring, was a slow, twisting ache in my chest. She’d promised eternal loyalty on our wedding day. Finally, long after midnight, a kind neighbor from the Quarters took pity on me and offered me their spare room.

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Ten years ago, Declan was the one who first introduced me to story-driven RPGs. Near the end of the game, I asked him, “I really liked the High Elf I met this morning. Why can’t I find her anymore?” Declan stroked my hair and explained, “She was an NPC who gave you a quest. When the NPC’s task is over, you never see them again. Even if you found a way to glitch to her location, you wouldn’t be able to talk to her.” “But if you really want to interact with her, you can always start the game over.” I sat there, gripping the controller for a long time, then I looked at him seriously. “Declan, you have to promise to marry me someday. Otherwise, you won’t ever see me again, and you won’t be able to talk to me.” The adults laughed, and Declan just smiled. No one took me seriously. Which is why, later, when he decided to marry someone else, he was so utterly reckless. But life is not a game; there are no do-overs. And I was, genuinely, the NPC who would disappear. 1 Two years after Declan and Serena married, I fought my way into the solo finals of the Zenith Siege Global Championship. When the players came on stage for the global broadcast, the esports community erupted. Since my sudden withdrawal and disappearance two years ago, everyone had assumed I’d retired due to an accident. They never imagined I’d switched to the individual circuit. I had no choice. Declan’s influence, as the CEO of Vortex Global, was too vast. If I’d stayed in team play, he would have found a way to control or manipulate my teammates. I was a lone wolf now, owning my wins and my losses. The grueling day-long Grand Finals concluded, and I smoothly secured the Global Solo Championship. In Bratislava, the golden confetti rained down on me, but there was no one to celebrate with. I was twenty-three years old. The road to future championships would only get harder. I lowered my head, kissing the trophy with a profound, quiet reverence. It was a chilly evening, and I didn’t dare walk alone in the unfamiliar city, so I sat outside the stadium entrance, trying to calm my mind. I remembered my eighteenth birthday—my first offline tournament win. When it ended, my teammates and I went to a greasy-spoon diner for an all-night celebration. Declan sat in his Maybach parked on the street, watching over me until dawn. He hated the smell of grease and smoke, so after that night, every time I had a competition, he would pre-arrange a chic restaurant and treat all my teammates and fans to a late-night feast. He wanted me to be happy playing the game, and he wanted everyone to look out for me just as he did. So he preemptively managed every person connected to my career. But now… I pulled my jacket tighter, stopping the thought. I stood up, put up my umbrella, and started walking toward my hotel. A local staff member, a young woman, rushed up to me. “Ms. Qin, Mr. He, the CEO of Vortex Global, is looking for you.” She dialed a number and held the phone out. Expected. The face-reveal broadcast had happened five hours ago—more than enough time for Declan to pull strings and contact the staff here. The call connected immediately. “Kira! Is that really you? I…” Declan hadn’t even finished his sentence when the call cut out, the signal dissolving into static. The staff member frowned and tapped the screen a few times. “Huh? The signal here is perfectly fine. What’s going on?” “Mr. He? Mr. He, can you hear me?” “I can hear you! Give the phone to Kira!” Declan’s voice was sharp, desperate, sounding like he might leap out of the speaker. The staffer quickly handed me the phone, but the moment it was near me and Declan spoke, the signal became abysmal. I quietly pressed End Call. No need to struggle. You can’t win against the universal law. The staffer took the phone back, switching SIM cards, sweat beading on her forehead. “Ms. Qin, could you give me your contact number? Mr. He sounds like he needs to reach you urgently.” I gave her my number, indifferent. Declan wouldn’t be able to get through anyway. As I turned to leave, the staffer called out again. “Ms. Qin, Mr. He just messaged me. He said he’s boarding a flight now and will arrive in Bratislava tomorrow night. He told me to tell you not to wander off. You must wait for him to find you.” “He also said…” She looked at me, a little hesitant to relay the rest. “He also said that if you insist on pursuing your career in esports, you should forget any notion of being able to run away.” Her eyes were complicated, no doubt trying to decode the drama between Declan and me. I smiled, thanked her, and walked away. The truth is, Declan shouldn’t have come. I was even