“The finalized stock option list is out.” Sarah Miller, our Head of Operations, handed me the file. I took it and scanned the names, top to bottom. Ms. Elena, the cleaning staff, 0.1%. The girl at the front desk, 0.05%. Dean Harrison, the new Director who joined six months ago, 0.3%. I flipped through it three times. My name wasn’t there. “Vivian.” Marcus King, the CEO, walked out of his office. “Stock options are for incentivization, and you, as a core player, are already motivated. You don’t need them.” I looked up at him. His smile was perfectly sincere. I smiled back. “Got it, Marcus.” I put the list back on the table, my lips holding the curve of that fake smile. Ten years. 1 My name is Vivian Lee. I’m thirty-five. I’ve been at this company for exactly ten years. A decade ago, we were twenty people. I was Employee Number Eight. Marcus couldn’t afford office space then, so we crammed into his living room and wrote code on the sofa. I didn’t have a desk; I worked hunched over his coffee table. No AC in the summer meant sweat soaking my t-shirts; no heat in the winter meant my fingers were stiff and raw. “Vivian,” Marcus used to say, “just hold on a little longer. When we go public, I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” I believed him. And I held on for ten years. In that time, the company grew from twenty to two hundred people. We moved from a cluttered living room into a sleek downtown high-rise. We went from missing payroll to pulling in tens of millions in annual revenue. Along the way, I led three project teams, trained three of our current project managers. I personally managed eight core clients, which accounted for sixty percent of the company’s total revenue. I thought I was a founding pillar. I thought that when this day finally came, my name would be right at the top of the list. And the result? Ms. Elena, the cleaning lady, got 0.1%. Based on our current valuation, that was $50,000. The front desk girl got 0.05%. Dean Harrison, who’s been here six months, got 0.3%. Me? Zero. I stared at the list for a long time. Sarah walked over, lowering her voice. “Vivian, maybe talk to Marcus? It could be an oversight.” An oversight? I’d been here a decade. How could he possibly forget me? I just smiled and shook my head, saying nothing. That night, my husband, Jake, asked what was wrong. I said, “Nothing.” He saw my face and pressed me again. “The company released the stock option list,” I finally said. “How much did you get?” “Ms. Elena got 0.1%.” “That’s good for her,” he paused. “What about you?” I didn’t answer. He frowned, and the realization hit him. “Goddamn it.” It was one of the few times I’d ever heard Jake swear. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling until morning. Ten years. I worked until ten every night and spent most weekends tethered to my laptop. My mom took our son, Leo, to his first day of kindergarten because I was on a business trip. Jake took time off work to care for Leo when he was hospitalized with a fever, because I was closing a deal. I missed so much life. I told myself it would be worth it. Now, I realized how utterly ridiculous that was. The next morning, I walked into the office as usual. Marcus passed my desk and clapped me on the shoulder. “Vivian, you saw that list yesterday?” “I did.” “The options thing, well, it’s for incentivization,” he said, still smiling. “You’re a foundational player. You don’t need those kinds of carrots.” I just looked at him. He continued, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure your year-end bonus reflects your hard work.” Year-end bonus? Last year, my bonus was $15,000. Dean, in his first year, pulled in $25,000. “Marcus,” I said. “I understand perfectly.” He nodded, satisfied, and walked away. I watched his back, but said nothing more. 2 That afternoon, in the project meeting, Marcus asked me to update the team on the Mr. Thompson account. Mr. Thompson was my biggest client. Eight years we’d worked together. He brought in $4 million in annual revenue. After my report, Marcus said, “Vivian, this project is running smoothly. Make sure you keep that Thompson relationship airtight.” “Will do.” “Oh, and Dean is new, so let him shadow you.” Marcus gestured to the fresh-faced director next to me. “He’s a top-tier MBA, solid on theory, just needs some real-world polish.” Dean smiled at me. “Vivian, I appreciate the guidance.” I smiled back. “My pleasure.” After the meeting, Sarah quietly sought me out. “Vivian, do you know why Dean got 0.3%?” I didn’t respond. “His dad and Marcus were fraternity brothers at State U.” I froze slightly. “It was part of his contract from day one. The equity was baked into the deal.” Sarah lowered her voice even more. “Vivian, you should go talk to Marcus. Don’t let yourself get screwed.” I shook my head. Talk about what? Marcus had already laid it out. I was a foundational player; I didn’t need incentivization. Translated, that meant: You’ve been a loyal dog for ten years. I can deny you equity, and you won’t leave. He was betting on my immobility. Thirty-five, mortgage for another fifteen years, and bills for my parents and my son. Where was I supposed to go? That night, I pulled up a decade’s worth of old work messages. 2014: “Vivian, we’re struggling right now. We’ll hold your salary for a bit. We’ll pay you back once the funding comes through.” 2016: “Vivian, hold tight on the options. We’ll lock you in after the Series B round closes.” 2018: “Vivian, the IPO is close. Just two more years of grind.” 2020: “Vivian, the pandemic hit us hard. We have to postpone the equity plan.” 2022: “Vivian, next year is definitely the year. We won’t forget you.” 2024: The stock option list came out. My name wasn’t on it. I tossed my phone onto the bed. Ten years. That’s exactly how he made it worth my while. Jake sat beside me and handed me a glass of water. “Have you decided what to do?” “Not yet.” “Maybe… resign?” I gave a bitter laugh. “Thirty-five. Where am I going to go if I quit?” He didn’t speak. Neither did I. That was the trap. Stay, and keep being exploited. Leave, and face an uncertain future. Stuck. 3 The next day, I went to work as normal. Passing Marcus’s office, I heard him on the phone. “…Don’t worry, Vivian’s stable. Where can she go, honestly? She’s thirty-five. What company in the Valley is going to want her now?” I stopped dead in my tracks. “…Yes, I thought this through. Give options to the old guard like her, and you have to give them to everyone. We won’t have enough left in the pool…” I didn’t need to hear the rest. I turned around and walked back to my cube. My heart was racing, but strangely, I wasn’t surprised at all. That afternoon, Sarah found me again. “Vivian, I need to tell you something.” “What is it?” “Dean’s equity is more than 0.3%.” I looked up. “I saw it in the HR system. He has an additional 0.2% in options. Total is 0.5%.” Zero point five percent. At our current valuation, that was $250,000. A new hire, here for six months: $250,000. Me, ten years: zero. “Vivian, you look awful,” Sarah said, worried. “I’m fine.” I forced a smile. “Just going to the restroom.” I walked into the bathroom and stared at the woman in the mirror. Thirty-five. Fine lines around my eyes. The dark circles looked like bruises. I gave the best years of my life to this company. And what was the return? “You’re a foundational player. You don’t need incentivization.” “Where can she go? She’s thirty-five.” I took a deep breath and splashed cold water on my face. When I came out, I bumped into Dean. “Vivian, are the materials ready for the afternoon meeting?” he asked, smiling confidently. I looked at him. Top-tier MBA. Suit pressed sharp. Full of ambition. Six months in, 0.5% equity secured. Me, ten years, nothing. “They’re ready,” I said. “You’re always so reliable, Vivian.” He gave me a thumbs-up. “I still have so much to learn from you.” Learn from me? You have 0.5%, and I have 0%. You’re asking me for advice? I smiled. “Anytime.” That evening, when I got home, I made a decision. I opened my laptop and updated my resume. Ten years of experience. Managed a hundred-person team. Secured eight core clients. Contributed millions in annual revenue. The moment I hit ‘Send’ on that first application, I felt a sudden, profound lightness. I helped carry this company from twenty people to two hundred. And in the end, I was valued less than the cleaning staff. If that was the case, then I owed Marcus King nothing. Three days after submitting my resume, a headhunter called. “Vivian Lee? I’m Amy from Elite Search. I have a few roles that would be a perfect fit.” The voice on the other end was polished and professional. “Tell me about them.” “There’s a publicly traded company looking for a Regional Director for the East Coast. Your background is highly sought after.” “What’s the salary range?” “Starting at $250,000, plus equity.” I blinked. $250,000. My current salary was $150,000. “How much equity?” “0.1%. Guaranteed in the contract.” Zero point one percent. More than Ms. Elena. “Are you interested in scheduling an interview?” “Yes.” I hung up the phone and sat at my desk, stunned.

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Rhys Kincaid, my husband, told me he was a ‘Narrative Corrector’, the linchpin who would lead me to save the world from the Xylosian Swarm. He promised I would stand beside him, revered by the masses. Now, I was a captive of the Swarm, ravaged and parasitized, my body a living incubator for alien spawn. In the throes of sheer, blinding despair, I subconsciously forced a connection to Rhys’s secure comm-channel. I heard his conversation with the World-Mind, the cosmic conscience of our reality. “Rhys,” the voice echoed, laced with urgency, “I tasked you with correcting the timeline to save the world. Why, then, have you delivered your own wife to the Swarm?” Rhys’s tone was cold, clinical. “My trade with the Swarm ensures the world’s survival.” “They originally requested Willow, but she’s too delicate. She wouldn’t survive the production process. Besides, she and I share a co-life contract. Rowan Maxwell had to substitute. Once this is over, I will compensate her.” It was him. The man who had sworn to protect me was the one who had condemned me to this hell. As the alien creatures violated my body to implant their eggs, I closed my eyes, the fight draining out of me… 1 “Initiating the delivery of the three-hundred and sixty-seventh spawn!” Something vast and foul writhed inside me. A tearing, seismic pain shot up from below. I jolted awake from a brief, merciful blackout. Faintly, the voices came again—the World-Mind and Rhys. “How much longer until your deal with the Swarm is complete?” Rhys’s voice was utterly devoid of emotion. “Who knows. I promised the Swarm that Rowan would incubate a thousand eggs for them. We are nowhere near done.” The World-Mind hesitated, a sound of genuine pity cutting through the link. “But your wife is fading fast. She’s been in continuous labor for nearly three days, enduring birth trauma every ten minutes. We must extract her. We need to find another way.” “No!” Rhys’s refusal was immediate, final. “A third of the task is complete. We will not abandon the path now.” A bitter, chilling agony spread through my chest, eclipsing the physical pain. I closed my eyes in self-mockery. Five years into the Xylosian invasion of the Stellar Union, I had developed the Bio-Interference Serum, the first effective counter to the Swarm’s communication system. I’d risked my life going out to find more Xylosian samples for precision testing. The Stellar Government had assigned a full protection detail, but Rhys had stepped in, insisting he protect me himself. I thought it was love—a husband’s deep-seated devotion. It was only days ago I realized the truth: a cold-blooded manipulation designed to modify the timeline and seal his bargain. Freshly hatched Xylosian young, no bigger than my thumb, crawled onto my chest. Their needle-like mouthparts pierced my skin, drawing out a foul, nutrient-rich fluid. A fierce jolt of agony made my entire body seize, followed by another sickening tear below. I couldn’t hold back the scream, the tears blurring my vision until my face was slick with them. I couldn’t accept that Rhys could do this to me. We were high school sweethearts, inseparable. He, the rising star of the Stellar Fleet, claimed he was sick of the cold, dynastic politics of the elite families and only wanted a simple, happy life with me. I had defied my own family’s expectations and married him. When the Swarm attacked, I worked relentlessly, driven by the desire to be a partner worthy of standing beside him. I risked parasitism every day, immersed in my research. I finally cracked the code—the Serum—three months into my own pregnancy. Now, I was a disgusting, broken vessel, a mother bug, endlessly spawning alien larvae. My own child, the one Rhys and I had made, was nothing but a casualty, a forgotten source of nutrition. Suddenly, the World-Mind’s voice was frantic in the comm-link. “Rhys, the Hive Lord is approaching! Rowan can withstand the drones, but if the Hive Lord violates her, she will die!” Silence. Rhys was silent. I waited, a sliver of desperate hope flickering. Maybe the years of marriage, the shared history, would finally break through. Maybe he would save me. His cold, flat voice crushed that hope to dust. “She can take it.” The World-Mind sounded genuinely horrified. “Rhys, she is your wife! Even to save the world, how can you let her endure this?” “Since she is my wife, it is her duty to shoulder my burdens,” he snapped. His voice rose, edged with a frantic, volatile energy. “In the last timeline, the Swarm won. We all died. It was Willow, her sacrifice, that bought us this reboot. I signed a co-life contract with her—if she dies, I die. I will not let her come to harm this time. As for Rowan, once she has birthed the eggs, I will compensate her.” It wasn’t just me he was sacrificing. He was doing it for her. He had always claimed Willow Sinclair sacrificed her life to grant him this do-over. The co-life contract, he said, bound them in life and death. That explained the endless indulgence. Willow wanted to be in the Research Corps, so he pulled strings to make her my assistant. She wanted to travel with the fleet, and he defied the government to keep her close. I fought him on it countless times. Each time, he would pull me into his arms, his voice steady and earnest: “Ro, you are my wife, the only woman I truly love. Willow is just… a sister. She has no one. I’m just looking out for her.” But I never imagined he would sacrifice my life to protect hers. I watched the massive, grotesque body of the Hive Lord slither slowly toward me. I closed my eyes, resigning myself to oblivion. I woke up in a medical bay, surrounded by ruin. Rhys was there, kneeling beside the gurney. His eyes were red, his expression a mask of profound grief. “Ro, I’m so sorry. I failed to protect you.” I looked at that face, the one I had been so madly in love with, and felt a scorching hatred that made my bones ache. I wanted to see him reduced to dust. I masked the venom in my eyes, letting a few weak tears slip down my cheeks. My voice was barely a whisper. “Rhys… why did it take you so long to come for me?” The hand stroking my hair flinched, and his eyes darted away, thick with guilt. “The fleet was cut off by the Swarm. We fought for a week straight before we could breach the perimeter and find you.” “I will protect you from now on, Ro. I promise. No matter what state you are in, I will always love you.” He covered my naked, broken body with his own uniform and carried me back to the base. The medics gasped when they saw my body—the raw, destroyed tissue on my chest, the horrific trauma below. What terrified them more were the hundreds of unhatched eggs still lodged deep in my uterus and lower intestine. They feared infection and mutation. No one moved to touch me. Rhys’s face darkened. He snarled, “What are you waiting for? Save her! If she dies, I’ll take this entire base down with her.” The staff exchanged silent, panicked looks. They remained frozen. Then, a tall figure in a clean white coat stepped forward, calmly taking charge of my wounds. Rhys remained by my side, murmuring soft reassurances. “Just a little longer, Ro. Don’t be afraid. I’m right here.” A cold, metallic device entered my body, meticulously extracting the remaining eggs. The fresh trauma to my wounds was too much. I blacked out again. When I next awoke, Rhys was holding my hand, his face etched with sorrow. “Ro, trust me. I will exterminate the Swarm one day. I will avenge you.” I closed my eyes, unable to look at his fake sincerity any longer. My love, my hope, my respect for him—it was all gone. Now, only profound disappointment and hate remained. Rhys was about to speak again, but a sickeningly sweet voice interrupted him. “Rhys, darling, I heard you were back.” Willow Sinclair walked in, looking like a celebrity arriving at a gala. Her fluffy skirt, lace, and ribbons made her look utterly ridiculous and completely out of place in a war-torn medical bay. While I had been covered in filth, working myself sick in a lab coat, Rhys had kept her blooming like an exotic flower. The moment she saw me, Willow let out a theatrical shriek and recoiled, burying her face in Rhys’s chest in manufactured terror. “Ah! A ghoul!” Rhys smiled indulgently, stroking her hair. “It’s okay, Willow. It’s just Ro.” Willow stared at me, her eyes wide with feigned shock, then turned a tearful, wounded expression to Rhys. “Rhys, I… I didn’t know it was Ro. She looks so terrifying. I didn’t mean it.” Rhys just hushed her, his comfort focused entirely on Willow. I managed a cold, internal sneer. She insulted me, but she gets the sympathy. Rhys used to accuse me of being jealous, paranoid, claiming he and Willow were innocent. I had clung to the belief that his love for me was real. Reality had just punched me in the face—repeatedly. Rhys left, citing urgent fleet business, but left Willow to ‘look after me.’ She stepped closer, her expression shifting to one of undisguised revulsion. “Disgusting. Ro, just look at you. Aren’t you sickened by yourself?” “I heard the doctors pulled hundreds of eggs out of you. Rhys is putting on a brave face, but he must be utterly repulsed. If I were you, I’d take my own life. I wouldn’t have the face to live.” I chuckled, a hollow sound. “You don’t need to worry about my husband and me.” We were legally married, protected by the Stellar Union’s laws. As long as that piece of paper existed, Willow was nothing more than an ugly footnote. Willow’s face contorted into something genuinely ugly. She lunged, pinching the raw, exposed flesh on my chest wound. “You filthy slut, violated by the Swarm! Why do you still cling to his side?” “As Rhys’s true intended, I have to clean up his messes and dispose of you.” She pulled out two injectors. A cold dread, colder than the metal on my body, seized me. “What are you doing?” I rasped. “You’re riddled with eggs. You must be parasitized.” “One of these is the Xeno-Inhibitor. The other is a Xylosian Pheromone Accelerant. I was torn, but Rhys said you’ve produced so many already, why not just let you transform into the disgusting, low creature you are?” I stared at Willow, horrified. I couldn’t believe it. I had led a team to develop the Inhibitor—the one thing that could save countless citizens from mutation. My life’s work, about to shock the entire Stellar Union. Rhys had given my crowning achievement to Willow. And now he intended to turn me into a monster. I was already compromised. The Inhibitor was my only hope. The Accelerant would seal my fate. Rhys was sacrificing me, then turning me into a monster, all for Willow. “Willow Sinclair, you wouldn’t dare!” My eyes bulged. I struggled to sit up, but the movement ripped open my wounds, sending a searing shockwave through me. “Don’t fight, Ro.” “I’ll take your place by Rhys’s side, adored by the public. You, my dear, can rot in hell.” She slammed one of the injectors into my arm. The Pheromone was a corrosive fire. My cells began to tear and boil. I screamed as the world dissolved into blackness. When I next awoke, my mind was foggy, my body numb with a constant, deep ache. I demanded to see Rhys. The nurses told me he and his fleet had already left for the Capitol Station. A suffocating dread settled over me. Without the Inhibitor, I would mutate into a monster. Begging and pleading, I managed to convince a small rescue team to pursue the fleet. We were lucky—a solar flare anomaly had delayed their take-off. The fear of turning into one of them fueled a desperate, agonizing crawl. I fell at Rhys’s feet, begging him for one dose of the Inhibitor. He looked down at me, his face hard and cold. “Ro, stop this theatrics. This batch of Inhibitor is critical. It must be delivered to Capitol for mass production. I cannot afford to waste a single dose.” I was stunned. I couldn’t believe he refused. Even the accompanying medical staff were appalled. “Commander, Ms. Maxwell will mutate without the Inhibitor! She’s your wife. How can you treat her like this?” Rhys shot me a look so venomous, it made me shiver. “Rowan, you’ll stoop to hiring actors now?” “Willow already gave you the Inhibitor. You are trying to frame her. I have a mission. I don’t have time for your childish, jealous games.” He turned, not even looking back, and strode toward his ship, ordering an immediate launch. The vessel was already spooling up its engines. I grabbed his pant leg, humiliating myself with a final, broken plea. “Rhys, I genuinely need one dose! Just one. Give it to me, and I’ll agree to the divorce. You can have Willow. You can have everything.” My offer only seemed to enrage him. His face darkened. He roughly shook my hand off. “Rowan Maxwell, you wouldn’t dare.” “You will stay here at the base and reflect. I’ll come back for you when you’ve recovered.” He stepped into the ship, reaching for Willow Sinclair, who was waiting at the hatchway, watching us. Willow gave me a sweet, victorious smile. My heart sank, plummeting into a bottomless void. I collapsed onto the tarmac, laughing—a choked, hysterical sound. The laughter seized up, and a horrific surge of blood and raw tissue churned up my throat. I vomited a mouthful of viscera onto the metal deck. The accompanying medics screamed, “She’s transforming! Get back!” A few nurses wanted to help, but the fear of parasitism kept them rooted to the spot, their faces masks of anguish. I would not become a monster. I asked the medic for a blade. I handed them a data file and a video log. “When I am gone, please give this to Rhys Kincaid.” As I plunged the blade into my own heart, a sterile voice echoed in Rhys Kincaid’s mind: “Co-Life Contract Partner Deceased. Commencing Life Countdown.”

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My student of three years blindsided me with a question. “Professor, how does a woman manage to be completely oblivious when her husband has been cheating for six years?” Scandal is always in the news, especially in my field. I told her to focus on her studies and stop gossiping about other people’s lives. That same evening, however, a local city push notification popped up on my phone. “Here’s a treat for my girls.” “My man is 6’2″ with a handle.” In the video, the man, immaculate in a bespoke suit, had one large hand cinched around the woman’s impossibly small waist. The comments section exploded in shrieks of adoration. “Those veins, those thick fingers! Sister, he’s definitely serving you right!” I chuckled softly, ready to swipe the notification away. But my gaze snagged on the diamond ring glittering on the man’s finger. It was identical to the one I had spent countless nights meticulously designing and polishing myself. I froze. I immediately forwarded the video, along with the adoring comments, to the man in question. “Mr. Maxwell, why didn’t you tell me about your, uh, technological improvements?” The account was blocked the very next second. He came home later that night, his face set in a deep scowl. “I married you, why are you always monitoring me!” he hissed. “You don’t need to worry. She won’t have a child. She gets nothing from me but love, and that should be enough for you.” “Why can’t you just let me go?” I’ve never been the type to suffer in silence. That same night, I called my lawyer and started drafting divorce papers. The next morning, his room reeked of stale smoke, the floor littered with cigarette butts. He finally gave in. “I’ll send her abroad, but first, I owe her a graduation trip.” He vanished from my world after that. He didn’t even show up the day our daughter was killed in a car accident, the day of her small, private memorial. I packed up Winnie’s belongings, bought a one-way ticket to the Alps. Since you two are so in love, I’ll just leave. 1 “The court documents, please give these to Owen Maxwell, House Manager.” I handed the legal papers to our house manager. After Owen said he needed to compensate Phoebe for a graduation trip and then promptly disappeared for two full years, I petitioned the court for divorce based on irreconcilable differences and two years of separation. “Madam, you and the Master were so happy once. Is there truly… no room for reconciliation?” The house manager looked at me with a pained, reluctant expression. My gaze drifted past him to the mansion I had called home for eight years. Cold. Barren. Winnie’s birthday was in two days. In previous years, the house would have been bustling with preparations. Now, only a few lights were even turned on. I remembered the video Phoebe had posted on social media two days ago. She was holding a cat wearing a tiny birthday hat. Phoebe was leaning on Owen’s shoulder, smiling. The caption read: “Birthday celebrations for my little baby~ So good to have someone who’s willing to be crazy with you~” The comments were a chorus of “Perfect match,” “So happy,” “Such a great boyfriend,” and “Happy birthday, Kitty.” A cat had a warm home, while my daughter was confined to a cold urn. And the other person in that video was her own father. The irony was a razor slicing through my heart. My eyes welled up. Winnie’s accident had happened five days earlier. I’d called Owen countless times. When he finally answered, all I got was a cold, flat, “Phoebe’s trip ends in a month. Whatever it is, it can wait until I get back,” before he hung up. The next time I called, I was blocked. Thinking about Winnie, who had asked when her father was coming home just before she died—telling me she missed him—my heart was a clenched fist of agony, making it almost impossible to breathe. The house manager was still looking at me with mournful eyes, trying to plead with me to stay. But I wiped the tears from my face, my voice firm. “There is no going back.” “And this, please give this to him as well.” I slipped the diamond ring off my left ring finger and walked to the car without a second glance. On the way to the airport, my phone chimed. A new video from the account I followed. “Hating to leave Venice, ugh. Someone promised we’d come back next year!” Phoebe was kissing Owen’s sleeping cheek. Even a still photo couldn’t hide the dense sweetness between them. I fell into a self-destructive trance, scrolling through Phoebe’s entire feed. Owen had taken her to see icebergs, the Northern Lights. He kissed her romantically next to historic landmarks. A sudden, sharp ache pierced my chest. These were all things he had once promised to do with me. The year we first got together, we impulsively bought a list of “100 Things Couples Must Do.” We each wrote down three dream destinations and swore to go together. When we exchanged lists, Owen’s page was blank. Seeing my confused expression, the young man smiled, his eyes full of love. “Lydia’s wishes are my wishes.” I remember the profound love in that look even now. It was the same look he now gave Phoebe. Antarctica, the Arctic Circle, Paris. They were the three most romantic places I could think of. But after we got married, he never brought them up again. It turned out he hadn’t forgotten. He just wanted to experience them with someone else. I was just about to hit the ‘Unfollow’ button when a message popped up, dragging me out of my spiraling gloom. “Lydia, if you ever need anything, call me immediately. I will always have your back.” 2 My eyes lingered on the text for a moment before I swiped and deleted the number, blocking the contact. A day later, the plane landed. I carried Winnie’s ashes to the Swiss Alps. Her lifelong wish was for her parents to take her here. I never got the chance to fulfill it before she was taken from me. But as I walked into the hotel lobby, I spotted two familiar figures. Owen had his arm around Phoebe’s waist. They were sharing a single, thick scarf, clinging together sweetly as they waited for the elevator. Before I could react, the hotel receptionist followed my line of sight and smiled. The receptionist, a young woman, said, “They’re such a sweet couple, aren’t they?” “The gentleman booked the entire hotel two days ago, just to celebrate his six-year anniversary with his girlfriend. The lady said it would be too lonely, so he reduced it to just one floor of the top suites.” “Otherwise, madam, you wouldn’t have been able to book a room with us today.” I froze. “I’m sorry, did you just say they were celebrating… six years?” The receptionist nodded, but seeing the color drain from my face, she asked if I needed to call the hotel nurse. I bit my lip and shook my head. Six years. Six years. That meant they started their affair right around the time I became pregnant with Winnie. I stared, hatred burning in my eyes, at the two figures by the elevator. Phoebe was my student. She was eager and hard-working; I’d taken her under my wing. And this student, this person I was so proud of, had slept with my husband within the first month I brought her home. I had always thought Owen’s heart had strayed after our ten years together. I could have at least lied to myself that his love for Winnie was real! Now, it seemed he had never loved me, and perhaps, never loved our daughter either. “I’m sorry, I won’t be checking in.” I was near hysterics as I snatched my ID back from the astonished receptionist. As I hurried away, someone suddenly blocked my path. “Professor Winters, is that really you!” Phoebe’s voice, full of feigned surprise and delight, chirped in my ear. I spun around, meeting Owen’s look of utter disgust. “Lydia, are you stalking me?” he demanded. “I said I’d be back after I finished traveling with Phoebe. Do you have to cause a scene now?” “Are you satisfied only after you’ve ruined Phoebe’s trip and completely messed up everyone’s mood?” His blatant accusations almost made me laugh. Was that truly how he saw me? “Owen, honey, that’s too harsh on Professor Winters.” Phoebe batted his arm in a show of gentle anger. Owen instantly softened, even reaching out to stroke Phoebe’s cheek. “I’m sorry. I lost my temper. Did I scare you?” Watching him yield so easily because of one soft word from Phoebe, I was momentarily stunned. Ten years with Owen, and I knew his calm exterior hid a deep, serious streak of male chauvinism. Changing his mind was near impossible. Yet now, he was conceding for Phoebe’s petulant little sound. In a decade, the times he yielded to me were few and far between, and only after relentless arguing. I shook my head in self-mockery. Love and indifference—the difference was so stark. I thought I would feel heartbreak, but there was only cold detachment. “Your movements are all over social media. Do you really think I need to stalk you?” Owen’s brow furrowed at my words, but before he could speak, I continued, riveting his attention. “Besides, we’re divorced, Mr. Maxwell.” 3 “I came here for a solemn reason, not to play a silly game of you-run-I-chase.” As my cold laugh faded, Owen’s face darkened instantly. “Do you think I’d forget whether or not I signed divorce papers?” He sneered. “Lydia, a few days ago you tried to use our daughter to manipulate me. Now, you’ve stooped to this flimsy trick?” Hearing him mention Winnie, my heart was instantly pierced. I took an angry step forward. “My daughter? You have the audacity to mention our daughter?” “I asked you, why didn’t you answer my calls?” “I sent you messages that our daughter was hurt! You saw them, so why didn’t you reply?!” “Do you have any idea that she was asking when her father was coming home right before she died!!!” With every word, I lost more control. By the end, my eyes were blazing red, my body trembling uncontrollably. But Owen still looked at me with disdain, even a flicker of the caution reserved for a madwoman. “The same lie didn’t work once, so you think twice or three times will do it?” “Lydia, do you honestly think I’m an idiot?” “If our daughter had really died, with your temperament, you’d have gone with her. How could you be standing here looking perfectly fine?” Phoebe, pretending concern, reached out to support my arm. “Yes, Professor Winters. You know how much Owen cares for Winnie. How could you think of such a thing to trick him?” “I know you blame me for taking his affection, but tactics like this are exactly how you destroy whatever affection he has left for you.” I violently threw off Phoebe’s hand. “Get away from me! Save your fake pity!” My daughter was gone. What good was a man’s hollow, transient affection? I didn’t think I’d used much force, but Phoebe stumbled and fell dramatically to the ground. “My back! Owen!” SMACK! A sudden, searing pain on my cheek. I clutched my rapidly swelling face, staring dumbfounded at the person who had hit me. Owen seemed surprised, too, that he had actually struck me. His expression was momentarily rigid, a flicker of remorse crossing his features. He started to reach for me. But the moment he moved, Phoebe on the floor immediately clasped her abdomen. “It hurts! My stomach…” Owen’s attention snapped immediately to her. Watching him cradle Phoebe, murmuring reassurances, I gave a sharp, bitter laugh. I turned to leave, but Owen’s voice stopped me. “Hold it right there!” I turned back, my expression empty. “You shoved Phoebe. You think you can just walk away?” His eyes were freezing. “Apologize to Phoebe. Now.” My anger, fueled by his reversed accusation, boiled over into a fierce, mocking smile. “And if I refuse?” We stood in a silent stalemate. Eventually, Phoebe tugged on Owen’s sleeve. “I’m much better, honey. Don’t force Professor Winters. I just lost my footing.” Hearing that, Owen’s fury towards me intensified. “You’re such a disappointment, Lydia. Phoebe is ten years younger than you, yet she has more common sense than you do.” “It seems I protected you too well these past few years, so much that you forgot your place!” “Phoebe will still be coming back with me this time. I’ll have her teach you a thing or two about respect.” I scoffed. All those words were just a clumsy setup to take Phoebe back home. He looked like a gentleman, a successful corporate executive, but he was nothing more than a poisonous snake in a polished suit. Owen took Phoebe and headed to the top floor. I had planned to switch hotels. But outside, the snow had turned into a sudden, vicious blizzard. Reluctantly, I checked in. I prayed the weather would clear tomorrow. Because tomorrow was Winnie’s seven-day memorial. I needed to bury her ashes on the highest point of the Alps to fulfill her final, unachieved wish. 4 Full of anxiety, I didn’t sleep a wink. But the next morning, the blizzard hadn’t stopped. Ignoring the front desk’s warnings, I borrowed a set of extreme weather gear, took Winnie’s urn, and headed up the mountain alone. I was halfway up, taking a short break before pushing on, when the small pack I’d placed at my feet suddenly vanished! It held Winnie’s remains! I sprang up, frantically looking around, and spotted Phoebe nearby, wearing identical gear. “Professor Winters, looking for this?” A look of pure malice spread across her face. “Give it back!” I lunged to snatch it, but Phoebe held the small canister aloft, dodging my hands. She kept it just out of reach. In a fit of fury, I shoved her hard. At that exact moment, Owen arrived, rushing toward us. He roared, “Stop it!” Owen caught a frightened-looking Phoebe in his arms. “Phoebe knew you’d risked going up the mountain in the snow and came out after you despite the danger, and this is how you repay her?!” “How can you be so utterly vicious!” I barely heard his condemnation. My eyes were fixed on the canister in Phoebe’s hands. “Give it to me! Hand it over!” Phoebe shrank back, hiding the canister completely in Owen’s embrace. “What in the hell are you doing?!” Owen had completely run out of patience. The words That’s our daughter’s ashes were on the tip of my tongue. But seeing his tightly knit brows, I caught myself. He would just think I was lying again. “It’s, it’s something very important to me,” I managed, grinding the words out. Phoebe peeked out from behind him. “Since it’s so important, I’ll help you hold onto it, Professor Winters.” “My jacket has a pocket. Don’t worry, it absolutely won’t fall out if I hold it!” I was about to refuse again when Owen cut in. “That’s enough. If you want to hike, go hike. If Phoebe hadn’t been kind enough to worry about you, who would risk their neck to accompany you?” “Don’t drag us down!” “That’s right, Professor Winters. Are you taking it to the summit? Then let’s hurry up. I’ll give it back when we get there.” Every one of my protests was shot down by the two of them.