more certain of this the next evening when I saw the news report about a traffic accident. The car carrying Declan inexplicably lost control and slammed into a stone pylon, flipping completely onto its side. The driver was unharmed. Declan was rushed to the hospital with a severe head injury. His assistant finally got through to my phone. “Ms. Qin, where are you? Mr. He is in the ICU, critical condition. I’ll send a car to pick you up.” I refused. “I am neither his family nor his spouse. It is not my place to visit.” I hung up and boarded the plane home. Staring out the window, I couldn’t help but wonder if Declan remembered that ordinary afternoon ten years ago. Did he remember the words he had spoken himself? The NPC’s task is over, you never see them again. Even if he found a way to glitch to my location, he wouldn’t be able to talk to me. I had given him the loophole, the solution—to marry me—but he hadn’t listened at all. The bullet fired years ago was now hitting him square in the forehead. Every world is full of NPCs. And my job was to push the relationship arc between Declan and Serena. As an NPC, I was seemingly destined to be the backdrop for the Son of Destiny, just a tool to advance the main plot through interaction. But sometimes, I wanted to be the main character. Like in the story of my love with Declan. We had an arranged childhood engagement, and he, three years my senior, was so meticulously attentive that he gave me the grand illusion that I could fight the world’s pre-scripted main arc. I knew exactly when Declan was meant to fall for Serena. So I tried to take proactive steps. During his freshman year, he was supposed to meet Serena, a classmate. They were meant to be instantly drawn to each other, both strong, intelligent, and driven. Serena came from an ordinary background, and with me—the rich girl he was engaged to—in the way, they were supposed to hesitate and struggle, even with their mutual attraction. My purpose was to create the love triangle, the emotional friction that would slowly, painfully make them realize they were each other’s true love. Then I, the NPC, would be discarded, and they would live happily ever after. That was the original script. To fight the universal script, I forced Declan to go to an international university. Everyone thought I was crazy at the time. Declan had only planned to stay stateside to be near me, fighting for the best score on the domestic college entrance exam just so he could be available. That time, I broke his heart. “If you have to train in the youth league and can’t come to Edinburgh with me, why on earth are you forcing me away?” “Do you know what that distance means to us?” “Are you… are you planning to break up with me?” I shook my head, repeating “No.” No one missed him more than I did. He was my future fiancé, but also my brother. He looked out for me more deeply than my own parents. The separation felt like peeling skin from bone. Yet everything that followed proved how futile I was. The universal script only needed a single, unexpected fellowship grant to send Serena to Edinburgh as well. My efforts were pale and pointless against the world’s rules. They still met. They still got to know each other. Six months after he left, Declan came home for the holidays. I rushed to the airport to pick him up, only to find him with Serena. Compared to my still-unpolished self, they looked perfect together—a golden couple fit for a magazine cover. The sight stung. That night at home, I was direct. “Do you like her?” Declan gave a strained, nervous laugh. “What are you talking about? She’s just a classmate.” The flicker of panic in his eyes wasn’t well-hidden. He had developed feelings. I hired someone to look into their interactions abroad, just to see how far things had gone. If they had held hands or kissed, I would have ended things immediately, played my part for a few years, endured the wedding, and quietly bowed out. But they hadn’t done anything overtly romantic. Even their dinners were always in group settings. Declan found out I had investigated Serena and exploded at me for the first time. “I told you nothing is going on. Why would you hire a PI to check up on her?” “Serena is a simple girl who earned her way through sheer effort, with help from a scholarship. Don’t you dare try to sabotage her.” The defensive look in his eyes cut me to the core. Tears welled in mine as I asked, “Is that who you think I am? A tyrant who uses her wealth to crush others?” Seeing my distress, Declan slowly calmed down. “I’m sorry, Kira. I overreacted.” I accepted his apology, placidly. But after that day, I stayed at the training base more often and rarely went home to the family mansion. Since I wouldn’t go to him, Declan came to me at the base, day after day, rain or shine. I saw him off at the airport when his break ended. He gave me a light hug. “Kira, let’s stop being angry, okay?” “I’m transferring to a university in Chicago after this semester.” My parents scolded me, saying I was immature for constantly causing trouble and making Declan rearrange his life. Declan only smiled and said it was his fault for not giving me enough security. Chicago and our home base were on opposite coasts. He’d be geographically separated from Serena. He reported his schedule to me daily and shared his location. Especially once I turned twenty-one and started entering major tournaments, Declan, a senior in college, never missed a single one of my offline competitions. The cross-country red-eye flights became as habitual as drinking water for him. I slowly started to believe that I could trust him one more time. So, on my twenty-first birthday, when Declan proposed, I accepted. “Kira, we’ll register the marriage next year when you turn twenty-two.” I held out my hand for the ring. And I told him again, seriously, “Declan, you have to keep your word.” “If you marry anyone else, I will truly disappear.” He smiled, accepted my warning, and pulled me into a soft embrace amidst the cheers of our friends. “Don’t worry. Even if you run to the ends of the earth, I’ll find you.” But only a few days after my birthday, Serena came back home. She returned the day I was scheduled for my first international competition. We’d checked my bags, and then Declan took a call from Serena. Immediately, he decided to cancel his trip to accompany me. He apologized profusely, explaining in detail that Serena was facing a terrible, complicated mess. I cut short his lengthy explanation. I knew why she was back and when she’d return better than he did. I turned and walked toward security, telling Declan just one thing: “Just remember to marry me.” Relieved that I hadn’t thrown a tantrum, Declan smiled. “Of course, I will.” He watched me go, not knowing that this single glance would be our last for several years. Two of my teammates suffered from serious jet lag and anxiety, leading to critical errors in the competition. We didn’t even make it to the podium. Vicious fans started calling us idiots, hurling obscenities. Because I was the only girl, someone even threw a piece of trash that hit me. Outside the stadium, in fifteen-degree weather, we stood bowing and apologizing until midnight, then walked back to the hotel on empty stomachs. On the way, we were held up by armed robbers and stripped of everything. One of the robbers, panicked, fired a shot. The bullet grazed my thigh. We made it to the hospital. Since it wasn’t a life-threatening injury, they told us to wait. At dawn, a teammate finally borrowed a phone to call for help, and we all called home. I’m an NPC, lacking deep emotional ties to my parents, so I called Declan directly. But the first thing he said when he picked up was: “Kira, I’m so sorry. I have to marry Serena.”

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It was my birthday. Spencer Reid had just posted on social media, teasing the “big surprise” he had planned for me that evening. A few hours later, I saw the photo. It was of him and his assistant, Hailey Miller, riding one of my horses together. His collar was open, exposing a patch of chest where an angry red cluster of fingerprints stood out against his skin. The caption read: [My first time, thanks to him.] The comments section was a chorus of suggestive jokes: [Jealous of anyone who gets to touch that chest.] [That’s a tricky position to master.] Spencer had specifically Liked that last one. My heart went utterly cold. I had always thought he just loved riding horses. I hadn’t realized he enjoyed riding that kind of horse. I personally bathed the horse, washing away every trace of the afternoon. Then, I signed the stables over to him, free and clear. “You can give the rest of the horses to whoever you want. Pick and choose.” Watching the look of pure, unadulterated delight on his face, I finally agreed to the family alliance marriage my father had been pushing. 1 I arrived at the Hudson Valley stables just after three. I parked my car and immediately saw a man and a woman on horseback in the distance. Spencer’s shirt buttons were all undone. Even the snap on his jeans was open. Even from this distance, I could see the fresh marks on his chest. Those raw, red trails that only a woman leaves in a moment of passion. Anyone who wasn’t blind knew exactly what had just happened. I snapped a picture and sent it to Spencer. He glanced at his phone and spun around. When he saw me, his brow furrowed in a sharp, irritated crease. As he swung down, Hailey, the assistant, lost her balance and tumbled straight into his embrace. She muttered something in his ear. Spencer’s tense expression softened, and he laughed, saying a few casual words to her. When he finally walked up to me, he still wore that faint, easy smile. I watched their