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After the divorce, I got the shot. The Erasure Shot. It wiped away the five years I’d waited for my husband, Declan, the arms lord who betrayed me. It erased the sheer, gut-wrenching agony of calling him for help when I was violated, only to be told, “Stop faking it.” I disappeared, took a new name, and went to a remote teaching post in the North Carolina Appalachians, a place where no one knew who I was. Three years later, I was teaching a class when someone pushed the door open. She stared at me, her eyes wide with shock. “Lila, you’re alive? Why the hell didn’t you find Declan? Do you know he’s been looking for you for three years? He almost killed himself for you.” I looked back at her, blankly. “I’m sorry, I took the Erasure Shot. I don’t remember any of that.” “Declan who?” The classroom fell into a suffocating silence. An inexplicable panic surged through me, and I instinctively turned toward the window. Beyond the glass, against the reckless burst of spring color, a man stood. His eyes were bloodshot, and he was staring at me with a lethal intensity. The woman who brought him, a teaching supervisor, whispered that he was my ex-husband, Declan. He had once loved me like a religion. Killed his own father for me. Before he went to prison, he gave me the shot. “Lila, you aren’t dirty. My father is the filth.” “Forget this. Keep moving forward.” But I had forgotten everything—the abuse, the prison sentence—except, somehow, the shadow of him. After his release, he saw how skeletal I was. He dove headfirst into the Tri-Border Region and became the biggest arms trafficker in Southeast Asia. Everyone said I was Declan’s untouchable nerve, the treasure he held in the palm of his hand. Until the day I found out I was pregnant, and walked in on him and another woman in a scene that looked like a desperate, final goodbye. I rushed him, screaming like a lunatic. He looked at me, his gaze vacant, and his voice was devastatingly calm. “I told you to forget all of it. Why did you wait for me?” “Lila, are you really that helpless without me?” I froze. Then, I grabbed the syringe of the Erasure Shot and plunged it into my arm. Declan, this time, I will forget you completely. 1 Declan saw my movement and lunged, slapping the syringe out of my hand. “Lila, have you lost your mind!” He locked his hands around my wrists and kicked the small vial across the floor. “How dare you!” The fury in his eyes was volcanic. Before he could catch his breath, there was a soft thud. His most capable enforcer, Sierra, had driven a combat knife into her own side. Blood immediately soaked the black fabric of her tactical gear. “Declan… if Lila can’t bear to look at me, my life isn’t worth a damn.” He released me and moved to press his hands against her wound. Blood spilled between his fingers. He scooped her up and ran, his empty gun holster banging against the door frame. I took two steps to follow him. He spun around by the elevator doors and shoved me away. “Do you think I have to be tied to your side until I suffocate?!” “Lila, are you really that helpless without me?!” He viciously kicked the first aid kit. Vials and gauze rolled everywhere. I wanted to tell him I wasn’t trying to die. I was just trying to forget. But the elevator doors had already closed. That night was a blur of hazy, tearing sleep. I kept dreaming of young Declan, the stolen Harley, parked outside the school gates. He’d tilt his chin. “Hop on. I’ll show you the biggest sky you’ll ever see.” I would rest my head against his back. He’d ride fast, yelling across the empty highway. “Lila, I’m going to stick to you for life!” The dream was so sweet that when I woke up, the pillow was soaked with tears. Declan was standing by the bed. I hadn’t heard him enter. His expression was darkly complex. “Lila, Sierra lost her uterus. She can’t have kids now.” His voice was raw. He raised his hands and gripped his head, as if enduring an unimaginable pain. I could sense his devastation. The room was dark. No lights were on. He lifted the blanket and slid in, pulling me against his back the way he used to. His palm landed softly on my spine. But the next second, a searing, fracturing pain exploded from my little finger. “Ah!” I curled into myself, screaming. He had brutally snapped my little finger back. “Lila, this is what we owe Sierra.” He groaned, a choked sound, and I frantically reached for him… His own little finger was bent back at the exact same angle. Both our hands were slick with blood. I didn’t understand. Why did her self-mutilation demand this payment from me? I just wanted to leave. But he held me tighter, his lips pressing a ghost of a kiss into my hair. “I won’t go see her again.” His voice was utterly exhausted. “I’ll just stay here with you.” Yet, a used condom lay scattered beneath the nightstand, still damp and smelling of a perfume I didn’t own. I couldn’t believe him. My feet were ice cold. He pulled them into his lap and rubbed them, warming them up little by little. “Lila, go to sleep.” I didn’t struggle anymore. I only had one thought: This is the last night. But in the early hours of the morning, his phone exploded with a frantic ringtone. “Declan, Sam’s burning up, a hundred and four. I would never bother you… but he’s crying for his father…” The normally composed woman sounded completely broken. The raw cry of a mother was devastating. Declan bolted upright, the bandage on his hand tearing open. The cold air rushed in when he threw the covers back. I shivered. My heart was colder. Sam… he’s her kid? Is he Declan’s? We’d only just reconnected when he got out of prison. Declan didn’t dare look at me. He snatched his jacket and bolted for the door. A searing pain erupted in my lower abdomen. My hand came away slick with blood. “Declan… help me…” But he slammed the bedroom door and locked it from the outside. “Lila, I swear this is the last time—” His voice was a snarl through the wood. I didn’t have the strength to listen anymore. Before my consciousness dissolved, I plunged the small, hidden vial of memory restorative into my arm. I’d known he was different. When he held me tight at night, he always frowned. “Why are you so thin?” Because he was used to holding the full, supple waist of another woman. He knew my stomach had been shot years ago and I suffered from chronic reflux. He was used to staying out late, claiming he’d taken on a new female enforcer. When he spoke of her, there was a light in his eyes—the same light he’d had when he looked at me the day he was released. I had collected enough disappointment. I had finally decided to leave. I woke up to the smell of antiseptic. Declan’s second-in-command was pacing the floor, clutching my chart. “Ma’am, we have a problem with the cargo at the dock. Declan will be here any minute…” I offered a weak smile and pushed past him. He left me. I knew where he was going. My lower abdomen ached. I leaned against the wall and moved slowly. As I passed a nearby room, I heard suppressed sobbing inside. “Declan, when can Sam and I finally stand by your side, out in the open?” My heart felt like it was being sliced open. After a long silence, I heard Declan’s controlled voice. “Sierra, forget me.” “My family owes Lila. As long as she’s alive, I can’t leave her.” Owes me? Declan, was it all just guilt for these years? My earliest memories started ten years ago. Everything before I was eighteen was a blank fog. I just knew I had to wait for Declan. The sealed memories cracked, and I remembered everything in a rush of pain. I remembered my foster father’s lecherous eyes, and the sight of young Declan’s trembling but resolute knife. I slid to the floor, catching a glimpse through the door crack of Sierra lifting her head to kiss him. He didn’t pull away. “One last time, Declan… then I’ll leave.” His movements were almost violent, a desperate, final goodbye. I watched, numb, silent tears streaming down my face. True love, it seemed, was a primal, impulsive thing—not the cautious, detached care he showed me. I had lived with a catheter for the first few years, and though he nursed me meticulously, he resisted my touch. Now I understood. Perhaps he had never truly wanted me. As I started to leave, a nurse rushed past and knocked me down. “Who’s out there?” Declan yanked the door open. A woman’s lingerie was still draped over his shirt. I finally began to cry out loud. He saw the crumpled discharge papers for a D&C in my hand and froze. “Lila, you… you were pregnant?” “Why… why is this happening now…” My eyes dimmed, but he immediately rushed to explain. “That’s not what I meant.” The hallway was quiet, suffocating. We used to have so much to talk about. I smiled, a soundless, weeping laugh. “If you don’t want it, I’ll just get rid of it.” He grabbed my wrist, shaking his head frantically. His eyes were pleading. “Lila, let’s go home.” He forced me into the car, but didn’t drive toward the manor. “Let’s go get some tacos, okay?” He gripped the steering wheel, nervously watching my expression. I didn’t answer, my heart aching with small, sharp pains. When we were poor at eighteen, our dates were cheap tacos. After his prison release, our few late-night moments of intimacy were often in the parking lot of that tiny taco joint. Declan took a number and put his arm around me as we waited in the noisy crowd. He’d been in the arms business for so long that his presence was a chilling threat. People automatically retreated a few feet from us. It was clear nothing could ever go back to the way it was. “Number 37!” As I started to walk, his phone vibrated again. “Declan, Sierra just signed the fight-to-the-death waiver for The Octagon!” His body went rigid. His knuckles were white on my shoulder. I smiled. “Go. Don’t worry about me.” He turned and walked away again, disappearing down the street without a glance back. Declan drove like a maniac, running seven red lights, cutting the two-hour drive down to forty minutes. My head was spinning. The side effects of the memory restorative were crushing my chest. I instinctively grabbed his sleeve. “Please don’t leave me here alone…” His brow furrowed, and his voice was tightly controlled anger. “I’ve brought you here how many times? Can’t you find your way around?” “Are you a three-year-old, needing someone to hold your hand?” He was moving too fast. He took a corner and vanished. I stood there, bewildered. My memory was failing again. I really couldn’t remember the way to the fight arena. I stumbled, asking a few service people, but the crowd shoved me through a partially open door. Just as I started to apologize, I saw Sierra, bandaging her wounds. She was covered in blood, slumped on a couch. Her ribs looked terrifyingly exposed. She saw me and struggled to sit up. “Ma’am, I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have shown up in front of you two…” “I’ll give Declan back to you. I’ll disappear right now—” Before she finished, she grabbed my hand, placed a combat knife in my palm, and plunged it toward her own chest! Warm blood splashed my face. I looked up in terror, straight into Declan’s furious eyes. “Lila, have you had enough?!” “Just leave me alone, will you? Leave Sierra alone!” He shoved me onto the cold floor, then turned to pull Sierra into his arms. She was soaked in blood, yet she spoke in a faint, wavering breath. “Declan… don’t blame Lila. I deserve this…” Declan looked like a wolf protecting its cub. His eyes were scarlet. “Lila, can you just stop being so hysterical!” The words, spoken in pure rage, were sharp as daggers. “I told you to forget everything! Why did you have to wait for me?!” “With all the girls in the world, why did my father have to target you… If it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t be dead!” Boom. My mind went blank. My head slammed against the cold tiled floor. I started trembling uncontrollably. All the shattered memories came rushing back, each piece soaked in blood. Tears poured down my face. I curled up, sobbing, “Not me… don’t come near me… please don’t…” Declan’s eyes flickered with a flash of regret. He looked at me, then at the nearly unconscious Sierra in his arms. He hesitated for two seconds. Then, he lifted her and ran for the door. “Call a doctor! Get every available surgeon down here!” He was gone again. I spent the entire night curled up in the darkest corner of the locker room, the air thick with blood and disinfectant. Declan found me at dawn. I was frozen stiff. His eyes were a storm of conflicting emotions. He was silent for a long time. “Lila, let’s go to the coast.” I shifted my dry eyes, looking at him woodenly. “You used to say you wanted to get married on the beach.” He reached out to touch my face. I turned away. I truly didn’t remember. The sea, the wedding—it was all washed away by the Erasure Shot, leaving only the relentless, tearing ache in my chest. While Declan packed, I looked at my phone’s memo app and dialed a number. “Professor, you mentioned that teaching spot in the mountains… Is it still open?” When I got a positive answer, I let a small smile touch my lips. It was the first time I’d smiled in days. The day we arrived at the coast, the wind was terrifying. I bent down to pick up a seashell, and when I looked up, I saw Sierra, wearing a lifeguard uniform. I couldn’t clearly remember who she was, but my heart was throbbing with pain. I turned to leave, but she grabbed my hand and yanked me, pulling both of us into the raging waves. “Declan, help! Lila jumped into the ocean!” Saltwater flooded my nose and mouth. My ears were ringing. I fought desperately to get up, but her hands were relentlessly pressing me down into the depths. Just as I felt the onset of asphyxiation, a massive splash erupted beside me. Declan pulled Sierra out first, then hauled my nearly unconscious body onto the sand. Once on the beach, Sierra sobbed, her face deathly pale. “Declan… I don’t know why she pushed me…” “After I left, I had no income, and Sam needs school. I had no choice but to be a lifeguard… please don’t let them fire me…” She was choking on her tears. Declan gently patted her back, his eyes full of sympathy. I was curled up, clutching my lower abdomen, which was throbbing with a heavy, sickening pain. I couldn’t utter a single word. Declan, believing I was guilty, turned on me, his face granite. “Lila, when will you stop with these games?!” “I brought you to the ocean. What else do you want?” “Sierra isn’t like you. She doesn’t have a safety net… she fought tooth and nail to live this long. Do you have to force her to die?!” He grabbed my wrist with punishing force and raised his hand to strike me. I closed my eyes, allowing the cold despair to wash over my entire body. Just then, a shriek went up on the shore. “Blood! She’s bleeding!” “Call an ambulance, fast!” I looked down, dazed, and saw a rush of bright red blood spreading down my leg, staining the sand. The water was too cold. The baby was gone. I stared blankly at the sterile white ceiling of the hospital room, my heart utterly silent. Declan stood by the bed, his gaze cold. “It’s probably for the best it’s gone. Save us all the trouble of having a child like you.” I looked at him, completely lost, and tilted my head slightly. “Who are you?” The air in the room froze for a few seconds. His face darkened violently. “Lila, stop playing dumb!” “You ruined my life and kept me bound for years! How dare you pretend to forget now!” He slammed his fist into the wall, over and over, until blood seeped from his knuckles. Was I… such a terrible person? My heart contracted painfully. I instinctively reached for his shirt, but he shoved my hand away, his eyes blazing red. “Get out!” He slammed the door behind him. The silence in the room returned. I clutched my aching lower abdomen and slowly moved out of the room. As I passed the room next door, I heard a muffled, passionate argument. “Sierra, I can’t just abandon her…” The man’s voice trembled, as if he were fighting an impossible instinct. “I know you think I’m dirty, that I clawed my way out of the slums… Fine! I’ll disappear!” The sound of shattering glass followed. The love between the people in that room was a roaring torrent. Hot and fierce. How could a man like that ever have been my husband? I pressed a hand to my throbbing heart and walked down the deep corridor. The hospital was in a secluded area, and without realizing it, I wandered into a dark alley. A few yellow-haired young men, their cigarettes dangling from their lips, shuffled out, grinning suggestively. “Hey, beautiful. Alone? Come play with us.” I remembered nothing, and the panic made me turn and run. But my post-op body was weak. I was quickly slammed against a damp brick wall. As my dress ripped, I fumbled for my phone and shakily dialed the speed-dial number. “Someone is… attacking me… help me… please, I’m begging you…” “Lila, are you sick in the head?” The phone was kicked away, but his chilling voice echoed down the alley. “Last time you were attacked, I killed my father. Who do you want me to kill this time?” My blood froze instantly. My heart stopped. The busy signal was abruptly cut off. I closed my eyes in complete despair. A mile away, Declan hung up the phone and rubbed his temples, consumed by a familiar, frustrating anger. He figured, at most, Lila would be back by nightfall. She always depended on him, she couldn’t live without him. But the night grew deeper. The corridor remained silent. Sierra came, holding Sam, asking him to tell their son a story. He waved her away and walked onto the balcony to light a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked in years; Lila couldn’t stand the smell. But now, his chest was burning like fire. And she wasn’t here. Declan stared into the smoke, his eyes tumultuous. After this, he swore, he would guard her with his life. At 3:00 AM, his second-in-command called in a panic. “Declan, you need to look at the security feed… I think something happened to Ma’am.