casual, oblivious intimacy, the way they moved as if the rest of the world were just scenery. It was in that moment that I finally understood: everything had been my own self-deception. The surprise was never for me. I thought of how I had spent the morning preparing for my “surprise.” Pushing all my meetings, canceling all my engagements. I had even had the house professionally cleaned and bought the vintage sports car Spencer had been hinting at. Today wasn’t just my birthday; it was our eight-year anniversary. Spencer had forgotten all of it. Not only had he forgotten, but he had allowed another woman to ride my prize show horse—a horse I had personally nursed and cared for. Had he stopped belonging to me too? I clenched my fists, pressing down the violent surge of rage in my chest. Hailey stepped forward, planting herself between Spencer and me, and offered a practiced apology. “Ms. Bennett, the client we’re pursuing is a huge equestrian enthusiast. Spencer only brought me here to help me develop my skills for the company. You aren’t mad, are you?” The way she framed it—making it seem like all her actions were for the good of the company, and any anger from me would be an irrational outburst—almost made me laugh. It had been years since anyone dared to speak to me with such thinly veiled condescension. “Not at all. I’m not mad. Just know that if that deal falls through, you’ll be resigning for cause.” Hailey froze. “Ms. Bennett, securing the deal depends on the terms of the agreement, not on me personally.” I gave her a cold smile. “So, how exactly does riding the horse help the company?” “I—” My gaze iced over as I looked her up and down. “You seemed quite skilled just now. Had lessons before?” Hailey clearly didn’t know what game I was playing, but she had to answer. “A few times, when I was a kid.” She was skilled enough to know about horses. She would certainly recognize my Quarter Horse—the champion racer I’d acquired a few years ago for two million dollars. I was about to press her further when Spencer cut in. He wrapped an arm around my shoulder, pulling me toward the parking lot. “Enough, Row. I brought her to give her an experience. Don’t make such a big deal out of this.” “Besides, you only own these horses; you hardly ever ride. We just took one out for the afternoon. You certainly don’t mind.” I stopped dead, pulling myself out of his grasp. “I do mind.” I looked him straight in the eye. “I bought that horse as a foal. I’ve cared for him meticulously. I wouldn’t even ride him myself. Hailey doesn’t have the right to touch him, much less ride him without my permission.” My voice was low and deadly. “You brought someone here to my property without asking. Did you show me any respect?” I gestured to the saddle. “What’s on the leather? Should I send a sample to a lab?” The air immediately thickened. Hailey quickly dropped her head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Bennett. It was my fault.” Then, she pivoted back to Spencer. “Spencer, please don’t fight because of me. It’s not worth it.” She knew I was angry due to jealousy, but she immediately spun it into a corporate drama, positioning me as the unreasonable boss fighting with the hardworking assistant. It was a clever maneuver. I saw the welling tears in her eyes and couldn’t help but smile. “Hailey, you love riding so much? I’ll buy you a horse. You can ride it whenever you want.” She looked up, eyes wide with disbelief. I kept my voice low and cutting. “But remember your place. You are an assistant. You are not to take anything that doesn’t belong to you.” Spencer finally realized I was truly enraged and rushed to appease me. “Rowan, I’m sorry. It’s our anniversary, and your birthday.” He leaned in, whispering in my ear. “I didn’t get you a gift this year, but I thought… I’d give you myself.” He subtly turned his neck, showing me the small silk bow tie he had tied around his collar. I’ve known Spencer for ten years, and we’ve been together for eight. Whenever he forgot my birthday, he always used this move to beg for forgiveness. Eight years, seven times I’d fallen for it. I thought this year would be different. This was the last year before our agreed-upon wedding. But I was wrong. The same pattern was the only consistent thing. From the very beginning, I was the one investing the most. I was silent throughout dinner. He tried to charm me, telling jokes and asking about my day. But after only two attempts, he grew impatient and withdrawn. It wasn’t until we got home that his easy demeanor returned. He kissed me lightly on the mouth. “I’m going to shower first. Wait for your gift.” I followed him into the bedroom and saw the spread of toys and props scattered across the bed. Clearly, for later. This was the other reason I had been so devoted to him. He always knew exactly how to manipulate my anger back into submission. My gaze darkened. I grabbed a pair of underwear and headed to the guest bathroom to wash up. The moment I stepped in, I knew something was wrong. In the trash can were a pair of discarded women’s lace lingerie and a thong. Used. The daring cut and floral lace were styles I had repeatedly refused to wear, despite his urging over the years. My heart plummeted. It hit the floor and shattered. I sat on the edge of the bed and waited for him. Spencer emerged wearing a sheer, silk shirt and picked up a pair of fuzzy cat ears, placing them on his head. “Rowan, help me with the tail, okay?” I held the faux tail, unmoving. “Why are there women’s underwear and lingerie in the guest bathroom trash?” Spencer froze, his eyes widening in obvious panic. “That… I don’t know. I’ll ask the cleaning service tomorrow if they accidentally left something behind.” “The cleaning crew is a team of professionals, Spencer. They don’t wear lace thongs. And you know what the lace looks like.” “I…” He quickly stood up, his panic palpable. He fumbled for an excuse but couldn’t find one. Then, his phone rang, sharp and intrusive. He picked it up, and after two sentences, his face went white. He tore off the cat ears, grabbed a jacket, and headed for the door. I grabbed his arm. “Where are you going?” “Hailey was in a car accident on the way home. She doesn’t have any family here. I have to go to the hospital.” I didn’t let go. “Call HR. Tell them to send a representative. You don’t need to go personally.” Spencer’s face contorted in anger. “Rowan, can you stop being so self-centered? She’s struggling in this city, she’s all alone, and I’m just trying to help her. Are you seriously going to be jealous over that? God, you’re so immature!” His fury made all my efforts feel pathetic. My last sliver of hope evaporated into disappointment. As he stormed out, I called my father. “Dad. I agree to the alliance.” After Spencer left, I looked around the house we had shared for five years. I bought it and gave it to him the year the company went public. I wanted it to be our home, not just a house. Ten years ago, I fell for Spencer at first sight. It took me two years of relentless pursuit to get him to agree to date me. After graduation, I cut ties with my family, refusing my father’s order to return and take over the empire. I left my childhood friends, my environment, and started over here with him. He just said Hailey was alone in this city. Was I not alone, too? What had I gotten in eight years? His lies, and a distance that grew wider every day. Because I had severed ties with my father, I couldn’t touch the family business. I had been forced to pivot to an industry I barely knew: entertainment and media. In the early days, we built the company side-by-side, scrambling daily just to keep the lights on. That was when our relationship was at its best. Then, the company went public. Everything changed. He met more people, his ambition swelled, and he started to resent my cautious strategy. He called me a drag on the company’s growth. Fine. I wouldn’t drag him down anymore. I spent the entire night packing my things. At dawn, I received a text from Spencer. [Hailey’s leg is hurt. I’ll be at the hospital taking care of her for the time being.] I replied with two words: Up to you. The next day, I went into the office and started an audit. I contacted our lawyers to initiate the equity division. When we founded the company, I had initially planned to give him all the shares. But he insisted he didn’t want to take advantage of me, so we signed an agreement stating that the equity could be split 50/50, with the final decision resting with me, no further consent needed. I signed my name right next to his signature from eight years ago. Time felt like an illusory arrow, flying across eight years to pierce my heart. I was busy until two in the afternoon before realizing I hadn’t eaten. Spencer walked in, followed by Hailey, who was leaning heavily on crutches. He set a takeout container on my desk and told me to eat. “Your secretary said you’ve been working non-stop and haven’t eaten. Why are you doing this again?” He looked at me with an air of exasperated disappointment. “Didn’t you promise me you’d take care of yourself?” I looked at Hailey. “I thought you were hospitalized?” Spencer gave a slight smirk. “She said the company is too busy, and she felt bad taking leave. She even closed a major deal this morning. Rowan, Hailey is genuinely talented. Can you please drop the attitude about yesterday?” I stood up, moving toward the food. “Fine.” Since I was leaving, there really was no point in arguing. As I walked past Hailey, she reached out and grabbed my sleeve. “Mr. Reid—I mean, Ms. Bennett. I know you’re still upset with me, but I promise I will remember my place from now on.” She lowered her voice. “Could you please rescind the disciplinary action? Everyone