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The first time Alex Thorne cheated with his executive assistant, I had what the doctors clinically diagnosed as a psychotic break. In the throes of a debilitating low, I picked up the kitchen knife on the counter, intending to end it all. “Why are you doing this to yourself, Liz? Did he finally break you?” I looked up. Sixteen-year-old Alex Thorne was walking toward me, his face etched with familiar tenderness. “Tell me who it is,” he murmured softly. “I’ll take care of him for you.” Staring at the bright, earnest look in the boy’s eyes, I didn’t speak. Quietly, I just pointed toward his face. Later, Alex himself was the one who signed the papers to have me admitted to the psychiatric facility. In the brief, lucid moments when the stabilizers kicked in, the boy would sit on my bedside. He would stare at the adult man outside—a face so much like his own—and the light in his eyes would slowly, agonizingly, die out. Then he would struggle to speak, his voice ragged and bloody: “No matter who he is, I’m going to kill him.” Sixteen-year-old Alex Thorne never lied to me. He always meant what he said. 1 When Alex pushed open the door, the overly sweet signature scent of Savannah Wells—his assistant—wafted in ahead of him. His eyes fell immediately to the fresh gauze wrapped around my wrist, and his brow twitched in annoyance. “Liz, I was gone for ten minutes. Can you not cause trouble for five minutes?” He reached out to tear off the bandage, his movements full of a harsh, impatient disgust. I flinched, instinctively pulling my hand to my chest and muttering a soft protest: “Someone already bandaged it for me.” Alex’s hand froze mid-air. The look he gave me was heavy with a deep, bottomless fatigue. In the beginning, when I first started saying someone was protecting me, Alex would just assume my illness was worsening, and he’d hold me tight, his eyes red with genuine distress. But now, my long-term pain had become nothing more than a burden he desperately wanted to shed. “There is no one, Liz. How long are you going to keep up this delusion?” Before I could answer, he roughly seized my wrist. His fingers didn’t soften at my tremble; if anything, the grip tightened, like a punishment. The gauze was forcefully peeled from my skin, tearing the half-dried scabs away. A cold sweat broke out across my forehead, but I stubbornly held the bleeding wound up for his inspection, my voice shaking. “I haven’t lied to you since I was fifteen. You know that…” Meeting the fractured light in my eyes, he seemed to remember something. His gaze darted away for a fraction of a second, and he turned to leave. “What about you?” I called after his retreating back, a sour burn rising in my nose. “Did you lie to me?” Alex’s posture stiffened in the doorway. He wouldn’t look back at me. He didn’t answer. Sixteen-year-old Alex Thorne was terrible at lying. Thirty-year-old Alex Thorne’s silence was his answer. A few seconds later, he called out a cold command to the hallway: “Mrs. Davis! Take every knife, every shard of glass, everything sharp in this house, and destroy it!” “If I see the Madame with anything like this again, you’re fired!” Mrs. Davis, the housekeeper, shuffled in, mop in hand. As she began to clear up a few objects, she mumbled under her breath: “When will the Madame get better? Mr. Thorne is truly suffering.” Suffering? I looked down at the slow, meandering lines of blood on my wrist. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Alex, you don’t love me anymore. Why won’t you just let me go? Why drag us both through this agony? Lost in my thoughts, Savannah Wells strode into the villa without bothering to change her shoes. She looked every bit the lady of the house as she casually reached up to smooth the lapel of Alex’s suit jacket, which I must have mussed earlier. Even looking at the small pool of blood on the carpet, her expression remained perfectly poised and sympathetic. “Liz,” she said, stepping toward me with false sincerity. “If you’re even halfway stable, you should release Alex. It’s painful for everyone to watch him suffer like this.” The faint perfume that had trailed Alex into the room suddenly became cloying and intense, making my stomach churn. I bent over, dry-heaving. Through blurred vision, I reached out a desperate hand, trying to grab the fabric of Alex’s trousers. The moment my fingers brushed the expensive wool, Savannah gasped dramatically and clutched her abdomen, swaying slightly. Alex saw my movement and instinctively shoved me. I tumbled back onto the floor, and the raw wound on my wrist scraped against the rough carpet, creating a fresh, sickening bloom of crimson. “Are you dizzy? Is it your blood sugar? I’m taking you to the doctor.” Alex wrapped his arm around Savannah, and they practically ran out together. Before the door swung shut, Alex looked back at me. Silhouetted against the light, I couldn’t make out his features, but I clearly understood his expression. It was pure relief, the kind of freedom you get when you finally drop a heavy, suffocating weight. Our love was over, and his new one was just beginning. Perhaps the housekeeper was right. Perhaps Alex had truly suffered by my side. As that thought sank in, the vision of the school-uniformed boy appeared before me again. He looked at me, and silent tears streamed down his face. He wanted to touch me, but he couldn’t. His fingers trembled in the empty air. “Liz, you are the most beautiful girl I have ever met. Please, leave him.” I lifted my hand and laid it over the boy’s eyes. My palm was met with a chilling, empty void. “I’ll go with you.” As a wave of suffocating despair washed over me, I felt as though I was truly falling into a single embrace. Only there. Only with sixteen-year-old Alex Thorne. I was eternally loved. Being loved by Alex Thorne had been the superpower of my youth. When I was fifteen, my family was ruined and my parents died. The arrogant boys who had once been my secret admirers cornered me at the school gates, laughing as they shredded my uniform. It was sixteen-year-old Alex, a furious, caged animal, who fought them all, leaving blood streaming down his face. The sunset that day was red, like spilled wine. He screamed at me, his voice ragged: “Run!” “Liz! Don’t look back! Just run!” When I finally returned to find him, the face that was always so full of fierce pride was bruised and swollen. But the way he looked at me held a heat that was almost scalding. “Don’t be afraid, Liz. You still have me.” He gently wiped a tear from my eye, his warm breath fanning across my face. It felt so hot, it made me want to cry: “Liz, I, Alex Thorne, will never, ever lie to you. I will always be loyal to you.” The boy’s vow was solid and profound, scorching my heart. I didn’t know then that a promise is only truly sincere the instant it is spoken. The year after we were married, that love was eroded by the bottomless pit of my family’s debts. He almost bankrupted himself. The scorching heat in his gaze was gone, replaced by a deep, hollow fatigue. After a long, cold stretch of memory, my mind cleared. Today was our fifth wedding anniversary. I put on the white dress he used to love and waited from sunset until deep into the night. No flowers. No embrace. Just the sterile emptiness of the room and the clamor of the Thorne Group’s charity gala live-streaming on my phone. Even in the massive crowd, I saw him instantly. He was smiling gently, carefully fastening a necklace around Savannah Wells’s throat. The camera zoomed in. It was a Celestial Promise pendant. Tiny scattered diamonds—stars—were set to embrace and cradle a crescent of silver—the moon. My breath stopped entirely. It was the exact design I had sketched in my notebook when I was fifteen. The day Alex confessed his love, he pointed to that drawing, his voice shaking with earnestness: “Liz, when I’m rich someday, I promise I’ll have this made.” “The stars will never lie to the moon.” “And I will never break my promise to you.” Now, he had made it. And he had fastened it around the neck of another woman. On the screen, Savannah touched the pendant at her collarbone, a coy, victorious smile on her face. “Thank you, Alex. It’s the most meaningful gift I’ve ever received.” Alex didn’t speak. But the look in his eyes, as he gazed at Savannah, was utterly doting. I had only ever seen that expression on the face of the sixteen-year-old boy. Since then, I’d never seen the man smile like that again. Apparently, even stars could fall. And moons could be abandoned. Before I could recover from the sudden suffocation, the gala moved into the charity auction. “The next lot up,” the host announced loudly, “is the ownership of the Reed Family Legacy Fund.” Watching the numbers flash across the screen, I panicked. My fingers trembled so violently I could barely hold the phone. I dialed Alex’s number over and over. The moment he picked up, I poured out a plea so desperate it reduced me to dust: “Alex, I accept that you don’t love me anymore. I’ll sign the divorce papers.” “But please, help me one last time. That fund is the last thing my parents left me. I just want to…” A brief silence fell on the other end, then his slow, tired voice: “Liz, haven’t I done enough for you?” I tried to argue, but the call clicked dead. On the live stream, the auctioneer’s gavel struck the block with a final, heavy sound. “Congratulations to Wells Angel Investors for the winning bid of thirty million!” The camera cut to Alex in the crowd. He raised his glass, serene and composed, and offered a calm toast to Savannah. The light caught the sharp angle of his jaw—dignified and utterly heartless. He sold the last piece of my parents’ memory just to earn a smile from his mistress. There was no room for a scream, or even a sob. A massive knot of air pressed against my chest, making it impossible to breathe. I coughed violently. A taste of metallic sweetness flooded my throat. I collapsed onto the floor, staring blankly at the dark stain blooming on the carpet. Alex. You are truly cruel.

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I wanted to check the balance for our power bill, but when I logged into The City Power & Light App, I found two separate utility accounts linked under my husband’s name. The second account’s memo field read: “The Real Home.” A cold dread washed over me. The real home? I called my husband, Liam, keeping my voice level. “Why is there an extra electricity bill under your name? For a property I don’t recognize?” I could hear the click of a keyboard on his end. He sounded unconcerned, even a little bored. “Oh, that’s just my mother’s account. She can’t figure out how to use the app, so I linked her place to mine to pay it for her. You know how she is.” I called him a good son—such a good son—and hung up. Then I opened the monthly usage details for that second account. The power consumption was higher than ours. Worse, the peak usage times were every weekend, precisely when Liam and I were sleeping in separate rooms. I wrote down the address, grabbed my keys, and started the car. 1 The navigation ended at The Pinnacle Residences, the most exclusive high-rise development in the city. The apartments here cost at least twice what our house was worth. I parked on the street and looked up at the towering glass facade, bright with the evening lights. The security guard stopped me at the gate. I gave him Liam’s full name and, chillingly, the exact utility account number. He snapped off a salute and let me through. The elevator stopped at the twenty-sixth floor. I stood before the heavy steel door, took a deep breath that did nothing to calm my heart, and pressed the doorbell. A set of light, quick footsteps approached from inside, followed by a young woman’s voice. “Honey, I thought you went out for soy sauce? Why are you ringing the bell?” The door swung open. A woman stood there in a dove-gray silk slip dress, holding a half-eaten green apple. She saw me and froze. And I froze. I knew that face intimately. It belonged to Sierra, the scholarship student I had been sponsoring for the last six years. The slip dress she was wearing? I had bought it last month. I hadn’t even had time to clip the tag before it disappeared. Liam had said the cleaning lady must have misplaced it. It looked much better on her. The apple slipped from Sierra’s hand and rolled across the polished floor, stopping at the toe of my boot. “A-Ava?” she stammered. I looked at her, my face a carefully constructed blank, and pushed past her into the apartment. In the entryway were two pairs of slippers: one pink, fuzzy rabbit pair, and one pair of soft gray linen ones. The gray pair I had crocheted for Liam myself. The living room was vast. A thick wool rug covered the floor in front of the picture window, and little plastic pieces of a partially built LEGO castle were scattered across it. On the feature wall hung a massive wedding photo. In it, Liam had his arm tight around Sierra’s waist. They were laughing—a blinding, joyful laugh that felt like a physical assault on my eyes. “Who is it? Why are you so quiet?” The sound of a flushing toilet preceded the opening of a bathroom door. Liam walked out, drying his wet hair with a towel, wearing only a low-slung bath sheet. He looked up and his hand, mid-wipe, froze in the air. The oxygen seemed to be sucked out of the room. I walked to the coffee table and picked up the half-finished LEGO castle. “Is this the house you linked to help your mother pay her electric bill?” I opened my hand. The LEGO castle crashed onto the marble floor, shattering into a hundred pieces. Liam finally reacted. He rushed forward, putting himself between me and Sierra. “What are you doing here? Were you tracking me?” I looked at his naked torso, noting the fresh, faint scratch marks across his chest. “We’ve been sleeping in separate rooms on the weekends because you needed to come here to ‘work late,’ is that it?” Liam scowled. There wasn’t a flicker of remorse, only annoyance. “Ava, would you just stop with the passive-aggressive commentary? Since you’ve already seen everything, there’s nothing to hide.” He glanced back at the trembling Sierra, and his expression softened instantly. “Sierra is pregnant. The doctor said she has a fragile constitution and shouldn’t be startled.” I laughed out loud. “And me? I just deserve to be startled?” Liam threw the towel onto the marble. “Can you be reasonable for once? We’ve been married for five years, and your uterus is completely silent! My mother is going crazy with worry! I’m the only son, I can’t let my family line die out!” Sierra peeked out from behind him, her voice small and pathetic. “Ava, please don’t blame Liam. It was my choice. I don’t need a title; all I want is for the baby to be born safely…” I swung my arm. SLAAP! The sharp crack cut through her manipulative words. Liam shoved me hard, the force of it sending me stumbling back against the edge of the television console. “Ava! Are you finished with this madness? This is my home. Get out!” 2 Clutching my aching lower back, I straightened up. “Your home? Liam, have you completely forgotten who provided the start-up capital for your company and everything else you currently possess?” Liam scoffed, walking over to the coffee table drawer. He pulled out a document and tossed it at me. “I relied on you then, yes, but the company has been profitable on its own for two years. I bought this apartment with my own dividends. It’s in Sierra’s name. It has zero to do with you.” I glanced down at the deed copy. Sure enough, the owner’s name was listed, stark and clear: Sierra. I tore the copy into small pieces and let the fragments drift down in front of them. “Fine. Very fine. Liam, you will pay for what you’ve done today.” I turned to leave. His disdainful voice followed me. “Who are you trying to scare? Without me, you’re just a worn-out trophy wife who only knows shopping and spa days. Go ahead and sue me! Adultery isn’t a crime. We’ll get divorced, and the assets will be split fifty-fifty!” Back in the car, my hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t fasten the seatbelt. My phone vibrated. It was Liam. “Don’t make a scene. Save yourself some dignity. My mother already knows Sierra is having a boy. If you’re willing to accept the situation, the child can call you ‘Mom’ after it’s born, and we can go back to how things were. If you decide to go to war, you’re the one who loses everything.” He followed that with a screenshot of a bank transfer. Five million dollars. Recipient: Sierra. Memo: Nutritional Support. I stared at the number, and suddenly, my trembling stopped. Five million dollars. That was the exact amount I had withdrawn from the trust fund my father left me just last week. Liam had claimed his company was in a bind and needed emergency capital. The emergency capital went into the mistress’s belly. I started the car and drove straight to the office. I wasn’t going home. If he thought he could flourish without me, I would show him exactly who was indispensable. I called Mr. Henderson, our Chief Financial Officer. “Mr. Henderson, I need a detailed accounting of every project Liam has handled recently. Send me all the ledgers. Also, freeze every corporate credit card and subsidiary account in his name. Effective immediately.” Mr. Henderson hesitated on the line. “Ms. Ava, Liam is… the CEO. Wouldn’t this make things irrevocably hostile?” “Just follow my instructions.” I hung up and dialed another number. “Elena Delacroix? I need you to draft divorce papers. Also, I need a deep dive into every asset transfer Liam has made over the last six months.” Only after completing all of that did I drive back to our house. When I opened the door, the house felt terrifyingly cold and empty. The bouquet of roses Liam had given me last week was still on the entryway table. They had withered, petals scattering across the wood. I dumped the flowers and the vase into the trash. In the bedroom, I opened his side of the custom closet and began taking out his clothes, one by one. The scissors made a satisfying slicing sound as they went through the expensive fabric. Armani, sliced. Zegna, sliced. Hand-tailored shirts, all sliced. When the last piece was shredded, I kicked the pile of ruined fabric aside, lay on the bed, and stared at the ceiling until dawn. 3 I was woken the next morning by an insistent pounding on the door. I opened it to find Carol, Liam’s mother, standing there, her face contorted with fury. Behind her were Liam and Sierra, carrying an array of luggage. “Ava! You barren woman, you have the audacity to still be sleeping? Get out of the way and clear a room for Sierra!” Carol shoved past me and marched into the house, pulling a stunned Sierra with her. “Oh, my sweet grandson, we can’t have you getting tired. This is the south-facing room; it gets the best light. You’ll be in the master suite from now on.” Liam surveyed the remnants of his expensive wardrobe strewn across the bedroom floor. His face was thunderous. “Ava, are you insane? You cut up all my suits?” I leaned against the doorframe, watching the little family unit with cold detachment. “It’s my house. I’ll cut up whatever I want. As for the three of you, you are trespassing. I can call the police.” Carol pointed a shaking finger at my face. “Your house? Liam bought this house! You’ve been living off him for years! Now that he’s finally getting an heir, instead of being grateful, you’re causing trouble? I’m telling you now, Sierra is the mistress of this house. You either serve her, or you get out!” I looked at Carol’s twisted, furious face, and felt only profound pity. This house was my pre-marital property, paid for in full. I had only added Liam’s name to the deed because he had insisted it would make him feel more “secure” after we married. Now, he was claiming it as his own. Sierra clung to Carol’s arm, teary-eyed and miserable. “Mrs. Harrington, please don’t yell at Ava. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll just go back…” “Go back where?” Liam snatched her arm. “This is your home! Ava, I’m giving you a final notice: Sierra is staying here to rest. Either you accept the situation, or you move out.” I walked over to the sofa and sat down, crossing my legs. “I’ll move out. The house is worth twelve million. Subtracting wear and tear, give me six million, and I’ll be gone immediately.” Liam laughed as if I’d told a joke. “Six million? Are you trying to rob me? You haven’t worked in years. All the household expenses came from my earnings, and I deserve credit for the increase in value. I’ll give you two million. Take it or leave it.” Carol chimed in. “That’s generous! Two million for a used wife like you is a steal! Who’s going to want a second-hand woman, anyway?” I took out my phone and activated the recording feature. “Say that all again.” Liam lunged toward me, trying to grab the phone. “What are you recording! Ava, I’m warning you, don’t take this too far!” I sidestepped his reach and stood up. “Since we can’t agree, we’ll see each other in court.” I walked into the bedroom to pack a suitcase. If they wanted to live here, I would let them live here. I just wanted to see how many days they could last in my house without my money. When I came out dragging my suitcase, Sierra was sitting on the sofa, eating a bowl of Bird’s Nest soup—an expensive delicacy Liam had imported last month for me to improve my health. I hadn’t even opened the package. Seeing me, Sierra gave a small, triumphant smirk. “Ava, this is delicious. Don’t be too upset, though. It’s normal as you get older. Not everyone can have children.” I stopped, walked over to her, and picked up the bowl. I calmly dumped the entire bowl of slimy, sticky liquid onto her head. The soup and tiny fragments of white mushroom dripped down her hair and across her face. “Agh! My hair!” Sierra shrieked, jumping to her feet. Carol and Liam rushed out of the kitchen. “What happened? What happened?” Seeing Sierra’s soaked, horrified face, Liam raised his hand to strike me. I looked at him, my gaze freezing him mid-swing. “If you dare touch me, I will make sure you never work in this industry again.” Liam’s hand stopped in mid-air. He knew I held too much leverage. All those fraudulent accounts, all those kickbacks he’d taken—I had the evidence. He ground his teeth together and slowly lowered his hand. “Ava. You’re cold-blooded. You’ll regret this.” I pulled my suitcase and walked out, not looking back at the place I once called home.

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The first time I tried to end my life, I had just walked into the living room and saw the face of the fake young master—Brody Whitlock. It was the same face as the nanny who had spent five years tormenting me. My parents found me and pulled me back, their eyes red and panicked. They promised, “We’ll never let him appear in front of you again.” The second time, I was by the edge of the pool. Brody “accidentally” shoved me in. I gave up fighting, letting the water take me, pull me down into the deep, quiet dark. I woke up again to the sight of my parents’ horrified faces. They swore by my bedside, “This time, we will make him pay.” The third time, Brody locked me inside a walk-in closet. As the air grew thin, and the suffocating darkness closed in, I finally gathered the strength to call out for help. The call connected. I heard my parents’ voices, tired and laced with a desperate resignation: “Can’t you just… let go of the resentment, Asher?” “That was his mother’s crime, why are you punishing him for it?” I quietly ended the call. In the narrow darkness, I slowly hugged myself. I’m sorry, Mom and Dad. I couldn’t let go of the resentment. So, I chose to let go of you. 1 The oxygen inside the closet was growing thin. The last flicker of self-preservation made me want to fumble for the handle, to find the release. The whole closet was swallowed by the dark, exactly like the damp, moldy basement I’d grown up in. I managed to shake off the trembling long enough to pull out my phone, needing a single sliver of light. But the battery was on its final bar. It illuminated the space for barely a few seconds before dying again. I smiled, a bitter twist of the lips. Asher, isn’t this the freedom you wanted? But why was I crying as I stood on the very edge of death? I closed my eyes and drifted back to the moment they found me. I was pulled out of that basement for the first time, finally seeing the warm, actual sunlight. For the first time, my mother held me. Her scalding tears fell, tracing paths down my cheek. Her voice shook as she spoke: “Asher, my darling. Mama’s bringing you home.” But when we reached the house, the first thing I saw was Brody’s face—the spitting image of the nanny. That was when I truly shattered. I scrambled frantically for a pair of scissors. Mom thought I was going to hurt Brody, and she scrambled to shield him. Dad yelled at me, a sound filled with sheer terror. “Are you insane?!” But I turned the scissors on myself. Once. Twice. Mom rushed me, holding me again, her body shielding mine this time. Even my father, always so rigid, had bloodshot eyes. “Your father and I were wrong…” “Please, don’t hurt yourself. We promise he won’t come near you again.” After that, I genuinely didn’t see Brody at the house. Until the annual family gathering. I saw him again, surrounded by the extended Whitlock relatives, like a tiny prince holding court. The whispers of the staff drifted to me on the cold air. “Even if he’s not the heir by blood, they’ve raised him for fifteen years. There’s a bond.” “The real son’s only been back for a few months. How can he compare?” I stood out in the chilly breeze, my body numb, shaking uncontrollably. Then I watched Brody, his smile twisted with pure malice, walk toward me and shove me into the water. “Guess what? Who do you think Mom and Dad actually prefer? You, or me?” He jumped in after me. My parents must have heard the splash. They came running in a panic. Two figures appeared in the water, but neither was swimming toward me. My throat was filling, my consciousness blurring away. It’s okay, Asher. I told myself. You’ve lived through worse. One more time won’t change anything. The next time I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. Mom was sitting by my side, her face an open map of guilt. “Asher, I’m so sorry. Brody was screaming for help, and we thought he was the one drowning.” “Next time, you have to tell us exactly what’s happening, sweetie. Only then can we rush in to save you.” Dad swore to me, “I will make him pay for this.” The next day, Brody was grounded from his video games for a single afternoon. And then, later, Brody locked me in the closet. I wanted to tell them I was hurt. But they told me to let go of the resentment. Mom and Dad, I truly couldn’t let go. Because I was already dying. 2 The next time I opened my eyes, I was floating out of the closet. Was I saved? Mom had said that the first thing I should do when I woke up was call for them, so they could rush in and take care of me. So I went downstairs, whispering, “Mom? Mom?” The living room lights were on. My parents had come back. But so had the person I least wanted to see—Brody. My body instantly froze. Hadn’t they promised I wouldn’t have to see him again? Mom was sitting on the sofa, letting out a sigh. “Asher has been through a lot of trauma in the last few years, honey. Sometimes he acts out, and sometimes he’ll even try to make you look bad.” “He even called us just now, saying you locked him up again. Brody, I know you’re a good boy. Don’t hold it against him. Will you and your father and I go apologize to him in a minute?” I stood still, stunned. My parents thought I was lying, that I was trying to frame Brody? But… I was saved, wasn’t I? I slowly turned, floating back toward the closet. The little boy inside was curled up in a corner, quiet as a doll. I realized the truth then. I was dead. I gave a weak, bitter smile. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. I didn’t want to trouble Mom. I could let her believe I’d lied. The conversation downstairs continued. Brody hugged a plush toy and pouted. “But Mom, you always take Asher’s side. Is it because I’m not your real son that you don’t love me anymore?” Mom laughed, stroking his hair with a deep, doting affection. “How could you think that? You are and always will be my little prince.” “I even bought T-shirts for both of you—they’re the Starfall Saga Limited Edition ones, the ones you love. They’re in Asher’s closet. Why don’t you go try yours on, and bring the other one out for Asher? Tell him it’s a gift from you.” Brody’s face lit up, and he skipped toward the closet. But he stopped abruptly at the door. His smile looked strained. “Mom, actually, I suddenly don’t feel like wearing the collaboration T-shirt.” Mom frowned. “Why the sudden change of heart? I bought them already. Just try it on…” She stood up, walking slowly toward the closet. Then the doorbell rang. 3 Mom turned around, relieved by the interruption, and opened the door. Standing on the threshold was the woman who had abused me—the nanny, Brenda. My blood ran cold. My entire phantom body trembled uncontrollably. Brenda’s face was squeezed into a fake, fawning smile. “Mrs. Whitlock, you asked me to come today…?” Mom gave a simple, cool “Mhm.” “I wanted you to see Brody one last time. Then, you take the money, and you disappear forever.” I stood paralyzed, my hands and feet freezing. Shouldn’t this woman be in prison for child abuse and kidnapping? Why was Mom paying her, letting her walk free? Had Mom forgotten that this was the woman who hurt me? I desperately ran toward Mom, wanting to scream the truth. But no matter how loudly I shouted, she couldn’t hear me. Brenda quickly looked over Brody, accepted a thick bundle of cash, and signed a document for Mom. Mom frowned, hurrying her. “Take the money and leave immediately. Don’t let Asher see you.” “And keep your mouth shut once you’re out. I used all my resources to get you bailed out for a reason. I don’t want a stain on Brody’s future.” At that final sentence, I felt like I’d been drenched in icy water. She knew. Mom had known all along. I sniffed, my ethereal nose feeling a sharp, familiar sting. But Mom, what about me? Brody’s future would remain pristine; he was the little prince raised in a garden of love. But my future had already been destroyed, years ago, in that basement. Mom finally seemed to remember me. “Dad will be home soon. I’m going to call Asher down for dinner.” “Brody, remember to apologize to Asher later. Your father and I can only bring you back home permanently once he forgives you, understood?” Brody gave a reluctant, muttering “Mhm.” Mom searched the house but couldn’t find me. Frowning, she asked Brody if he’d seen me. Brody stammered, avoiding her eyes. “I… I think he was throwing a tantrum this afternoon and hid in the closet…” 4 Mom sighed and tapped lightly on the closet door. “Asher, come out for dinner, okay?” No response. Mom tried again, patiently coaxing. “I brought Brody back to apologize to you today. Acknowledge your mother, won’t you?” Still, silence. Mom finally lost her patience. She pounded heavily on the door. “Asher Whitlock! How long are you going to keep this up? If you don’t answer, I’m just going to open the door!” She angrily gripped the doorknob, ready to open it, but Brody suddenly called out to her. “Mom, don’t worry about him! Let’s just eat first!” He blinked nervously. “I’m hungry, Mom.” “Fine! Then let him starve himself in there! Let’s see how long he can cross me!” Mom turned and walked straight back to the dining table. I stood beside the table, wringing my hands in a state of confused sadness and a strange relief. At least, Mom wouldn’t see my body and lose her appetite. After Brenda finished serving the last dish, Dad finally came home. He was carrying a celebratory cake, his whole demeanor cheerful. Brody ran over and hugged him. “Dad, you’re home! Is that my birthday cake?” I saw a gentle look on Dad’s face that I’d never seen before. “It is! Made especially for you!” Mom looked uncertain. “Honey, today… is also Asher’s birthday.” Dad froze, his face clouded with awkwardness. “Oh, right… Asher hasn’t been with us long, I completely forgot…” He paused. “Should I… should I go buy another cake for Asher?” An uncomfortable flicker crossed Mom’s face, but the frustration over the closet incident hardened her expression. “Forget it. We forgot. We’ll just celebrate Brody first.” “He’s being stubborn anyway. He doesn’t mind missing his birthday.” Brody piped up loudly, “Exactly! Why should you have to buy an extra cake just for him?” “He doesn’t even belong here. Mom said I’m her little prince!” Yes. I don’t belong here. I’d never had a birthday celebration before. I stared at them blankly, feeling a stream run down my face, though I quickly blinked it back. It’s okay. I’m dead now. It doesn’t matter if I have a home. I secretly watched the cake, seeing Mom slice it. Brody’s piece was the biggest, topped with strawberries. He sat between Mom and Dad, truly looking like a prince. The family was happy and whole, and the cake was quickly disappearing. Only after they were full and content did Mom remember the original purpose of the evening—Brody was supposed to apologize to me. Since I wouldn’t come out, Brody would have to be sent back to his boarding school. Brody began to cry and protest, refusing to leave. “Why? This is my house! Why do I need his permission to live here?” “The dorms at school are awful. I want to come home, I want to be with Mom…” Brody burst into loud, wrenching tears. Mom’s eyes softened with pain. “Honey, maybe we should let Brody stay tonight. It’s getting late.” Dad hesitated. “But don’t you remember? When Asher first came home, he almost… he almost killed himself just seeing Brody…” Before Dad could finish, Mom suddenly broke down. “Asher, Asher! It’s always Asher! Why did he have to come back and ruin our entire family?” “Brody may not be our biological son, but we raised him for fifteen years! Asher’s only been here for a few months, and now Brody has to suffer and live in a boarding school because of him! Brody is my child too, how am I supposed to bear that pain?” I stood silently to the side, sad and lost. Maybe I shouldn’t have been found. If I had just died in that basement, no one would have known, and I wouldn’t have been a burden to anyone. Dad sighed, gently patting Mom’s shoulder. “Alright, alright. If you want him to stay, he can stay. Brody is my son too. Of course I care for him.” “Here’s what we’ll do: I’ll go talk to Asher and tell him Brody is staying for one night.” Mom, her eyes still red, nodded, gesturing toward my direction. Dad stood up and walked to the closet, tapping patiently on the door. “Asher, come out, okay? Brody really wants to apologize to you for his mother’s actions.” “I know you have resentment in your heart, but that was all in the past. You’re fine now, aren’t you? You have to look forward, Asher. Be a good boy. Stop fighting with your mother and father, and come out.” Dead silence filled the living room. Dad’s face darkened. He was about to speak again when Brody, who had just been crying and begging to stay, spoke up meekly. “Mom and Dad, maybe… maybe I should just come back in a few days…” But Mom’s voice was firm. “No. Brody, we are not catering to his temper. Sweetheart, just open the door!” Dad nodded and turned the handle. But no matter how hard he pulled, the door remained firmly shut, unmoving. “What the hell? Is it locked?” Hearing this, Mom looked at Brody, confused. “Brody, you said Asher locked himself in out of a tantrum. How could the door be locked from the outside?” Brody looked down, trembling, not daring to say a word. Mom finally felt a cold dread crawl up her spine. “Brody, did you lock Asher inside? Get the key out right now!” “Asher has been in there all day. He must be terrified!” She wrestled the key out of Brody’s tightly clenched fist. Her voice was frantic as she handed the key to Dad. “Open it quickly! Get Asher out!” But Dad stood frozen, trembling uncontrollably. “Honey… A few days ago, we had the exterminators in because of the moths. We… we told them to seal all the gaps around the closet door…” Mom’s eyes widened. A terrible realization hit her. She pushed Brody away like a maniac and ran to the closet. Her palm was soaked with sweat, and she kept chanting my name. The key rattled in the small lock, finally turning the mechanism. The moment the closet door was pulled open, a wave of stagnant, heavy air rushed out and hit her. Mom stumbled back, covering her mouth, and tears instantly flooded her eyes. Dad stood completely still, all color drained from his face, his hand shaking so badly he could barely hold the key.

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In the forty years we were married, he never let me suffer a moment of hardship. Even now, with children and grandchildren filling our home, he still reached across the dinner table to place the tenderest cut of the fish fillet into my bowl. I thought this was the definition of growing old together. That illusion shattered the day I went down to the basement to look for old things. I accidentally knocked over a heavy, clay jar of aged Port—the one he had sealed and hidden away for her. He burst in, looking like a madman, and his hands closed around my throat. “That is not yours to touch.” “That was the last memory she left me!” Then, he stormed out in a fit of rage, locking me inside the cold, damp cellar. “Since your hands are so careless, you can stay down here and reflect!” The heavy iron door of the basement slammed shut, and the darkness swallowed everything. But he forgot. I had just had triple-bypass surgery. I had no strength, and the cold was the one thing I couldn’t endure. 1 I was completely sealed in the dark. The iron door banged shut with a deafening clang, the locking sound dull and absolute, like a hammer blow straight to my heart. I lunged forward, using every ounce of my post-surgery strength to pull at the frigid metal handle. It didn’t budge, feeling as fused to the frame as it was to my stiffening arm. “Open the door! Rob, open the door!” I pounded on the paneling, my voice echoing and ricocheting in the cramped space, yet barely traveling far enough to matter. I tried to find the light. My hand fumbled along the wall, finding the familiar, old-fashioned pull-chain. I pressed the switch repeatedly, hearing the hollow click-clack, click-clack, but the dim bulb overhead had no intention of lighting up. The wiring was ancient; he’d always promised to fix it, but always forgot. Before, even when the door was locked, I could usually slip a finger through the narrow gap and work the latch open bit by bit. But not now. My body was still betraying me after the surgery. Forget slipping my hand into the crack—the simple act of raising my arm drained the last of my energy. I slid down the door and collapsed onto the floor. The biting dampness from the concrete seeped into my bones. In the dark, hallucinations began to bloom. I saw him putting the fish fillet in my bowl, saw him getting up at midnight to tuck me back in, saw him pushing my wheelchair to the park for some sunshine. Forty years of tenderness flashed before me. But then, that distorted, contorted face from moments ago reappeared, his eyes filled with a hatred that threatened to consume me whole. “That is not yours to touch!” The violent contrast made me reel, and the familiar, tightening ache in my chest began. Upstairs, a loud crash shook the house, the sound of porcelain smashing violently. Then a muffled thud, as if a large piece of furniture had been overturned—the bookshelf? I had never seen him that angry. In our forty years, Rob had always been gentle and reserved; he rarely even raised his voice. He didn’t drink, which everyone, including his friends, knew. Yet now, he was upstairs, breaking things like a maniac, all for a jar of vintage Port that had materialized out of nowhere. I had seen that jar. It was tucked into the darkest corner of the basement in an old wooden crate, with a small, yellowed label bearing a delicate, script “S” on it. I had always assumed he’d made it himself in his youth, a silly hobby. I was wrong. This whole time, forty years of domestic tranquility, of children and grandchildren, meant less than that one jar of fortified wine left by another woman. My husband, for the sake of a memory of someone else, had locked me, his wife just recovered from major heart surgery, in this cold, pitch-black cellar. It was absurd, and utterly heartbreaking. … The survival instinct pushed the sorrow aside. I could not die here. I leaned against the wall, struggling to my feet, and used all my remaining strength to shout up at the ceiling. “Rob! Open the door! I… I don’t feel well…” My voice was hoarse, a barely audible whisper. I could barely hear myself. The crashing sounds upstairs ceased. A flicker of hope ignited in me. Did he hear me? I tried again, louder: “Open up! I can’t breathe!” A moment later, his voice drifted down from the ceiling, muffled and indistinct through the thick concrete floor. “What are you yelling about? Swearing at me? That is no way to behave!” He hadn’t heard a word I said. He’d only heard the frantic tone of my voice and immediately assumed I was yelling obscenities at him. “Unrepentant! You stay put and reflect on what you’ve done!” His voice was filled with annoyance and impatience. The flicker of hope was thoroughly extinguished by his dismissal. Reflect? What was I supposed to reflect on? Reflect on discovering a secret he’d kept hidden for forty years? Or reflect on accidentally breaking the last memento left by the woman he truly loved? He wasn’t like this before. He normally wouldn’t say a harsh word to me, but now he was like a different person, demanding an apology. It was useless to rely on him. I fumbled for the cell phone in my pocket—my only hope. The faint glow of the screen was the sole source of light in this oppressive darkness. My hand trembling, I tapped the contacts list. The signal in the basement was terrible, just a single, flickering bar. First, I called my daughter. No connection. Then my son-in-law. Still the cold, busy signal. My heart pounded with desperate urgency as my finger scrolled down the long list, finally stopping on my son, Owen’s, name. I pressed the dial button. “Doo… doo…” After an agonizing wait, the call actually connected! “Mom? What is it?” Owen’s voice came through the receiver, laced with concern. “Owen… help… help me…” I desperately tried to speak, but the sound that came out was too weak to carry. “Mom? What are you saying? I can’t hear you! Why is it so loud on your end? All that static.” The signal was failing. My voice was completely drowned out by the crackling. “Mom? Where are you? Talk to me!” My son was frantic on the other end. I screamed with all my strength, but he heard nothing. After a few seconds, the call disconnected. Immediately, the shrill ring of the landline upstairs in Rob’s study cut through the silence. It was Owen calling the house phone! I pressed my ear against the frigid iron door, straining to make out the conversation upstairs. “Dad, where’s Mom?” “Your mother? She’s sleeping, just laid down.” Rob’s voice sounded perfectly calm, even carrying a hint of an easy laugh. “What’s wrong?” “She just called me, didn’t say anything, and hung up. I was worried.” “Oh, she probably pressed the wrong button in her sleep. It’s nothing, don’t worry.” “Okay… alright, Dad, you should get some rest, too.” The phone clicked off. Upstairs, the silence returned, heavy and final. My heart sank completely into the ice. Even our son was so easily fooled by his casual lie. I couldn’t give up. I opened the text message screen. My fingers, numb from cold and exhaustion, shook uncontrollably. Writing each word felt like it consumed all my strength. “Owen, I’m in the basement, your father locked me in, please come.” I stared at the words, then pressed the send button. A red exclamation mark and the “Send Failed” notification pierced my eyes. Refusing to believe it, I tried to resend it again and again. But the red exclamation mark seemed to mock my futile efforts. I tried Owen’s number again. The number that had just connected now only returned a “Cannot connect to signal” message. The signal was completely gone. The light on my phone screen finally flickered, using up its last bit of power, and died. I was thrown back into the endless, suffocating darkness. This time, there was not a single trace of light. … Just then, a knock broke the study’s silence. “Knock, knock, knock.” Rob froze, looking cautiously at the door, not immediately answering. The knocking came again, accompanied by a familiar woman’s voice: “Ellie? Are you home? It’s Pat.” It was Patricia, my neighbor and my bridge partner. Rob let out a quiet breath of relief. He straightened his slightly rumpled collar, walked over, and opened the door. “Can I help you?” His voice had recovered its usual calm, sounding entirely normal. Pat poked her head into the house. Seeing only him, she paused, then raised the plastic container in her hand, smiling warmly. “I heard Ellie was home from the hospital. Figured she needs to build her strength up. So, I brought over some of my famous lasagna for her to try.” She peered further inside. “Where is Ellie? Is she asleep?” “Yes, just laid down.” Rob stood in the doorway, blocking Pat from entering. “Oh, well, she needs to rest, that surgery is no small thing.” Pat asked with genuine concern, “How is she doing? Recovering well?” “She’s fine. Doctor said lots of rest.” Rob’s replies were brief and dismissive, his eyes darting away, avoiding Pat’s gaze. Pat and Rob didn’t interact much, so she simply assumed this was his naturally reserved, quiet demeanor and didn’t think much of it. She pushed the lasagna container into his hands and instructed him, “Well, you take good care of her. This is easy on the stomach. Tell Ellie that when she’s feeling better, I’d love for her to come over for a game of bridge. We haven’t had a proper foursome in ages.” “Sure.” Rob muttered vaguely. Seeing his reluctance, Pat didn’t linger. She waved goodbye and walked away. Rob closed the door and stood in the foyer, holding the lasagna. Pat’s words were like a bucket of cold water, suddenly snapping him back to reality. He remembered then: I had just had surgery. The doctor had been crystal clear—absolute rest, no stress, and no exposure to the cold. The anger on his face drained away, replaced by a barely perceptible flicker of remorse. He walked to the basement door, his hand resting on the cold doorknob. He hesitated for a long moment, then tentatively called my name. “…Ellie?” He had already started to soften. Normally, he would be apologizing by now. No, normally, he would never, ever lock me in a cold, dark place. He wouldn’t even let me go down there myself to fetch something, always insisting it was too stuffy and he’d do it. But this time, he thought I had gone too far. He told himself that if I just swallowed my pride and said one small word of apology, he would open the door immediately. No matter what, a few hours of reflection was surely enough punishment. But the only reply that came from the basement was a sudden, sharp, smashing sound. That was me. The darkness and the cold had caused my limbs to grow stiff. I could no longer maintain my upright stance. My body went limp, and I fell straight down. As I went down, I instinctively tried to grab something to steady myself, but my hand missed, knocking over a stack of glass jars and bottles on a nearby shelf. The sound of the glass shattering reached his ears, but to him, it was proof of my unrepentant attitude, a deliberate act of destruction to vent my anger. The rage he had just managed to suppress instantly reignited. “Fine! You think you can play games with me!” he sneered. The faint hint of guilt in his eyes vanished completely. “I guess you do need a lesson!” With that, he turned and walked away, no longer hesitating. I lay on the icy concrete floor, desperately trying to open my mouth to call for help, to tell him it wasn’t on purpose, to tell him I was in terrible pain. But my throat felt completely blocked, and I couldn’t force out a single sound. My skull had struck the hard ground with a heavy impact, and a warm, slick fluid quickly spread around my head. My consciousness began to fade, and the world dissolved into a hazy, suffocating dimness. … I died. My soul floated up, weightless, passing straight through the heavy iron door, and followed him back to the study. He didn’t turn on the lights. He used the sliver of moonlight filtering through the window to pull a small, deep-set photo frame from his bottom drawer. He traced the glass again and again with his thumb. “Seraph… I’m so sorry… I couldn’t even hold onto the last thing you gave me…” His voice was broken and thick with suppressed tears. “They all said it was your blessing for me, to find my happiness, to drink on my wedding day… But how could I ever drink it…” He spoke in a low murmur, as if talking to the person in the frame, but also as if he were explaining himself to me. “No one knew that the man you married was an animal… He hurt you… When I finally went to find you, it was already too late… too late…” Floating beside him, I finally saw the picture. A delicate, beautiful girl with braids, her eyes crinkling into a soft smile. It was his childhood friend, Seraphina. That jar of Port was his life’s regret, the only memory of her he had secretly cherished for forty years. … A sudden thought hit me. Just last month, I had been helping him tidy the study and had accidentally come across this hidden photo frame. He had walked in just then, seen me holding it, and his expression had changed drastically. He’d snatched it away and locked it back in the drawer. I actually hadn’t clearly seen who was in the picture. I had simply found his overreaction odd. Later, I’d grown concerned because he was staying up late reading, neglecting his health, and we’d had a petty argument, cold-shouldering each other for days. Now, I realized: he must have thought I had seen his first love’s photo and was deliberately picking a fight, being difficult. In his eyes, my concern and my irritation over his health had all been twisted into evidence of my jealousy and irrational behavior. How ridiculous. I was worried sick about his health, and he thought I was jealous of a ghost. I was slowly losing my life in a cold, dark cellar because of his cruel indifference. And here he was, staring at his first love’s photo, quietly mourning his youthful, incomplete romance. What separated us was far more than a simple iron door. I thought back to when we were first married. He truly was good to me. He remembered my preferences—my dislike for onions and garlic. He’d quietly bring me herbal tea during my cycle. He’d subtly protect me when his mother was being difficult. Those moments of tenderness were the harbor I thought I could rely on for a lifetime. But now, those memories felt like a thousand sharp needles, piercing my soul with pain. The truth was, all his kindness had only existed because I was “well-behaved,” because I “knew my place,” and never dared to cross the boundary of that forbidden zone in his heart named “Seraphina.” As he sank deeper into his personal grief, his gaze unknowingly swept across another photo on his desk: our family portrait. In the photo, our son, Owen, newly an adult, was standing between us in a sharp suit. I was clutching his arm, smiling radiantly. Rob’s expression was serious, but the corners of his eyes and mouth held a faint, undeniable joy. I remembered the day we took that photo. I had teased him, saying, “Rob, look, our hair is all white. We have to make it all the way, together, to see Owen get married and have kids.” How had he answered? He had said, “I promise.” Now, Owen was married with a child, but we wouldn’t make it to the end. Looking at my smiling face in the picture, Rob’s eyes finally showed a flicker of real emotion. He reached out, trying to touch the photo, but his finger stopped inches from the frame. He was softening. Perhaps those forty years of coexistence, of mutual respect, were not completely devoid of feeling. He did love me. But that love, in the end, could not measure up to the fleeting, breathtaking image of his teenage “white moonlight.” He likely felt my punishment had gone on long enough. After sitting motionless in the study for hours, the light outside turning from dusk to night, he finally stood up and slowly walked to the basement door. His jaw was clenched tight, his face expressionless, but the worry in his eyes betrayed him. He had regretted it the moment he closed the door. He regretted it when Pat brought the lasagna. He regretted it when he confessed his heartache to the old photo. But he needed me to break first, to apologize. In his mind, I was the one who had broken his sacred object; I had committed the first offense. He cleared his throat. His hand rested on the cold doorknob, but he didn’t turn it. He was waiting. Waiting for me to cry, waiting for me to beg, waiting for me to utter the words, “I was wrong.” If I did, he would open the door, hold me in his arms, and say he forgave me. I only felt a terrible, biting irony. My soul hovered in the air. Jealousy? I hadn’t even known the woman existed. How could I have been jealous? I had only accidentally shattered a jar of wine—a jar I thought was one of his silly youthful attempts at brewing. But the body of the woman inside the basement could no longer make a sound. My physical form was already cold, curled up in the corner like a discarded rag. The utter silence from within the door, to him, was simply proof of my silent protest. He remembered our old arguments, how I would always start a cold war, refusing to speak, waiting for him to break first, to come and smooth things over, to apologize. He thought I was doing the same thing now. He believed I was deliberately silent, holding out until he came begging for my forgiveness. A fresh wave of irrational anger surged through him, burning away the small amount of guilt he’d managed to muster. This was his only memento. In his mind, he had already given me every opportunity, yet I was still refusing to be grateful. “Fine! Go on, play your silent game!” he gritted out, the words squeezed through his teeth. “I’m done with you. If you want to stay in there, stay there forever!” With that, he slammed his hand against the door and turned back toward his room. The bang was so loud it shook the walls. And I, the woman he had just condemned, had no strength left to push that door open. My body lay alone in the freezing basement, accompanied only by the shards of glass and the spilled wine. … The world outside fell completely dark. Closer to evening, the sound of a car engine grew louder, pulling up to the curb. Owen, our son, was finally home from work. He arrived with his wife and our grandson, carrying bags of things meant to help my recovery. Even though Rob had used the “butt dial” excuse on the phone earlier in the day, Owen remained unsettled. So, the moment he clocked out, he rushed over with his family to see me for himself. “Dad, open up!” Owen called out from the porch. Rob opened the door. Seeing his lively, adorable grandson, the tension that had gripped his face all day finally eased. “Grandpa!” The little boy rushed into his arms, shouting sweetly. Rob picked up the grandson, his mood lightening considerably. “Where’s Grandma? I brought her favorite apple turnovers!” The grandson held up a small box, looking around the room for me. Rob’s forced smile froze for a second. He mumbled, “Grandma… Grandma is tired. She’s sleeping.” The little boy wiggled free of his grandfather’s arms, his small nose twitching in the air. He pointed innocently toward the basement door, his brow furrowed. “Grandpa, what’s that smell? It smells funny.” An indescribable, strange, faintly sickly odor was beginning to seep out from under the door. Rob’s heart gave a violent lurch, but he quickly composed himself, dismissing it casually. “Oh, probably just the leftover fish smell from the lasagna Pat brought over earlier.” He paid no more attention to it. Owen and his wife exchanged a look. The atmosphere in the house was entirely wrong. Ever since they’d walked in, Rob had been distracted, shifty-eyed, and completely unwilling to talk about my condition. It was deeply unsettling. “Dad, where exactly is Mom?” Owen’s smile vanished, his voice turning serious. “How is her health, really? Don’t lie to me.” Under his son’s intense stare, Rob grew flustered. He tried to change the subject. “Your mother is fine. What could possibly be wrong…” “Fine?” Owen pressed harder. “If she’s fine, why won’t she come out to see us? If she’s fine, why did you turn off your cell phone? I called you dozens of times this afternoon!” Having his lies exposed and being cornered by his son in front of his daughter-in-law and grandson, Rob’s face turned a mottled purple. That fragile, pitiful pride, combined with the shame of being exposed, caused him to explode. Like a cornered animal, he sharply raised his voice and roared, “She’s reflecting! She’s down in the basement reflecting!” He pointed furiously at the basement door, his anger spilling out as he accused me: “Your mother is narrow-minded! She can’t stand to look at a simple jar of wine, can’t tolerate one single memory of my past!” Hearing this, Owen and his wife looked at each other, both stunned and bewildered. They knew me too well. I had always been the one to respect everyone’s privacy, especially Rob’s. I never touched his study; I never rummaged through his old things. “A jar of wine? What wine?” Owen demanded. Under his son’s piercing gaze, Rob finally crumbled, his voice weakening as he stammered out the truth: “…It was Seraphina’s Port… the only memento she left me… and your mother shattered it.” “Who is Seraphina?” “My… my childhood sweetheart.” Owen heard this and nearly laughed from the sheer rage and disbelief. He bit out a harsh rebuke. “The sweetheart’s wine? Dad, be reasonable! Did Mom know that was her wine? She didn’t even know you had a childhood sweetheart! How could she possibly shatter a jar out of jealousy?” “She nearly killed herself giving birth to me! She’s worried herself sick for this family her whole life! And for a single jar of wine, you locked a patient who just had heart surgery in a freezing basement?” “No matter what you think she did, you had no right to do this to her!” Owen’s words were a heavy blow, smashing Rob’s self-delusion. He finally woke up. He remembered me clumsily learning to cook his favorite meals when we were first married; remembered me nursing him through a bad sickness; remembered everything I had given to this family over the forty years. All the ordinary, consistent warmth he had deliberately ignored suddenly flooded his mind. He finally remembered my goodness. In the end, his love, however flawed, was a truth too late. With Owen’s urging, Rob reluctantly gave in, muttering an agreement, and followed him to the basement door. But he still held onto his pride, yelling toward the door: “If you just apologize, I’ll forgive you. Let’s forget this ever happened! We’ve been married for decades, don’t be so dramatic. The kids are watching!” Seeing his father’s stubbornness—his hard mouth and soft heart—Owen wasted no more time on him. He snatched the key from Rob’s pocket and jammed it into the lock. “Click.” The door unlocked. Even in the second before the door was fully pushed open, Rob was still grumbling. “See? She’s always like this, the stubborn streak. She could come out on her own, but she has to make a scene until the whole family comes to coax her. Every time…” The door was violently flung open. The dim overhead light spilled into the darkness. In the corner, a small figure was curled up. My body was already stiff and blue, tear tracks dried on my face, my eyes vacant, staring fixedly at the ceiling. At that moment, the noise outside the door ceased abruptly. Rob’s complaint died in his throat. His daughter-in-law covered her mouth, a low, strangled gasp escaping her. The little grandson hid behind his father, terrified to look. Everyone froze. Time seemed to stand still.

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The loan sharks kicked the door in, demanding the enormous gambling debt my protégé, Travis Miller, had racked up. But it was my childhood sweetheart, Sloan Beckett, who shoved me forward. Her voice was cold, distant. “He’s the one you want. Owen Reed. Take him.” In the dark, suffocating backroom of the illicit gambling operation, they stripped my dignity first. They tore my fingernails out, then used a steel pipe to methodically shatter my ribs, one by agonizing one. When the pain crested, I was a whimpering mess, groveling on the concrete floor like a beaten animal. Utterly without honor. They offered me one moment of “mercy”: a chance to call for help. Holding onto a sliver of hope, I dialed Sloan. Her voice on the line was colder than the ice in my veins. “If you hadn’t been so selfish, Travis would never have been desperate enough to gamble.” “Even if you die in their hands, you’ll just be getting what you deserve.” The dial tone, flat and final, was the last sound I heard in my world. Later, I did die, just as she predicted. Yet, Sloan didn’t wear a single smile. She seemed to go mad, her eyes bloodshot, tearing through every back-alley operation in the city. Sloan, why would you cry for me? 1 When my little sister, Lily, carried my ashes home, Sloan kicked the door open. She scanned the empty living room, her tone icy. “Where is Owen Reed? Tell him to get out here.” Lily huddled in the corner, clutching the urn tighter to her chest. She looked up and smiled at Sloan. “Brother’s right here.” Sloan’s brow furrowed sharply. Her gaze fell on the cheap wooden box, then moved to Lily’s innocent, tear-stained face. She let out an impatient, low scoff, reaching out to snatch it. “Don’t be an idiot. Where is he hiding? He’s using you and this piece of junk to fool me.” Lily clung to it desperately, tears welling up in her eyes. “Brother is here. Inside. Be gentle, you’ll hurt Brother.” Sloan looked as if she’d heard the funniest joke in the world. She roughly swatted Lily’s hands away. The wooden box dropped. My ashes spilled across the floor. “Owen Reed, that parasite, you think he knows pain? When he was ruining Travis, did he ever consider how much he hurt others?” “Stop this pathetic act. Tell him to come out now.” Lily froze. She stared blankly at the ashes scattered on the ground. After a few seconds, she lunged forward, scrambling on the floor, trying to scoop up the gray dust with her bare hands. “Brother, Brother, don’t be scared. Lily will protect you.” Sloan watched her dirty hands and her tear-streaked face. The last vestige of her patience snapped. “Keep acting, keep playing the fool. A retard and a viper, what a perfect match.” She sneered, tipping her head toward her bodyguards. “Search the place. I want him dragged out. He thinks he can fake his death and trick me? I’ll make him kneel and beg Travis for forgiveness.” The bodyguards moved instantly. Furniture was roughly toppled. Dishes shattered. The entire house descended into chaos. Lily screamed in terror, trying to stop them, but they pushed her aside easily. She could only curl up beside the ashes, attempting to shield me with her small body. I clenched my back teeth, charging toward Sloan. “I’m dead! You got what you wanted! Why won’t you leave me alone?” But she didn’t even glance my way. I stared blankly at my transparent, useless hands, my entire being freezing in place. Right. I was dead. The bodyguards didn’t find me. Sloan’s rage peaked. She walked up to Lily, looking down at her. “Where is your brother?” Lily sobbed, digging something out of her pocket, holding it out carefully. “Brother’s signet ring. Take it. Don’t hit Brother.” It was the vintage silver signet ring Sloan had personally put on my finger on my eighteenth birthday. I hadn’t taken it off since that day. Now it lay, covered in dust, in Lily’s small, grimy hand. Sloan’s pupils contracted, and she snatched it away. She stared at the ring, her chest heaving. The next second, she violently smashed it against the floor. The silver ring cracked and fractured into several pieces. “He’s even willing to use this for his act? He’s really throwing everything he has into this!” Her voice was raw, whether from anger or something else, I couldn’t tell. “No! Brother is dead! Brother is gone!” Lily crawled over, trying to fit the pieces back together. Sloan’s eyes fixed on Lily’s face. “Still lying.” “Lock her in the basement. As long as Owen doesn’t show up, she doesn’t eat. I want to see how long he can hide.” A bodyguard grabbed my sister, who was crying hysterically, and tossed her into the cellar. Lily lay on the cold floor, unable to get up for a long time. I floated down and looked at her. My spectral eyes immediately welled up. To retrieve my ashes, she had gone to the loan sharks. There was no way those men would let her leave easily. For three days and three nights, she endured. When she finally walked out, her legs were shaking. But she hadn’t cried. She had smiled, hugging my urn to her chest. She said, “Brother, I’ll protect you from now on.” I watched as she carefully opened her palm. The fragments of the signet ring had sliced her skin, drawing blood. She just smiled a little. “Brother’s favorite ring. I’ll keep it for Brother until he comes back.” She was visibly shivering from the cold, but she tucked the fragments safely into her pocket. I couldn’t hold back anymore. I cried out, a soundless, desperate wail that no one could hear. After our parents died in that car crash when I was eighteen, the trauma had kept Lily’s mind fixed at the age of eight. We only had each other. I never imagined she would go to such lengths for me. I looked at my sister. I didn’t want anything anymore. I just wanted my sister to live. The next day, Sloan didn’t send food to the basement. Naturally, she didn’t see that Lily had already collapsed with a fever. It was three days later when Sloan finally remembered the girl locked below. The basement door was pushed open. The smell of mildew and a faint metallic, bloody scent rushed out. Lily was curled up in the corner. Her face was flushed crimson with fever, her lips cracked and bleeding. Her breathing was so shallow, the rise and fall of her chest was barely visible. Sloan’s footsteps paused. Her brow instinctively furrowed. “How did she get like this?” Just as she was about to turn and call someone, Travis Miller’s voice, choked with tears, came from behind her. “Lily.” He rushed forward, then stopped a few feet away. The corners of his eyes were red, his body shaking. “It’s my fault, Sloan. I shouldn’t have crossed Owen. Now Lily is paying for it.” “I’ll go to Owen now. I’ll apologize, I’ll get on my knees, I’ll do anything he wants. Just tell him to let Lily go.” As he made to fall to his knees, Sloan grabbed him instantly. “You did nothing wrong. The fault lies entirely with the selfish, cruel Owen Reed.” “He’s willing to use his own sister’s life as a bargaining chip just to avoid apologizing? How despicable.” She actually thought I had caused Lily’s illness? Sloan sneered. “Fine. If he’s willing to sacrifice her, I have nothing to lose. Close the door.” She gave my sister one cold glance on the floor and turned to walk away. I rushed forward, shouting in front of her. “No! Sloan Beckett, don’t!” “Save my sister! Please save her!” “She always called you Sister Sloan! Do you really have the heart to do this?” Just as the words left my ghostly mouth, Sloan paused. A flicker of hope sparked in my heart. I thought she’d finally found her conscience. But she turned around, her voice dangerously cold. “Who gave her this water? Didn’t I say not to give her any food or drink?” The housekeeper hurried in from outside. “Ms. Beckett, it was me. The young lady—” She was cut off before she could finish. “Remember who signs your paycheck. If I ever find out you give her anything again, you’re fired.” The housekeeper’s eyes flashed with sympathy, but she lowered her gaze. Sloan lifted her foot and viciously kicked the bowl away. Water splashed onto Lily’s sleeve. The shock made Lily stir, and she let out a painful moan. A crumpled piece of paper fluttered out of her hands. It was my official death certificate. Sloan’s gaze slammed onto it. Her pupils shrank. She stood frozen for several seconds, completely motionless. Travis saw it too. His face paled, but he quickly stepped forward. “Sloan, this must be something Owen made to trick us. We haven’t received any official notification of his death.” Sloan seemed jolted awake by his voice. She looked at Lily again, her eyes filled only with annoyance. “I underestimated the acting skills of this idiot.” “A death certificate that shows up now, of all times? It’s too convenient.” She cast a final glance at my barely breathing sister on the floor, turned, and didn’t hesitate. “Leave her there. If Owen doesn’t show up, don’t open that door for anyone.” My whole body trembled. I was already dead. Yet, in that moment, I felt the searing taste of a broken heart. I rushed over, kneeling before the woman who couldn’t see me. “No! Don’t do this!” “Save my sister! She’s dying!” Lily was being ravaged by an unstoppable fever. Now, without food or water, she wouldn’t last. But no one could hear my cries. I could only watch as the door slammed shut again. I stood there, spinning in frantic, useless circles. Then, I heard a faint whisper. “Brother.” It was Lily calling me. I flew to her side and saw her eyes flutter open. She was looking in my direction, her eyes bloodshot. “Brother, is that you?” Before I could speak, she smiled faintly. “I must be seeing things. Brother hasn’t come back yet.” She reached out a hand. “Brother, Lily hurts so much. I can’t hang on anymore.” She closed her eyes again. This time, no matter how desperately I called her name, she didn’t answer. And just beyond that closed door, I heard Sloan, using a tone of voice I had never heard before, speaking to Travis. “Don’t be afraid, Travis. I’m here. No one will ever hurt you again.” “I promise you, I’ll drag him out and make him kneel before you and apologize.” Hearing that, my heart was utterly still. The pain had finally numbed me. Before my parents’ accident, Sloan and I had grown up together, inseparable. The year the crash happened, and my uncle stole our company, I fell apart. Sloan held my hand and promised she would always stand by me. I thought that was forever. But when Travis Miller appeared, her focus slowly shifted away from me. He was the scholarship student our family had sponsored. Even after my parents died and my uncle took everything, I still scrimped and saved to help pay for his university education. Yet, he spread lies that I abused him, starved him of living expenses. I became the villain in everyone’s eyes. Even Sloan began to favor Travis. Looking at Sloan’s profile now, I had a sudden, morbid curiosity. Would she regret my death when she finally knew the truth? 2 Sloan used every connection she had, but she couldn’t find a single trace of me. That crumpled death certificate was the only lead. In the hospital, the scent of antiseptic was acrid. Sloan marched straight to the doctor on duty. “Have you had anyone brought in recently from the downtown gambling dens?” How ridiculous. The den was practically on Sloan’s territory. She could have freed me with a single word. Instead, she let me be tortured. The doctor pushed up his glasses, recalling the case. “Yes, about five or six days ago. A young man. He was already beyond help when they brought him in.” “It was gruesome. Almost every bone in his body was broken. All ten fingernails had been pulled out. His skin… there wasn’t a single clean patch.” “He died from massive blood loss and organ failure. We did everything we could, but we couldn’t save him.” Sloan’s heart plummeted. Her fingers went icy cold. “What… what did he look like?” The doctor shook his head sympathetically. “His face was unrecognizable, damaged beyond repair. He seemed like a tough one, though. Didn’t cry out once, even at the end.” “It couldn’t have been him.” Sloan abruptly cut him off. “He’s not that strong. He’s not that tough.” Sloan desperately tried to convince herself. But deep inside, something began to fracture. She all but fled the hospital, driving back to the house where Lily was imprisoned. She pushed the door open. A suffocating silence. She rushed to the basement. The steel door was slightly ajar. Lily was curled in the corner. Her clothes were torn and disheveled. The exposed skin was covered in vivid bruises. She was hugging herself tightly, her eyes vacant, her body uncontrollably shaking. Standing over her, Travis’s clothes were rumpled. What had happened was clear to anyone with eyes. My spectral eyes went blood red. All my ghostly composure evaporated. I wanted to devour his flesh and drink his blood. Travis quickly offered an explanation. “Sloan, you have to believe me. I didn’t do anything.” “I was just so worried about her. I came down to give her some water, and the second I walked in, she started taking her clothes off.” “Lily isn’t right in the head. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. How could she accuse me of something like that?” It was a transparent lie, yet Sloan believed him instantly. “Disgusting!” She took several steps forward and delivered a vicious slap across Lily’s face. Lily was already terribly weak. The impact sent her tumbling to the ground, her forehead smashing hard against one of the broken signet ring fragments. Lily lay on the floor, instantly losing consciousness. Sloan finally panicked. She ordered the bodyguards to rush Lily to the hospital. They had barely arrived when they ran right into the leader of the gambling operation. “Well, well. Ms. Beckett, didn’t know you knew this little lady.” Sloan leaned against the wall, her fingers trembling uncontrollably. “What are you talking about?” The loan shark licked his lips. “Gotta say, she’s simple, but she put on quite a show for the guys, trying to get her brother’s ashes back.” “Shame, her brother—Owen Reed, was it?—didn’t have the stomach for it. Tapped out in a few days. But this little dummy, she was resilient. Kept the boys company for three days and three nights.” “What are you saying?” Sloan’s voice was high-pitched and sharp. The casino men exchanged amused glances, snickering. “Did Ms. Beckett forget? It was you who personally delivered Owen Reed to us.” “A debt’s a debt. The kid just had soft bones, couldn’t take it, and died.” “The simple one, though, she was loyal. Just had to get that box of ashes back…” “Impossible!” Sloan stumbled back, hitting the wall. Just then, the light above the operating room flickered off. The doctor walked out, pulling down his mask, his face expressionless. “I’m sorry. She was brought in too late. Severe internal hemorrhage combined with high fever. The trauma was too much. We couldn’t save her.” Sloan froze completely. After a long moment, she violently grabbed the doctor’s collar.

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“Forty thousand dollars. I’m never getting it back.” I stared at the screen of my phone, my cousin’s social media feed searing my eyes. A photo of a new house key, tied with a cheap, festive bow. The caption: Finally have a place of our own. The phone rang. It was him. “Riley, forty grand is nothing to you, but I was that short on the down payment. Can’t you just wait a little longer?” I let out a short, hollow laugh. Two years ago, he was on his knees, crying, calling it life-saving money, promising to repay it in three months. Two years. Not a penny seen. “Jake.” I opened my photo album and pulled up the screenshot. “You say you don’t have the money to repay me, but that new house key on your feed—did that come free with a phone upgrade?” Silence hung on the line. 1 I remembered the whole thing with crystal clarity. March 2023. My cousin, Jake, called me out of the blue, his voice shaking. “Riley, you have to save me.” I was working late, and the panic in his voice made me think it was an emergency. “What’s wrong?” “The business is in trouble. Vendors are demanding payment, and I can’t cover the gap.” His voice hitched. “I’m only short forty thousand. Three months, I swear, I’ll pay you back in three months.” Forty thousand. It was everything I had saved from five years of working. My entire nest egg. “Jake, I…” “Riley, I’m begging you.” A choked sob came over the phone. “You’re my last hope. The banks won’t touch me. I even took Aunt Brenda’s retirement money to fill the holes. I’m totally cornered.” I hesitated for a long time. Growing up, Jake had always been decent to me. When I got bullied in elementary school, he was the one who stood up for me. The year I applied to college, Aunt Brenda brought me her famous chicken casserole. “Will you write an IOU?” I asked. “Yes! Absolutely, I will!” He sounded like I’d thrown him a life raft. “I’m coming over right now. I’ll write it in front of you.” An hour later, Jake was on my doorstep. He actually dropped to his knees. “Riley, this money is my life.” His eyes were red as he handed me the handwritten IOU. “Three months. I will pay it back. If I don’t, you can take me to court.” My mother, Patty, stood by, sighing. “Jake, get up. We’re family. Why are you doing this?” I didn’t say a word. I opened my banking app and transferred the $40,000. As the transfer confirmation dinged, he bowed deeply. “Riley, I’ll remember this kindness for a lifetime.” A lifetime. I found the word sickeningly ironic now. Three months later, I called him. “Jake, about the money…” “Riley, I was just about to call you.” His voice was lighter, easier. “Things are still a little tight. Give me two more months, and I’ll definitely have it.” I said okay. Two months later, I called again. This time, he didn’t pick up. I sent a text. He replied: Super busy lately. I’ll be in touch in a few days. A few days turned into a few weeks, which bled into a few months. I soon realized he’d put me on a restrictive list on social media. Everyone else could see his posts about dinners out, weekend trips, and new clothes. I only saw generic reposts about organic eating or lame dad jokes. I called my Aunt Brenda and asked how Jake was doing. “Jake’s doing great,” she said cheerfully. “The business is slowly turning around.” I asked, “What about the money he borrowed from me…” Aunt Brenda paused for a second, then laughed. “Riley, honey, we’re family. What’s the rush? The minute Jake has it, he’ll pay you back.” The minute he has it. But when was that minute, exactly? In early 2024, I tried a few more times. Jake either didn’t answer or told me, “Just be patient.” I tried to be patient. In mid-2024, my dad, Frank, went in for a routine check-up and they found a serious issue. The doctor said he needed surgery, and the out-of-pocket cost would be about $8,000. I tallied my savings—$5,000. My monthly salary was decent, but after rent and expenses, I could only bank four or five hundred a month. Two years of diligent saving had yielded less than five thousand. I was $3,000 short. I called Jake again. “Jake, Dad needs surgery. Can you pay back just a partial amount? Three thousand would be enough to cover the rest of the bill.” He was silent for a long moment. “Riley, I truly don’t have it.” He sighed, sounding put upon. “You know how bad business has been. Can’t you figure out something else?” I said, “Jake, I loaned you forty thousand dollars.” “I know I owe you!” His voice grew impatient. “But what do you want me to do? You make a good salary—forty grand is just two years of work for you. I needed that money to save my business!” My hand, clutching the phone, was shaking. “Jake, you promised me three months.” “I told you I don’t have it now!” He suddenly raised his voice. “Why are you so petty? It’s not like I’m never going to pay you back!” Petty. The word felt like a physical slap across my face. I hung up, sat on the edge of my bed, and felt my eyes sting. Forty thousand. When I gave it to you, you cried on your knees. Now my dad needs surgery, and you call me petty. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I opened my phone and went to Jake’s social media. He had changed his privacy settings to show only six months of posts, but they were still the same generic wellness garbage. I switched to an old burner account I never used. I wasn’t connected to him on that one, but some of his posts were public. And there it was— October 17, 2024. A photo of a new house key with a festive bow. Caption: Finally have a place of our own. October 25, 2024. A picture of a new car key, a Honda logo glinting. Caption: First new car. Time to celebrate. December 2024. Photos of a minimalist-style living room. Caption: The place is slowly coming together. I stared at the screen, a cold dread washing over me. He said he couldn’t pay me back. So where did the money for a house and a car come from? I saved the screenshots, my heart hammering against my ribs. The next day, I called Jake. “Jake, I saw your social media.” “What social media?” His voice was instantly guarded. “The new house, the new car.” I took a deep breath. “I thought you didn’t have any money.” He hesitated, then laughed awkwardly. “That was my mother-in-law’s money. What does that have to do with you?” “What does it have to do with me?” “Meredith’s mother loves her daughter. She helped us with the down payment and the car. That’s her money. I didn’t use your loan to buy a house.” I was shaking with anger. “Jake, you owe me forty thousand dollars.” “I know I owe you!” He was annoyed now. “But I genuinely don’t have the cash right now. What do you want me to do? Sell the house to pay you back?” I didn’t answer. “Riley, you’re in your twenties, how are you this clueless?” He sighed patronizingly. “I’m trying to make things work. Just be patient. When I’m back on my feet, I’ll pay you back.” Be patient. I had been patient from 2023 to 2025—two long years. My dad was in the hospital, and I was $3,000 short of his surgery bill. And my cousin, living in a new house and driving a new car, told me to be patient. “Jake.” My voice was surprisingly calm. “I’m not waiting any longer.” “What does that mean?” “It means I’m getting my money back.” The line went silent for a few seconds. Then, he chuckled. “Riley, how do you plan to do that? Sue me?” I tightened my grip on the phone. “If you insist on going through legal channels, go ahead,” he said lightly. “The house isn’t in my name anyway. You won’t get a thing.” “Who said the house isn’t in your name?” He froze. I looked at the photo of the new house key on my screen and gave a small, humorless smile. “Jake, your caption says, ‘Finally have a place of our own.’” I enunciated every word. “‘Our own,’ not your mother-in-law’s.” Dead silence. “I’ll have my lawyer check the deeds,” I said. “You’d better pray that house is truly not in your name.” I hung up. 2. The next day, my mom, Patty, called, sounding conflicted. “Riley, your Aunt Brenda stopped by earlier.” My stomach dropped. “What did she say?” “She said Jake is under a lot of pressure, that business is rough, and that you shouldn’t push him so hard.” Mom sighed. “She also said…we’re family, and talking about money just ruins the relationship.” Talking about money ruins the relationship. I let out a cold snort. “Mom, was he worried about ruining the relationship when he begged me for the money?” “I know, but…” Mom hesitated. “Aunt Brenda also brought up how much they helped us when you were getting into college.” I was stunned. “What help?” “She mentioned…Jake used to tutor you in high school, and that Uncle Gary helped your dad get that job years ago.” I took a deep breath. “Mom, you and Dad had to borrow money for my tuition, and it took three years to pay off. Jake tutored me? His math grade was a D, what could he have tutored me in?” My mom fell silent. “And Uncle Gary getting Dad a job—that was fifteen years ago! Dad quit after a month because the pay was barely minimum wage.” My voice shook slightly. “Mom, Aunt Brenda is just using moral blackmail.” “I know, I just…” Mom sighed again. “I worry about you causing a family rift over this.” “Mom, forty thousand dollars.” I gripped the phone. “I want to preserve our family ties, but what do they think I am?” Mom was quiet for a long time before saying, “Do what you think is best,” and hanging up. I sat on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Our family was never the rich one among the relatives. My dad was a blue-collar worker, and Mom worked the checkout counter at a grocery store. Uncle Gary’s family ran a small business and had a lot more disposable income. I remembered going to their house when I was a kid. Jake had a pile of expensive toys, and I could only watch. Aunt Brenda would smile and say, “Riley, just play with them. We’re family.” But the moment I actually reached for one, she would say, “That one is expensive. Be careful not to break it.” We’re family. It was the most convenient phrase. We were family when he needed the loan; we were family when he didn’t want to pay it back. But why did the idea of “family” only apply to my need to concede? I opened my laptop and started gathering the evidence. The bank transfer record: March 15, 2023. Transfer of $40,000. Memo: Loan. The text messages: Jake’s promise to repay “in three months.” The timestamps were undeniable. The IOU: Handwritten, signed, dated, with the amount clearly stated. The social media screenshots: New house keys, new car keys, renovation photos. I exported everything, saved it on a flash drive, and printed two copies. Then, I drove to the law office. The lawyer was a sharp, thirty-something woman named Ms. Shaw. She had a no-nonsense air about her. “Ms. Green, your case is very strong,” Ms. Shaw said after reviewing the materials. “The IOU, the transfer record, the texts—you have everything. The chances of winning in court are excellent.” “I need to know if that house is in his name.” Ms. Shaw nodded. “I can run a property deed search for you.” “And if it is?” “Then we can file a lien against it,” she explained. “After the court judgment, if he refuses to comply, we can petition for a forced sale.” I took a deep breath. “One more question,” I said. “What if he tries to transfer the property before the trial?” Ms. Shaw looked at me knowingly. “Do you suspect he might?” “He claimed his mother-in-law bought it. I worry he might sign it over to his wife beforehand.” “Any malicious transfer of assets during the litigation process can be clawed back by the court,” Ms. Shaw stated. “And the act itself only hurts his credibility.” I nodded. “Ms. Shaw, I want to file the lawsuit.” Ms. Shaw looked at me and smiled reassuringly. “Let’s do it.” Leaving the law office, I sent Jake a text message. “I’m giving you one last chance. Repay the $40,000 within one week. Otherwise, I’ll see you in court.” The message showed as Read. He didn’t reply. Three days later, Aunt Brenda called. “Riley, why are you suing your cousin?” Her voice was tearful. “We’re family. Can’t we just sit down and talk about this?” “Aunt Brenda, I’ve been sitting down and talking about this for two years,” I replied calmly. “Every time, he tells me to ‘be patient.’ Now, a whole year later, I haven’t seen one cent.” “Jake really doesn’t have the…” “Aunt Brenda,” I cut her off. “His down payment for the house was $75,000. His car was $20,000. That’s $95,000. Are you telling me you truly believe he doesn’t have $40,000 for me?” Aunt Brenda paused. “He…that was his mother-in-law’s money.” “Was it?” I retorted coldly. “Do you even know whose name the house is in, Aunt Brenda?” She didn’t answer. “Aunt Brenda, I don’t want to escalate this,” I said. “But my dad needs surgery, and I need the money. You were there when I loaned your son $40,000.” “Riley, listen to me…” “Aunt Brenda.” I interrupted her again. “I’m only going to ask you one thing. If I had borrowed $40,000 from Jake two years ago, refused to pay it back, bought a house and a car, and told him to ‘be patient,’ what would you do?” Dead silence on the other end. “I’ll wait one week,” I said. “If he pays me back in that time, this is over. After that, we go to court.” I hung up.

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