in the office is gossiping about me.” Spencer frowned. “What disciplinary action?” Hailey showed him her phone notification. “HR wrote me up for malicious absence yesterday.” Spencer instantly pulled out his own phone, ready to call the HR department. “She was absent. That’s a fact. Calling them now will only make the gossip worse.” My calm observation made Spencer’s face darken. “Why are you doing this?” “I’m following company policy. She was absent.” Spencer suddenly slammed his hand on the desk, rising to his full height. “Don’t use policy to control me! You’re the CEO! You make the rules! You know I’m the one who took her out. What you’re doing now is making me look like an idiot!” I took a slow bite of my food. “Collateral damage. My apologies.” “You!” Hailey looked between us, her expression shifting from panic to distress. She rushed to apologize. “I’m sorry, I’ll take the punishment, Ms. Bennett. Please don’t be angry at Spencer because of me… Ah!” Her body twisted, and she fell directly onto the glass coffee table. The food and soup scattered, soaking her clothes. “Ms. Bennett, why did you push me?” Spencer shoved me away, his face etched with horror and rage. He immediately crouched down beside Hailey. “Are you okay? Where does it hurt?” He looked up at me, his face twisted with accusation. “Rowan Bennett, take your anger out on me! Why involve an innocent third party?” I was caught completely off guard by his push and fell backward onto the shattered pieces of the ceramic cup. “I didn’t push her.” Spencer glared at me, his eyes shining with fury. “Did she just fall on her own, then?” I managed to sit up, carefully moving away from the broken glass. Blood welled up from my palm and dripped onto the white carpet, spreading quickly. Spencer registered the blood for a split second, but Hailey’s pained cry cut him off. “Spencer, my leg hurts so much.” He immediately panicked, pulling out his phone to dial 911. “I’m taking you to the ER right now.” He shot me one final, venomous look. “Rowan Bennett, I’ll deal with you when I get back.” When the paramedics and nurses came to lift Hailey onto the gurney, Spencer didn’t spare a single minute to ask them to look at my hand. “Spencer, Ms. Bennett is hurt, too…” Hailey murmured as they wheeled her away. Spencer scoffed. “It’s just a scratch. She won’t die. She brought it on herself. If she hadn’t pushed you, none of this would have happened.” I closed my eyes silently. When I opened them again, every trace of doubt was gone. Leaving was the only choice left. For the next week, Spencer didn’t come home, nor did he check in. The only message I received was the text he sent the day Hailey was hospitalized. [Because of your shove, her fractured leg is now fully broken. Rowan, I never knew you were such a cold-blooded person. You’ve been so cold that I’m starting to doubt if our relationship was the right choice.] I was already set on leaving, but the words still caused a sharp, painful ache in my chest. He had condemned me, based only on Hailey’s word. He didn’t even bother to check the security footage. I typed out my response, word by word: [If that’s the case, let’s break up.] But when I hit send, I received a red exclamation mark. He had blocked me. I tossed my phone aside and officially began the process of transferring my equity. My half of the company was worth at least a hundred million dollars now, and I wasn’t leaving it behind. I transferred all my shares to a trusted friend. Before signing, the friend asked me repeatedly, “Are you sure you want to give us these shares? This is the final step; you and Spencer will be done for good.” “You loved him for so many years. You were planning the wedding. Can you really let go?” I signed my name with a steady hand. “We’re done.” It wasn’t just that I wanted to end it. Spencer no longer wanted me. Over the next few days, I saw Hailey’s posts constantly on social media. [His homemade chicken soup is delicious, but he’s working too hard. I hope to be the one cooking for him soon.] [Caring for a patient is hard. I promise I won’t let myself get hurt again, because I hate seeing him suffer.] [He looks so cute when he sleeps.] The last post, from the night before, finally included a blurry photo. It was Spencer asleep next to her in the hospital bed. The picture was slightly obscured, but I recognized him instantly. More importantly, I recognized the necklace lying on the bedside table. I had made it for him myself on our one-year anniversary. He had never taken it off. Until now. He had taken it off for another woman. I thought for a moment, then posted my own update. [Who knew leaving the city I’ve called home for ten years could be this simple.] After hitting Post, I turned and walked into the airport.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388653”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel