New Year’s Eve. The night Damon was supposed to propose, he gave me a used, fake luxury handbag as a gift instead. Furious, I broke up with him and ran to my best friend, Naomi, to vent. I never expected that the moment I saw Naomi, I would suddenly hear her thoughts. “This bitch finally dumped him. A used, fake bag? Ha. I swapped the bags when they weren’t looking.” “You still don’t know, do you? The man you just broke up with is a secret billionaire, and he was planning to propose tonight.” “Why should a man that good belong to you? From now on, he’s mine.” Following Naomi’s chilling monologue, I checked the security footage. Sure enough, there she was, swapping the packages in a furtive, guilty motion. I instantly cut her out of my life, rushed back to Damon, resolved the misunderstanding, and we were married a month later. But the marriage was a lie. He wasn’t rich; he was drowning in debt. I spent every day dodging loan sharks and thugs until, cornered on a rooftop, I slipped and fell to my death. Then I opened my eyes. I was back on the day I first heard Naomi’s thoughts. 1 “Guys who are in love are so easy to trick. What woman wouldn’t love it if her proposal was broadcast on every digital billboard in the city?” “Just because I said Sienna ‘dislikes extravagance’ and that he should ‘give her time to think and the chance to hesitate’ before a grand spectacle, he actually decided to propose in secret.” “He even asked me what gift Sienna would like. Perfect. I’d been scammed on a fake bag the other day, so I made him buy me a real one as a replacement.” “Then I deleted the receipt. No proof, no witnesses. I’m a genius.” Hearing Naomi’s inner voice, Naomi’s voice, for the second time, I still broke out in a cold sweat. In my past life, I’d been so excited, getting dressed up to spend New Year’s Eve with my boyfriend. Then I saw the gift: a worn, second-hand purse. The tag didn’t even match the outer box. I questioned him angrily, but he insisted he bought it from a reputable boutique. When I demanded the receipt, he couldn’t produce it. He then had the audacity to suggest that Naomi had handled the package, hinting she might have been involved. He tried to drag me to a hotel, saying he had a ‘surprise’ waiting. I nearly laughed from sheer disbelief. He pulls this, and he still expects me to go to a hotel with him? I broke up with him on the spot and threw the bag at his chest. Naomi and I had grown up together. Over the years, we were closer than family. She’d even paid for my mother’s critical surgery when we were short. How dare he try to use a cheap, fake purse to sow discord between us? But I went home and heard her thoughts—the scheme was all her. I didn’t believe it at first, thinking it was a prank. But the security footage didn’t lie; I watched Naomi switch the bags myself. I went to the hotel he mentioned. He had reserved the Presidential Suite, complete with a lavish, meticulously arranged proposal setting. I even found text messages on his phone from Naomi, urging him to “simplify the proposal.” In a haze of disbelief and pain, I exposed Naomi’s deception, severed our friendship, and married Damon. But my husband was no billionaire. He was a gambler with overwhelming debts. He married me to make me help pay them off. The relentless pressure from the debt collectors eventually led me to jump. To my death. And I never knew why any of it happened. “Sienna, it’s a good thing you broke up with him.” “Honestly, I never dared to say it, but I always felt there was something…off about Damon.” Naomi squeezed my hand, offering comfort after I told her I’d ended things. I stared into her eyes, the tears welling up, but they were tears of confusion and love, not rage. 2 After I died in the previous life, I didn’t return immediately. I was a ghost, floating above the world. It was then I learned that while I was on the run from the debt collectors, Naomi had secretly been taking care of my parents. When the thugs found my parents’ apartment after my death, it was Naomi who rushed in, shielding them from the knives. When my parents collapsed from grief after my sudden death, she took them in and cared for them as if they were her own. A person like that couldn’t possibly turn on me for a man. I chose to ignore the bizarre voice in my head. I hugged Naomi tightly and nodded, conviction hardening my voice. “You’re right, Naomi. Something’s definitely wrong with him. Thank God I ended it fast.” I immediately pulled out my phone. Without even glancing at the stream of messages, I blocked Damon Wallace—my ex-fiancé—on every platform. The memory of hiding from loan sharks, having to sleep rough, and constantly fearing for my life was still vivid. This time, I wouldn’t be fooled. I wouldn’t hurt the person who truly loved me. But even after blocking him, Damon persisted. “Sienna, I’m so sorry. Last night was a total mistake.” “I accidentally grabbed the wrong box. Look, this is the bag I bought you.” “To make up for my monumental screw-up, I also bought you that necklace—the one you’ve always wanted. Please, forgive me?” Seeing that I wouldn’t respond, Damon grabbed my arm. He pleaded earnestly, and when I remained silent, he started showing up downstairs every day with a new gift, vowing to wait until I had a change of heart. I just sneered internally. I didn’t try to stop him. I knew his debts were about to catch up with him. Once the sharks showed up, he’d be too busy running to bother me. I had already found a new place and was preparing to move. This time, I would finally be free of him. But on the day I had planned my move—the very day I expected the debt collectors to swarm him—Damon showed up, right on time. “What are you even doing here?” I froze, seeing him holding a fresh bouquet, just like any other day. I remembered the date perfectly. In my previous life, this was the third day after our wedding, when we were supposed to go visit my parents. Instead, we were intercepted by thugs wielding knives, threatening to cut off our fingers if we didn’t pay. That’s when I learned the truth: he wasn’t a secret billionaire; he was a desperate gambler. But why was he standing here, unharmed, now? The next shock was even greater. When he heard me speak, Damon didn’t flash his usual pleading smile. He merely gave me a cold, dismissive look. “Don’t worry. My being here has nothing to do with you. I’m just here to help Naomi move.” Naomi? I followed his gaze and saw Damon hoisting a suitcase, helping Naomi carry her belongings. Naomi didn’t object. She simply handed him the bag as if it were her right. “Naomi, what are you doing?” I stared at her in shock, losing my grip on the box in my hands. Its contents scattered across the floor. My best friend, the one who had just been enthusiastically planning our new, shared future, suddenly turned cold. “Sienna, since you know, I won’t pretend anymore.” “Damon and I are together. And thank you for vacating the position. Honestly, I couldn’t have found a better man without your help.” Naomi’s words pierced my heart like a dagger. The terrifying inner voice from earlier rushed back. It had all been true. Naomi really had wanted to marry Damon. She couldn’t bear to see me happy. But then why, in the previous life, had she so selflessly cared for my parents? And why hadn’t the debt collectors shown up this time? 3 The explosion of unanswered questions nearly blew my mind apart. I stood there helplessly, watching Naomi finish loading her things into Damon’s car. “No, Naomi, you can’t marry him!” “You think he’s a billionaire, but he’s lying to you! He is not a good man—he’s a gambler. You marry him, and your life will be destroyed!” Seeing her about to leave, I grabbed her arm. I still didn’t understand what was happening, but she had genuinely cared for my parents in the past. Helping her avoid this nightmare would even the score. Perhaps Damon, seeing he couldn’t fool me, had managed to buy a few days’ reprieve from the loan sharks and was now moving on to my best friend, hoping her savings from her design studio could solve his immediate problems. “Sienna, what is your problem? I used to be so loyal to you, and you turn around and slander me like this?” Damon stepped between us, his face twisting in anger. “Why are you calling me a gambler? Because I gave you the wrong bag?” “Since we’re being honest, I can tell you that I gave you the wrong bag on purpose.” “I am Darian Wallace, the CEO and heir to the Wallace Group. That bag was a test—the Wallace family can’t marry a woman who is vain and materialistic.” “Unfortunately, you failed the test. But I liked you so much, Sienna, that I broke my own rules. I kept coming back, begging for your forgiveness.” “But then I met Naomi by accident. Gradually, I realized my initial perception of you was flawed. A woman like Naomi is my true love.” “Stop trying to find excuses to hold onto me. Your chance is gone.” Damon grabbed my arm and forcibly shoved me away. I merely chuckled. “Billionaire? How do you have the nerve? I bet the debt you owe is about to be exposed.” “You think because the real Darian Wallace keeps a low profile, you can use his identity to scam people?” “Well, you didn’t count on this: he has agreed to an exclusive interview with my network. I’m the reporter who’s covering it tomorrow.” “Then, we’ll see how I expose your true face.” A flicker of panic crossed Damon’s face. I smirked, triumphant. I’d fought tooth and nail for this interview slot ever since I came back, all for this moment. The next day, I arrived at the studio early. The producer had told me a few press photos from the interview would be released today. Once it was confirmed, Damon wouldn’t be able to bluff with that identity anymore. But I never could have imagined that when my interview subject finally walked in, I would be looking at Damon. “Sienna. Long time no see.” “Allow me to reintroduce myself. I am Darian Wallace, CEO of the Wallace Group.” I was completely stunned. I had, of course, heard the CEO’s name. But in the previous life, Damon had never changed his name, not even on our marriage certificate. It had always been Damon Wallace. How could he actually be the billionaire? My network’s vetting process for an interview subject this high-profile would have been extremely rigorous. I’d also heard the Wallace Group never gave interviews; they only agreed to ours because a high-level executive at the station had a family connection to Darian. There was no way Damon could be an imposter in this scenario. My mind raced, spinning out of control. I forced myself to pull it together and stumbled through the interview. “Ms. Stone, you look a little frayed.” “What’s wrong? Are you losing sleep without me?” Damon noticed my poor state and mocked me after the interview ended. “Who are you, really?” I studied him with guarded suspicion. The life I’d led on the run—constantly threatened, always terrified—was still a fresh wound. I remembered one instance when we were hiding, penniless, forced to scavenge food from dumpsters. If he was truly a billionaire, why would we have lived like that? But if he wasn’t, what was this? “Who am I? I already told you. I am Darian Wallace, and my middle name is Damon. So I also go by Damon Wallace.” Seeing my caution, he simply smiled, answering with infuriating patience. I stared at his face, the face I had loved for three years. It was the same person, yet everything felt utterly, chillingly unfamiliar. “Honey, are you done with your interview? I’ve been waiting outside.” Before I could speak again, Naomi suddenly burst in. They had only been together for half a day, yet they already acted like a deeply intimate couple. She wrapped her arm around Damon’s, leaning into his embrace and pouting playfully. I raised my hand, wanting to intervene, but hesitated and lowered it. It truly seemed that everything was unfolding exactly as the inner voice had foretold. I had no clear grasp of the situation. What right did I have to stop them? I forced myself to maintain a professional composure, offering my interview subject a polite, strained smile of farewell. But suddenly, my gaze fixed on Naomi’s hand. A flash of insight—I thought I knew what was happening!

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I had just walked in the door, still buzzing from a fantastic bowl of Pho, when the text from Tiffany Miller landed. “Ms. Allen, I saw you eating beef noodles just now. You seemed very happy.” “But shouldn’t a teacher find joy in teaching? Shouldn’t you be feeling pain when you are away from your students and your classroom?” “I just feel like you were a little too happy.” Reading that, I nearly choked on my own indignation. It was my day off. I went out for a bowl of soup. Was I not allowed to smile? Still, adhering to my principle of minimum engagement with the unreasonable, I simply replied that I would “be more mindful next time.” An hour passed without a response, and I figured I was done with the crazy for the day. Then the main Parent Committee group chat exploded. Ding! Ding! Ding! Tiffany Miller had posted every single photo she had secretly taken of me eating my Pho! There were a dozen pictures, each one deliberately edited with filters that made me look haggard and miserable. Immediately following the photos, Tiffany dropped several sixty-second-long voice notes, one after the other. “Ms. Allen is smiling so brightly away from her students, a complete lack of professional conduct!” “Look how happy she is outside the classroom. This is proof she doesn’t care about our children!” “These young teachers are absolutely appalling! How can we allow someone like this to educate our kids?” “We should report this neglectful teacher to the district office and make sure she faces the consequences!” Her righteousness was so absurd, I couldn’t help but laugh a cynical, sharp little laugh. Fine. I was already sick of being the Homeroom teacher for this mess of a class. Let’s see who is left to handle your son, Jackson, after I’m gone. 1 The notifications were still going insane, the vibrations rattling my head. A few parents who were clearly fed up finally spoke up: “Tiffany, that’s going too far. A teacher is allowed to have a personal life on the weekend.” “Seriously, I thought Ms. Allen was out at some fancy five-star brunch. It was just a bowl of Pho.” Tiffany, however, was immediately enraged by the opposition. “Personal life? She’s a teacher! She should maintain a teacher’s demeanor at all times!” “If a teacher can smile about something that has nothing to do with her students, then her mind isn’t where it needs to be!” “Oh, I see. You’re all just siding with her because she’s a young woman! Is something going on between you and her?” As Tiffany began to veer into outright slander, the dissenting parents quickly shut up. Seeing no further opposition, Tiffany pressed her advantage. “And look at this so-called Ms. Allen you’re all defending!” “I called her at five in the morning last weekend, and she didn’t pick up! She didn’t call me back until eight!” “A role model sleeping in so late! How can a person like that teach our children anything of value?” “My Jax is constantly on his phone, he leaves garbage everywhere, and he doesn’t make his bed! Is this how she’s teaching our kids?” The further the comments spiraled into the ridiculous, the calmer I became. Like mother, like son. Her son, Jackson “Jax” Miller, was famous throughout the district as the little king of chaos. A third-grader who, in one semester, had already chased away five Homeroom teachers. His legendary antics included putting thumbtacks on the supply closet chair, hiding a dead mouse in the Guidance Counselor’s desk drawer, and once, publicly exposing himself and peeing on the classroom floor. I still remember the last Homeroom teacher had a panic attack on the spot and had to be rushed to the emergency room. When the Old Director, Mr. Graham, showed up on my porch with a fruit basket, the white-haired old man was practically on his knees. “Anya, please! You’re a certified Master Teacher! No one else can manage him!” I’d only taken the assignment out of a deep sense of sympathy for the Director and the school. It was a complete dumpster fire, but I was good at putting out fires. Jax was a terror, but he was ultimately just a kid. He was no match for me. In six months, I had him completely under control. When he was quiet, Jax looked like a perfectly normal little boy. Sometimes I would stare at him, trying to figure out what kind of home life could produce such a completely lawless child. Now, watching his mother vent pure, unadulterated poison into the group chat, I finally understood. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and in this case, the tree was rotten to the core. With a parent like this, if Jax had become a functional human being, it would have been a miracle. But seeing as I had spent six months putting Jax on a slightly better path, I knew I had to respond to Tiffany one last time. The phone suddenly vibrated again. It was the new Principal, Kenwood. My brow twitched. I answered the call, and a torrent of unfiltered rage immediately erupted from the speaker. “Anya Allen! What in God’s name are you doing?! Mrs. Miller just called me, screaming! She says you’re insulting parents in the group chat and threatening to quit the class!” I took a deep breath, fighting to keep my voice even. “Principal, if you look at the chat log, it’s her who is spreading…” “Flies don’t land on sealed jars, Anya!” “You need to understand, in the current educational climate, the parent is the client! If the client is unhappy, you’ve failed!” “Mrs. Miller is a powerhouse on the Parent Committee! You’ve completely alienated her. How are we supposed to conduct enrollment for next year?” “Now, I want you to apologize to Mrs. Miller in the group chat, immediately! And I want a two-thousand-word essay, reflecting on your selfish pursuit of leisure and your failure to prioritize student well-being!” “And, I want a guarantee that you will not leave your apartment after work! And if you must go out, you are to wear a mask so no parent can recognize you!” My head was spinning from the sheer, stunning audacity of his demands. Don’t leave my apartment? Wear a mask? I was a teacher, not a fugitive! No wonder there was a joke online about how people who killed pigs in a past life became teachers in this one. The sheer concentration of absurdity I encountered in a day felt like three lifetimes’ worth. Principal Kenwood was a true piece of work, recently transferred from an administrative role, completely clueless about the reality of classroom teaching. His specialty was ‘service-oriented’ education—where the teacher was the servant. He didn’t want a teacher; he wanted a kneeling servant. Watching Tiffany in the group chat—where she was now threatening to end herself over the perceived injustice—I felt a wave of cold clarity wash over me. I hung up the phone and powered it off. An apology and a self-reflection essay? Absolutely not. I opened my laptop and started typing. Letter of Resignation. If they thought I was a lazy hedonist, then fine. I wasn’t going to serve this mess anymore. The next morning, I walked into the classroom just as the bell was ringing, my printed resignation letter tucked into my bag. My plan was to teach my last class, go out with dignity, and then slam the letter down on Principal Kenwood’s desk. But the moment I stepped over the threshold, my heart nearly stopped. Jax was backed into a corner, holding a heavy-duty drafting compass. He had his post-it-note-wearing classmate, Eliza “Liz” Allen, pinned against the wall, the razor-sharp point of the compass less than a quarter-inch from her eye. “Jackson Miller! Stop! Now!” I threw my bag to the floor and roared, my voice sharp with fury. Jax flinched and slowly, deliberately, lowered the compass. He turned to face me. Something was wrong. Normally, he would have instantly dropped the weapon, cowering in fear. But now, his eyes held none of the usual submission. They were filled with raw, arrogant defiance. “Jax, put that down! Step away from the wall!” I tried to keep my voice even as I walked toward him. He didn’t move. Instead, he jutted his chin out, gathering all his courage to shout back. “Why should I listen to you? My mom told me last night!” “She said you’re a criminal who made a big mistake and you’re going to get reported to the police! You’re scared, and you can’t control me anymore!” “I can do whatever I want!” The classroom was dead silent. I felt a rush of blood pressure so intense I thought I might have a stroke. This was the result of her parenting. I had spent six months of my life, day in and day out, teaching him basic humanity, and his mother had undone it all in a single venomous evening. The teacher’s ingrained sense of duty momentarily overpowered my resignation plans. I lunged forward, ripped the compass from his hand, and dragged him to the front of the room. “Jackson Miller, it seems your mother failed to teach you respect. So, I will teach you one last time.” I was truly, incandescently furious. I stared him down and lectured him for a solid thirty minutes. Under that much pressure, the reckless arrogance his mother had stoked in him completely evaporated. Finally, his mouth crumpled, and he burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Ms. Allen… I won’t ever do it again…” He was sobbing, reaching out to grasp my sleeve and plead for mercy. Seeing the fear, the genuine regret in him, I finally began to relax. It was in that exact moment a shriek tore through the air, so loud it made my ears ring. “You son of a bitch! How dare you lay a hand on my baby?!” A cloud of overpowering perfume and the clack of high heels announced Tiffany Miller’s whirlwind entry into the classroom. She shoved me aside, pulled Jax into a ferocious hug, and pointed an accusing, crimson-taloned finger at my face. “I knew it! I knew you venomous woman were holding a grudge!” “I said a few things in the chat, and you take it out by bullying a defenseless child in front of the class?” “Everyone look! The teacher hit him! She made my son cry!” The classroom instantly descended into chaos. Tiffany’s screeching entirely drowned out the dismissal bell. “Help! Call the police! She’s assaulting a minor! Child abuse!” Her screams drew in people from the surrounding classrooms. Tiffany’s performance art reached a new peak. She sobbed theatrically, raising Jax’s arm like a trophy. “Look! His arm is red! How much force did you use? My son has never even been spoken to harshly! You physically assaulted him?” “I’m going to the District Office! No, the Police! You’re done! You pathetic witch! I’ll see you in prison!” With his mother’s powerful backup, Jax instantly stopped trying to cry, though his face was still wet. He buried himself in her embrace and wailed fakely. “Ms. Allen hurt me! Ms. Allen bullied me!” I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to slap the both of them, and pointed at Liz Allen, who was still trembling by the wall. “Tiffany Miller, please be reasonable! Your son was attempting to stab a classmate’s eye with a drafting compass!” “The point was millimeters from her eyeball! If I hadn’t stopped him, Liz Allen would be in the operating room right now! I was preventing a violent felony! I was saving your son from himself!” “I don’t want to hear it! I don’t want to hear it!” Tiffany exploded, jumping and pointing like a madwoman. “Flies don’t land on sealed jars, Ms. Allen! Why didn’t Jax poke anyone else? Why did he target her?” “That girl is clearly the problem! Look at her, wearing a flower clip in her hair! At her age, she’s already trying to be a little tease! I bet you taught her that!” “My Jax only wanted to play with her! She was being dramatic!” “You’re just trying to twist the narrative and turn the other kids against my baby!” She wiped her eyes, which miraculously turned red on cue, and faced the growing crowd of onlookers. “Kids play rough with school supplies! What danger could there possibly be?” “No, you’re trying to retaliate! You’re getting back at me for what I said in the group chat yesterday!” Several older teachers, known for their gossip and bitterness, started nodding and whispering. “This Ms. Allen, she’s only been here a short time, and she’s already hitting students? Tsk, tsk.” “Exactly. And she’s always so dressed up. Who knows how she even got hired here.” The blood ran cold in my veins at my own colleagues’ cruelty. Just as I was about to defend myself. “Ms. Allen didn’t do anything wrong!” Our class president, Liam, a quiet boy who usually blushed just from speaking, suddenly stood up with a loud thump. “Jax started it! He’s always bullying Liz Allen! Ms. Allen was just protecting her!” “Yeah! Jax is the bad one!” “Jax is always mean! He spit in my water bottle!” With Liam leading the charge, several other timid children found their courage and chimed in to defend me. My throat tightened. I was about to thank them when Tiffany’s voice sliced through the noise, higher and more shrill than ever. “Shut up! All of you, shut up!” She pointed at Liam. “You bunch of wild brats! Do children talk back to adults like that? Who taught you to be so disrespectful? Was it this Anya Allen?” “If anyone else tries to defend this witch, I’ll have my husband run a background check on your parents! Do you want to be blacklisted from every good school in the district?!” The room fell instantly silent. Liam’s face went pale. Even as a child, he understood the gravity of that threat. My heart ached seeing the fear in his eyes. This was the Parent Committee powerhouse? This was the “upper-class” parent? She was threatening a group of minors in front of a crowd of witnesses! “Tiffany Miller, that is completely out of line! Threatening children is despicable!” I rushed forward to shield my students, but Tiffany shoved me back hard. “I should be charging you, witch! You’re the one who taught these dead kids to bully and isolate my Jax, aren’t you?” “I’m going to end you today!” Just as she raised her hand to strike, a furious bellow interrupted her. “What is going on here?! Aren’t you people supposed to be in class?! This is an absolute circus!” The crowd parted. Principal Kenwood, his belly preceding him, strode in with his thermos clutched in his hand. Seeing him, I felt a flicker of relief. “Principal Kenwood, thank God you’re here. Jax’s mother, she…” “Silence!” Principal Kenwood didn’t even look at me. He performed a complete facial contortion, his face instantly wreathed in smarmy smiles as he wrung his hands. “Ah, Mrs. Miller! You’ve been wronged! I heard the commotion and rushed right over! Are you hurt?” Tiffany’s ability to flip was even faster. Her haughty, furious expression instantly dissolved into a pool of tears. She grabbed Kenwood’s sleeve. “Principal Kenwood! You have to help us! If you hadn’t shown up, this woman would have beaten me and my son to death!” “She physically assaulted my son, bruising his arm, and then she incited the entire class to bully and isolate him! She even insulted me publicly! This woman is not fit to be a teacher!” Kenwood wheeled around, glaring at me. It was the third time I had seen this principal’s transformation today. His eyes looked at me like I was a piece of trash. “Anya Allen! Is this what you call a classroom? This is your ‘innovative teaching style’? Having a parent in tears and creating a spectacle for the entire school? You have embarrassed us!” “Principal, Jax was assaulting a student.” My eyes were stinging. I picked up the compass, my hand trembling. “Look at this… every student in this class can testify…” “Enough!” Kenwood slapped the compass out of my hand. “Anya, watch your language! What do you mean ‘assaulting a student’? You’re unfairly labeling a child. Are you truly fit to be an educator?!” “You are here to teach and nurture, not to project your own emotional issues!” Kenwood pointed a finger at my face, a spray of spit hitting my cheek. “Children playing rough is part of nature! Why do you immediately call it abuse? I think your worldview is distorted! You think the worst of children!” He paused for dramatic effect, slamming his thermos onto the desk. “But! For a teacher to physically harm a student, that is a completely different matter! That is corporal punishment! That is a major teaching violation!” “But…” “No buts!” Kenwood gave me no chance to speak, crossing his arms imperiously. “I refuse to listen to your excuses! The fact is, the parent is unsatisfied, the student is harmed, and the school’s reputation is damaged!” Tiffany, seeing her victory, jutted her chin to the ceiling. “Principal Kenwood, I’m a reasonable person. If Anya Allen kneels right now and apologizes to me and my son in front of everyone, we can call this even.” “Otherwise! I will immediately call my husband to contact the District Office, revoke her teaching license, and ensure she is blacklisted from the entire profession! She can beg on the street for all I care!” The mention of the District Office was all it took for Kenwood’s resolve to crumble. “Anya, do you hear that? The parent is being incredibly generous! This is your only chance to redeem yourself!” “Now, immediately! Get down on your knees and apologize to Jax and his mother!” In that moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of absurdity, yet also a profound lightness. The half-year of strain, the rope I had tied myself with, finally snapped. “Principal Kenwood, Tiffany Miller.” “Do you two truly believe Jackson is some harmless little angel, and I’m the monster suppressing his ‘natural’ spirit?” “Fine.” I lifted my hand and slapped the resignation letter directly across Kenwood’s face. The crisp smack of paper against skin silenced everyone. “Apologize? I think the two blind fools who should be apologizing are you!” “I quit this job! You can serve yourselves!”

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1 In the third year after my brain tumor diagnosis, my attending physician was my wife. An hour before my surgery, Dr. Claire Sterling suddenly pulled my anesthesiologist and lead surgeon. Her first love, Julian, who suffered from depression, was having an appendicitis attack and was threatening to kill himself. “Julian is psychologically fragile, his surgery has to be flawless. What’s the big deal if you just accommodate him?” “You’re a man. Can’t you handle a little pain?” She wheeled my ventilator to her ex-lover’s room, leaving me to sweat through waves of agony in the hallway. Watching her fuss over him, her back turned to me, my heart finally died. I tugged on the corner of her coat. “Just sign this one last thing, and I’ll never bother you again.” Without a single glance, she scribbled her signature across the document with a flourish. She even smiled, teasing me for finally learning not to be jealous of her patients. She promised she’d be back to sit with me through my chemo as soon as Julian’s stitches were out. As she turned and walked into the OR to be with him, I ripped the IV needle from my hand. She had no idea. What she had just signed was a Do Not Resuscitate order. … The draft in the hallway cut through my gown, slicing at my skin like a thousand tiny knives. I leaned against the cold wall, the tumor in my head pressing on my optic nerve, my vision pulsing with darkness. It was a grade IV glioblastoma. The “king of brain cancers.” Today was supposed to be my best chance, a surgical window I had waited three agonizing months for. Claire was one of the country’s top neurosurgeons. She was also my wife. She had once held my hands, her gaze resolute, and vowed, “Ethan, trust me with your life. I will snatch you back from the jaws of death.” But ten minutes ago, a single phone call from Julian had made her feed every one of those vows to the dogs. Julian said his stomach hurt. He suspected appendicitis. He said the pain was so bad he wanted to jump off the roof. Without a second thought, Claire postponed my surgery. “Ethan, your tumor has been growing for three years. A little more time won’t make a difference.” “Julian is different. He has severe depression. What if the pain becomes too much and he does something stupid?” She ordered the nurses to wheel my equipment away, her voice sharp with impatience as she lectured me. I looked at her anxious profile and felt like I was seeing a stranger. In five years of marriage, I had never seen her so flustered. Not even on the day I was diagnosed. Back then, she had just looked at the scans calmly, analyzing the surgical options. I finally understood. She wasn’t cold by nature. I just wasn’t the one she was warm for. The moment the IV needle came out, blood arced through the air, splattering on the linoleum floor. I ignored the sting, my hand clenching the signed DNR form. The paper was crumpled and damp in my fist. The signature, “Dr. Claire Sterling,” was strong and confident, a bitter, mocking parody of her promise. A young nurse passing by gasped and rushed over, fumbling to apply pressure to the wound. “Mr. Hayes, what are you doing? Dr. Sterling just went to…” The nurse trailed off, her eyes filled with pity. Everyone in the hospital knew. They all knew about Claire’s unforgettable first love, the one that got away. And they all knew that I, her husband, wasn’t even a backup plan in her heart. I waved her off, indicating I was fine. “Don’t tell her,” I rasped, my throat feeling like it was full of sand. The nurse’s eyes welled up, but she nodded. Bracing myself against the wall, I shuffled back to my room, one step at a time. With every move, the pain in my head intensified, like a power drill boring into my temples. I collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling tiles. Memories flooded back. I remembered three years ago, right after the diagnosis. Claire had held me and cried all night, swearing she would sell everything we owned to cure me. She truly loved me then, didn’t she? Or at least, she thought she did. Until Julian came back to the country. The man who had once abandoned her for his career needed only to crook his finger, and she would drop her armor and run back to him. I closed my eyes, a single cold tear tracing a path down my temple. Claire, this was the last chance I’m giving you. And the last one I’m giving myself. Since you chose to save him… I will let you. And I will finally let myself go. The pain woke me. The pressure inside my skull was immense, bringing on waves of nausea so violent I felt like I was trying to turn my stomach inside out. But I hadn’t eaten in two days. All that came up was bitter, yellow-green bile. The room was empty, the only sound the monotonous beep of the heart monitor. No Claire. No water. Not even a nurse’s aide. When Claire pulled my medical team, she’d reassigned my private caregiver as well. She’d said Julian was shy around strangers and needed someone familiar. Fighting through the agony, I reached for the bottle of painkillers on the nightstand. My hand trembled uncontrollably. The bottle slipped, clattered to the floor, and rolled under the bed. I stared at it in despair, a perfect metaphor for my own life, teetering on the edge. Just then, the door creaked open. Thinking it was a nurse, I forced my head up. But it was Claire. She was still in her white coat, her face etched with fatigue, but her eyes were bright. It was a light I only ever saw when she looked at Julian. She was carrying a thermos. Seeing the pathetic state I was in, her brow furrowed, a flicker of disgust in her eyes. “How did you manage this? You’re a grown man, can’t you even hold onto a pill bottle?” She walked over but didn’t bother to pick it up for me. Instead, she slammed the thermos down on the table. “Julian’s surgery was a success. My mother made him some chicken soup. He couldn’t finish it, so I brought you the rest.” I looked at the thermos, and my stomach churned. Julian’s leftovers. Just like her love. Always secondhand, always cold. “I’m not hungry.” I turned my head away, unable to look at her. Claire’s expression hardened. “Ethan, how long are you going to keep this up?” “I already told you, Julian’s situation is special. Can’t you be a little more understanding?” “I’ve already rescheduled your surgery. It’s for next Wednesday.” Next Wednesday. A cold, mirthless laugh echoed in my mind. I knew my own body. I’d be lucky to last the weekend. Besides, she hadn’t even looked at my latest scans. If I’d had the surgery today, I might have had a thirty percent chance of survival. But now, having missed the optimal window, not even a miracle could save me. “Claire,” I said her name, my voice so calm it surprised even me. “If I died, would you be sad?” She stared at me for a second, then scoffed as if I’d told a joke. “Are you serious, Ethan?” “So I postponed your surgery for a few days, and now you’re threatening me with death? You never used to be like this. Why are you being so dramatic?” As she spoke, she opened the thermos. The aroma of chicken soup filled the room, making me feel even sicker. “Hurry up and drink this. Don’t waste my mother’s effort.” She poured a bowl and held it to my lips. The movement was rough, careless, with no regard for whether the soup was too hot. I didn’t open my mouth. Her patience snapped. She slammed the bowl back on the table. Hot soup sloshed over the side, scalding the back of my hand. “Ethan! Don’t push your luck!” she yelled. Just then, her phone rang. It was the special ringtone she had set for Julian. The anger on her face vanished instantly, replaced by a look of pure, gentle affection. “Hey, Julian? What’s wrong? Does your incision hurt?” “Okay, don’t be scared. I’ll be right there.” She hung up, and without another glance at me, she turned and walked out. At the door, she paused and threw one last cold remark over her shoulder. “If you don’t want to drink it, then starve.” “When you’ve sorted yourself out, you can come find me.” The door slammed shut with a deafening bang. The world was silent again. I looked at the pill bottle on the floor and started to laugh. And as I laughed, the tears began to fall. Claire, this is probably the last time we’ll see each other. The next day, I felt surprisingly light. The doctors have a term for it: a final surge of energy before the end. I knew my time was short. I forced myself up and started packing. There wasn’t much. After three years in and out of the hospital, my possessions had dwindled to almost nothing. A few changes of clothes, a couple of books, and a picture frame. In the frame was our wedding photo. In the picture, her smile was forced, her eyes looking just past the camera. I didn’t understand it then. I thought she was just nervous. Now I know. Julian was at our wedding. She was looking at him. I took the frame, pulled out the photo, and tore it into tiny pieces. I threw them in the trash. Then, I called my lawyer. “Mr. Davis, that will we drew up. You can execute it now.” There was a long silence on the other end of the line, followed by a sigh. “Mr. Hayes, are you certain? Donating everything?” “Yes. Everything.” I owned three properties and had several million in savings. It was all pre-marital. Claire always thought I was just a simple programmer. The truth was, I was a silent partner in that publicly-traded company. She never asked about my work, and I never bothered to tell her. I used to think that when my time came, I would leave it all to her, so she would never have to worry about money. Now, it seemed unnecessary. She had Julian. She had her brilliant career as a neurosurgeon. She didn’t need my money. My money would be better off helping poor people who couldn’t afford medical care. After hanging up, I felt a sense of release, as if a massive weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Claire came by that afternoon. She seemed to be in a good mood, carrying a fancy gift bag. She paused when she saw me packing. “What are you doing? Getting discharged?” There was a hint of surprise in her voice, but mostly indifference. “Changing rooms,” I lied. “Oh.” She didn’t press the issue. She handed me the gift bag. “This is from Julian. He wanted to thank you for giving him your surgery slot.” “It’s a watch. A Patek Philippe. It’s quite expensive.” I took the bag and glanced inside. It was a Patek, but it was one of the most old-fashioned men’s models. And there was a distinct crease in the leather strap. It was used. Something Julian had worn, or perhaps, no longer wanted. Seeing my silence, Claire assumed I was still angry. She came over and, in a rare gesture of affection, put her arm around my shoulders. “Come on, honey, don’t be mad. Julian meant well.” “Besides, I’ve already spoken to the hospital director. I’m performing your surgery myself next Wednesday. I promise, you’ll come out of it completely fine.” She smelled faintly of antiseptic, mixed with the scent of the cologne Julian always wore. It was suffocating. I gently pushed her away and placed the watch on the table. “Thank you,” I said, looking into her eyes and managing my first real smile in days. “I love it.” Claire was clearly taken aback by my compliance. She stared for a moment, then a satisfied smile spread across her face. “That’s more like it. I knew you were the most reasonable man I know.” “Oh, by the way, it’s Julian’s birthday tonight. We’ve booked a private room at a restaurant to celebrate. Do you want to come? It’ll be fun.” Take me to her first love’s birthday party? To celebrate him stealing my only chance at life? Claire, you really know how to twist the knife. I shook my head. “No, I’m not feeling well. I think I’ll rest.” Claire didn’t insist. In fact, she looked relieved. “Okay, you get some rest then. I’ll have an aide bring you some soup.” “I’ll bring you back a piece of cake after dinner.” She hummed a little tune as she touched up her makeup in the mirror, applying a shade of fiery red lipstick I had never seen on her before. Just before she left, she seemed to remember something and glanced back at me. “Ethan, after the surgery, let’s go on a trip. To Iceland. The place you always wanted to see.” I looked at her, my eyes calm and empty. “Okay.” She smiled and left. The crisp click-clack of her heels echoed down the hall, growing fainter and fainter until it disappeared completely. I turned my gaze to the window. The sky was darkening. Heavy clouds were rolling in. A storm was coming. Claire. There would be no surgery. There would be no Iceland. Only death. Eleven o’clock at night. The rain was coming down in sheets. Thunder rattled the windowpanes. Lying in bed, it felt like the tumor inside my skull was about to explode. The pain sent my body into convulsions, my fingernails digging deep into the mattress. I knew this was it. The final moments. The tumor had ruptured. Intracranial hemorrhage. Brain herniation. Each term a step on the stairway to hell. I gasped for air, but it felt like my lungs couldn’t draw in a single molecule of oxygen. My vision blurred, the world fracturing into double images. With the last of my strength, I pressed the call button. No one came. The sound of the bell echoed down the empty hallway like a ghostly wail. Then I remembered. The nurse on duty, a kind young woman named Olivia, had been called away by Claire. Julian had apparently drunk too much at his party and needed someone to bring him a sobriety tonic. This entire floor was a dead zone. I rolled out of bed, trying to crawl toward the door to get help. My body hit the floor with a heavy thud. The impact sent a fresh wave of agony through me, and I almost blacked out. I bit my tongue, using the sharp pain to stay conscious. I didn’t want to die here. Not like this. Not so pathetically. I dragged myself toward the door, inch by agonizing inch. Every movement drained all my energy. Blood trickled from my nose and ears, leaving a long, dark smear on the polished floor. Finally, I reached the door. I slapped at it with my blood-soaked hand. “Help… me…” My voice was so weak I could barely hear it myself. Just as I thought I would die in this storm-tossed night, the door opened. It was a medical intern making his rounds. When he saw me, covered in blood, his face went white with terror. “Mr. Hayes! Mr. Hayes, what happened?!” He fumbled to help me up, yelling for his colleagues. In seconds, a team of doctors and nurses rushed in, lifting me onto a gurney. “Pupils dilated! Respiratory failure! Quick! Get him to the ER!” “Notify the family! Notify his wife!” “Where’s his physician? Where’s Dr. Sterling? Someone call Dr. Sterling!” In the chaos, I heard someone shouting Claire’s name. The intern, Leo, pulled out his phone with trembling hands and dialed her number. It rang for a long time before she picked up. The sound of loud music and men’s laughter blared from the other end. “Hello? Who is this?” Claire’s voice was slurred with alcohol and laced with annoyance. “Dr. Sterling! It’s Leo from the ER!” “It’s Mr. Hayes… He’s… he’s in critical condition!” “The tumor’s ruptured, he’s herniating! He needs emergency surgery, now!” “Please, you have to come back! We’re losing him!” Leo’s voice was cracking, sweat beading on his forehead. There was a two-second pause on the other end. Then came Claire’s voice, as cold and sharp as ice. “Herniating?” “Heh. Leo, you’re a neurosurgery resident. You know what brain herniation looks like. He was fine this afternoon, packing his things. How could he suddenly be herniating?” “Is he acting again? Tell him to stop the charade.” “It’s Julian’s birthday. Does he have to cause trouble for me right now?” Leo lost it. He screamed into the phone. “Dr. Sterling! It’s not an act! It’s real!” “Mr. Hayes is unconscious! He’s bleeding from his ears and nose! We can’t even get a blood pressure reading!” “Please, come back! I’m begging you!” From the other end, I could hear Julian’s voice. “Claire, who is it? What a buzzkill.” Followed by Claire’s gentle, soothing tone. “It’s nothing. Just an unreasonable patient.” Then, she spoke her last words to me, through the phone. “Tell Ethan that’s enough.” “I don’t have time for his games tonight.” “If he wants to die so badly, then let him.” Beep… beep… beep… The line went dead. Lying on the gurney, I watched the fluorescent lights streak past overhead. A tear escaped the corner of my eye, mingling with the blood. The wave on the heart monitor finally flatlined. The world went dark. The red light above the emergency room door was blinding, but inside, it was silent. There was no whine of a defibrillator, no rhythmic thud of chest compressions. The doctors had seen the paper clutched in my hand. The Do Not Resuscitate order. It had not only Claire’s signature but also my own bloody thumbprint, pressed there just moments ago. “The patient… refuses resuscitation,” the intern, Leo, choked out, tears streaming down his face as he looked at the blood-soaked document. “But… but he’s so young…” The senior ER doctor sighed and pulled down his mask. “Respect the patient’s wishes.” “In his condition, even if we brought him back, he’d be in a vegetative state. Let him go with dignity.” They stopped what they were doing, standing silently around the operating table. And so I lay there, still. My consciousness began to fade, my soul feeling as if it were drifting out of my body. I saw Claire. She was still in that luxurious private room. Julian was cutting a cake, dabbing the first piece of frosting on her nose. She was laughing, her eyes full of adoration. Everyone was cheering, chanting, “Kiss, kiss, kiss!” Blushing, Claire leaned in and planted a kiss on Julian’s cheek. “Happy birthday, Julian. Thank you for coming back to me.” What a heartwarming scene. If you could ignore the fact that at this very moment, her husband was lying on a cold steel table, growing colder by the second. Suddenly, Claire’s phone rang again. It was the hospital.

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I attended an academic conference and won a five-thousand-dollar award for my paper. Adrian, the new junior in our lab, demanded I hand over the prize money, declaring, “Results obtained using lab resources mean the prize money belongs to the lab.” What was colder was that my girlfriend of two years, Evelyn, nodded in agreement. “Those are the rules.” Adrian smirked triumphantly. To further undermine me, he had me removed from the core project and reassigned as an equipment maintenance technician. It wasn’t until the presentation for a national-level project that Evelyn, in front of everyone, pushed me towards the stage. “Go on, just like every other year.” I threw up my hands. “Dr. Lin, I’m just the equipment tech now. According to the rules, I can’t do presentations.” 1 I had just returned from a major academic conference, clutching the “Outstanding Young Scholar Paper Award” certificate and an envelope containing five thousand dollars in prize money. “Damn, Leo, you killed it again!” “Let’s see it! The academic prodigy of our lab strikes again!” A few of my lab mates gathered around, the atmosphere warm and celebratory. I smiled, showing them the certificate. “Just got lucky. The review committee said my model had some decent innovation.” In the midst of the cheerful noise, a dissonant voice cut in. “Leo.” Adrian, a junior who had only been in the lab for a few months, strode over, his face wearing a seriousness that didn’t match his age. Without any pleasantries, he snatched the certificate and the envelope from my hands. I froze. The chatter around us died instantly. A business-like smile touched Adrian’s lips. “Leo, according to Chapter Three, Section Seven of the lab’s management regulations, all academic achievements derived from the use of lab equipment, data, or a professor’s research resources, including all resulting honors and financial gains, are to be managed and distributed by the lab.” It took me a second to process his words. “Adrian, you might be mistaken,” I explained. “The core algorithm in this paper was something I developed myself during my PhD. It didn’t use any of the current project’s proprietary resources, and the data is from a public dataset.” This paper was the culmination of my entire doctoral career. The foundational idea for its core algorithm had taken root in my mind during my first year, refined through countless failures and iterations. The data I used was publicly available. Aside from having the lab’s name on it, the work was almost entirely my own intellectual property. “Did you or did you not attend the conference under the lab’s name?” he retorted aggressively. I nodded. “I did.” “And were your flight and accommodation reimbursed from the research group’s funds?” I frowned. “Yes, that’s standard academic support.” “Exactly,” Adrian said, slapping the certificate and envelope down on his desk. “The opportunity to attend the conference was given to you by the group. You, yourself, are the lab’s most important ‘resource.’ Therefore, this prize money must be turned over to the lab for collective management.” His gangster logic was so absurd I almost laughed. He was just a new master’s student. He wouldn’t dare act like this without someone backing him up. I called Evelyn. She was my senior in the lab, my girlfriend, and the one who actually managed the lab’s day-to-day operations under our professor. Her voice on the phone had a familiar, hesitant quality. “Leo, Adrian is just following the rules. We do have an unwritten rule about this, mainly to stop people from focusing on making money on the side. Look, I worked hard to get you the opportunity to go on this trip. When it comes to the results, we have to keep our personal and professional lives separate.” “‘Separate’?” A chill crept into my heart. “Evelyn, does your idea of ‘professional’ mean taking my personal earnings and handing them over to you and Adrian to ‘distribute’?” “Oh, don’t think of it like that, that’s not what I meant…” She tried to explain, but it was useless. I hung up. I didn’t want to hear any more. Everyone was staring at me. Some with pity, some with curiosity, and some with undisguised schadenfreude. I walked over to Adrian’s desk and said calmly, “You’re right. We should keep things professional.” Then, I turned and went back to my workstation. One week later, the lab received a notice for an urgent proposal submission for a national-level key research and development program. This was the most important event of the year, determining our funding and reputation for the next three years. Just like they had for the past five years, everyone in the lab automatically looked at me. After all, the core of every winning proposal they were so proud of had been written by me. I was in the middle of packing my personal belongings into cardboard boxes. Evelyn walked over, her tone taking my cooperation for granted. “Leo, stop sulking. The national project announcement is here. Put your things aside and take the lead on writing the proposal. We need the framework by tomorrow.” I looked up and gave her a professional smile. “I’m sorry, Dr. Lin. I’ve already submitted my application to the university to finalize my graduation procedures. As for the project proposal, I’m afraid you’ll all have to handle it yourselves.” She froze on the spot. 2 Evelyn didn’t take my refusal seriously. She thought I was just throwing a tantrum. She told me to cool down, sent a few half-hearted, placating messages, and when I didn’t respond, she assumed the matter was closed and I would go back to being her compliant workhorse. Let her think what she wanted. She would find out soon enough. The conflict didn’t just blow over with my concession. Some people seemed to mistake my silence for weakness. That afternoon, during a break, I stepped out of the lab for a moment. When I returned, I walked into a farce. Adrian was fiddling with my brand-new tablet, which I’d bought specifically for academic drawing and efficient literature review. He was showing it off to a few other graduate students, his voice exaggerated. “Wow, is this the top-of-the-line model? Over a grand? Leo must be loaded. I wonder if this was also bought with the ‘earnings’ from his conference trip?” A ripple of suppressed snickers went through the group. I saw familiar faces, their expressions gleefully stirring the pot. I even recognized one of them as the guy who had begged me to help revise the introduction to his paper just last week. I didn’t walk towards Adrian. Instead, I scanned the whispering crowd. “Catherine,” I said, calling out one of the senior students. “You went to a conference in Chicago last month. You came back with a new limited-edition mechanical keyboard. You said you snagged it at a local specialty shop, right?” Catherine’s face stiffened. “Jenna,” I turned to another. “That expensive simulation software license on your laptop… didn’t you get that in Hong Kong last time you went to a conference, using the meal allowance you saved up? You were bragging to all of us about it.” Jenna’s face turned beet red. “And you, Mark,” my gaze finally landed on a male student. “You said the best thing you got out of the Beijing conference wasn’t the content, but running into the professor you admire and getting a letter of recommendation. Does that letter count as a ‘personal gain’ obtained using the research group’s resources?” The room fell silent. Finally, I looked at Adrian, smiling. “According to your logic, shouldn’t all these ‘gains’ also be reported to the lab for you to distribute?” Adrian’s face went from red to white. He was speechless. In his flustered anger, his hand slipped, and the expensive tablet went crashing to the floor. CRACK! The screen shattered into an ugly spiderweb. Adrian snatched his hand back as if he’d been burned. “Oh my god! Leo, why didn’t you catch it?” I stared at him coldly. “There’s a security camera right there. Will you be paying in cash or by transfer?” Adrian’s eyes welled up. Before he could say anything, Evelyn rushed out from the inner office. Seeing the shattered tablet and the tense atmosphere, she immediately turned on me. “It’s just a tablet! Do you really have to be so petty with a junior? It’s not a big deal. Apologize to him, and we’ll forget about it.” “Apologize?” I almost laughed out loud. “Apologize for what? For him dropping my tablet?” “You!” Evelyn was at a loss for words. She lowered her voice. “Don’t make a scene in the lab!” I didn’t say anything. I bent down and picked up the broken device. The power button still worked. The screen lit up, the wallpaper a photo of Evelyn and me, smiling brightly. I held it up to her. “Do you remember this?” I asked softly. “You gave this to me last year when I won the university’s ‘Rising Scholar Award.’ You said it was a recognition of my hard work.” Evelyn’s expression became incredibly complicated. I didn’t give her time to react. I turned and decisively tossed the broken tablet, once a symbol of our shared memories, into the electronics recycling bin. “But none of that matters anymore,” I said, looking back at her. “Evelyn, we’re done.” I blocked her number and all her messages that day. The next day, I saw a post from Adrian on an academic social media platform. The title read: “A Positive Force in Academia: Lab Newcomer Bravely Confronts Senior Who Hoards Academic Resources.” In the post, I was painted as a greedy, selfish senior who exploited his juniors and treated the lab’s resources as his personal property. He, of course, was the brave hero who stood up to tyranny and defended the collective’s interests. What hurt the most were the familiar profile pictures that had “liked” the post. These were the same people who had once come to me, manuscript in hand, respectfully asking for my guidance. Now, they repaid my years of late-night, unpaid help with a single “like.” 3 I began to strictly enforce the principle of “keeping things professional,” only this time, I was the one defining the boundaries. Ten o’clock at night. The lab was still brightly lit. For graduate students, this was just the beginning of their workday. But I packed my bag, ready to leave. “Leo! Wait up!” A few lab mates surrounded me, holding laptops and printed drafts, their faces plastered with their usual ingratiating smiles. “Leo, you’re the best at experimental design. Can you take a look at my protocol and see if there are any logical flaws?” “Leo, my introduction is so dry. Can you help me polish it? The submission deadline is the day after tomorrow!” In the past, I would have found it hard to refuse. But now, I just looked up at them, not reaching for their papers. “Sorry,” I said with a smile. “Your research areas aren’t exactly my core expertise. Writing and revising your papers are your own responsibilities. I’m afraid I can’t help.” Their smiles froze. Just then, Adrian walked out of the inner office, arms crossed, a sneer on his face. “Everyone’s working overtime for the big project, and some people are already rushing off? If you’re so unwilling to contribute to the team, you can apply to leave the group. No one’s stopping you.” I glanced at him and pointed to the clock on the wall. “The lab’s official working hours are from 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. Adrian, since you’re so insistent that ‘achievements derived from lab resources belong to the lab,’ then any intellectual labor I perform outside of working hours should naturally belong to me.” I paused, my gaze sweeping over my anxious colleagues. “In the past, when I stayed here after 10 p.m. to help you revise papers and discuss protocols, that was my personal time, which I gave voluntarily. As of today, that volunteering has ended.” “But… but my paper is due the day after tomorrow!” one of the junior women exclaimed, nearly jumping out of her skin. I gave her a helpless smile. “I suggest you work ‘overtime’ yourself tonight and revise it properly. After all, it’s your paper.” Then, amidst their stunned, angry, and panicked gazes, I turned and walked out of the lab. 4 The atmosphere in the lab grew increasingly strange. I stuck to a strict 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. schedule. During the day, I worked on my own graduation thesis data. At 10 p.m., I left on the dot. No matter who asked for help, I politely declined, citing “outside my responsibilities” and “after working hours.” They soon felt the consequences. A long-term corporate partner wanted to sign a lucrative research project. I had been handling the technical proposal, and we were in the final stages of signing the contract. That afternoon, the company representatives arrived as scheduled, but Adrian couldn’t find the final version of the technical details. He was running around like a headless chicken. Finally, he cornered me as I was leaving the conference room. “Leo, quick, the clients are waiting inside. Go in and explain the technical details to them again,” he hissed, his tone demanding. I looked at him, then walked straight into the conference room. To the surprise of the company representatives and Adrian, I bowed slightly to the clients. “Gentlemen, I sincerely apologize,” I said earnestly. “I just reviewed our previous communication records and found that several discussions about the core technical proposal took place after 10 p.m. via my personal email. According to our lab’s principle of ‘personal ownership of work done outside of working hours,’ these communications were not compliant with our procedures.” The clients’ faces darkened. I continued, “To avoid any potential intellectual property disputes in the future, I personally suggest we postpone the signing of this contract. The lab should reassign a project lead and schedule a formal, compliant technical review meeting during official working hours, with proper minutes taken. This will provide better protection for both our parties.” Adrian was trembling with rage. “Leo, you!” The lead representative was clearly a man who valued process and risk management. He listened to me and then said to Adrian, his voice displeased, “This young man has a point. Our partnership must be built on a foundation of compliance. Mr. Chen, it seems your lab’s internal management is somewhat chaotic. Please contact us again when you have your house in order.” With that, he and his team left without a backward glance. A project worth nearly a million dollars was gone, just like that. Adrian’s eyes were red. He practically shrieked at me, “Leo! Do you have any idea how important this project was to the lab? You’re doing this for revenge!” I stopped and looked at him calmly. “Important? But I recall you saying that someone like me, who is ‘only good for taking petty advantages’ and ‘can’t separate personal from professional,’ would only mess up a core project. My actions just now were strictly in accordance with the lab’s management requirements, to prevent potential risks. I was helping you, and the lab, Adrian.” “You… you just wait!” he snarled, then ran off to tattle to Evelyn. Sure enough, less than ten minutes later, Evelyn stormed over to my workstation. It was already piled high with miscellaneous items she had allowed to accumulate there. She slammed a thick stack of research papers onto my desk with a loud bang. “Leo, what the hell are you trying to do?” she hissed. “Are you not happy until you’ve turned this whole lab upside down? Do you have to humiliate everyone?” I calmly tidied the papers she had scattered. “I’m just following the rules,” I said flatly. “To hell with the rules!” she finally exploded. “It was my idea to have Adrian co-manage the projects! By targeting him, you’re undermining me! Do you have any respect for me at all?” I looked up, meeting her angry, distorted face, and smiled. “Evelyn, you finally told the truth. So it wasn’t about the lab. It was about you.” 5 My uncooperative attitude finally provoked a more drastic response. At the regular Monday group meeting, our professor was away on business, and Evelyn was presiding. For the final item on the agenda, Adrian walked to the front, holding a printed “Disciplinary Action” notice. He cleared his throat. “After a review by the lab’s management team, the following actions will be taken against Leo for his recent series of violations of lab management discipline. “First, the five-thousand-dollar prize money Leo won at the academic conference will be confiscated in full and added to the lab’s team-building fund. “Second, an additional five thousand dollars will be deducted from his next research assistant stipend as compensation for the project losses caused by his improper conduct. “Third, Leo is required to make a public, in-depth self-criticism at this meeting for his failure to separate personal and professional matters and his insubordination.” A wave of murmurs went through the room. Confiscating prize money and stipends, and a public shaming… in academia, this was a deeply humiliating punishment. Evelyn sat at the head of the table, her face impassive, as if waiting for me to beg for forgiveness. Under everyone’s gaze, I slowly walked to the front. I picked up the microphone, my voice calm. “I am here to make a profound self-criticism.” The room fell silent. Even Evelyn and Adrian looked surprised. “First, I have deeply reflected on my behavior over the past five years. I have indeed severely blurred the lines between personal and professional, using a vast amount of my precious personal time to revise papers, design experiments, and process data for almost every member of this lab, free of charge. This is a serious violation of the sacred principle that ‘work produced during working hours belongs to the lab, and work produced outside of working hours belongs to the individual.’ I am ashamed of my past selfless dedication.” A stir went through the audience. Some faces showed embarrassment and unease. “Second, I failed to focus on my own research area, frequently overstepping my authority to help others with research problems that were not my responsibility. This not only drained my personal energy but also fostered a culture of academic laziness among some of my colleagues, leading to chaos in the lab’s management. I apologize to the management team for my past ‘helpfulness’.” My voice was steady and clear, each word landing like a hammer blow. “Therefore, I solemnly promise: from this day forward, I will strictly abide by the lab’s rules and regulations. First, I will strictly adhere to the 9 a.m. to 10 p.m. working hours and will not handle any matters related to the research group outside of these hours. Second, I will strictly perform the duties of the position newly assigned to me by the management team—” I paused and picked up the position change notice from the table, signed by Evelyn and delivered by Adrian. “—that is, the duties of ‘Lab Equipment Maintenance and Administrator.’ I promise that from now on, I will only be responsible for the daily maintenance of the servers and the checking in and out of equipment. I will no longer participate in any research project discussions, grant proposal writing, or paper advising that falls outside this scope.” The moment I finished, the room exploded. “What? What about my grant proposal? The core innovation part still needs Leo’s input!” “My simulation result figures for next week’s presentation are a mess, and no one has reviewed them yet!” “Equipment administrator? Are you kidding me?” Evelyn’s face had turned a furious shade of purple. She slammed her hand on the table and shot to her feet. “Leo! Is this a self-criticism or a threat?!” I put down the microphone and gave her a slight smile. “Dr. Lin, I am simply following the lab’s regulations and Adrian’s management requirements. I fully support the management team’s decision.” That afternoon, my workstation was cleared out and moved to a tiny corner next to the server room. I had officially been demoted from the lab’s “academic star” to its “equipment administrator.” As I walked past the main lab area, I could hear the hushed, excited chatter from within. “Serves him right. He should have known his place.” “Let’s see him act high and mighty now! This is going to be good. The academic star is now a machine janitor!” “But… who’s going to help us with our papers now?” 6 The final day of the countdown arrived. It was the day of the university’s most important annual event: the presentation for the “National-Level Key Research and Development Program.” Our lab, as last year’s winner, was determined to secure it again. Everyone was dressed in their best suits, sitting in the auditorium. Evelyn, as the project lead, sat in the front row, with Adrian, her “capable assistant,” right beside her, his face beaming with pride. As the “equipment administrator,” I was seated in a corner in the very last row. The presentation went smoothly at first. Evelyn handled the introduction and background, and it sounded plausible enough. But everyone knew the main event was still to come. Finally, the presentation reached its most critical stage: the explanation of the core technical proposal and the Q&A with the expert panel. The moderator announced, “Next, we invite the representative from the ‘Intelligent Sensing and Computing Lab’ to present the core technical proposal of the project.” Instantly, every eye in the room, including those of the esteemed professors and academicians on the review panel, flew over the front rows and landed on me, in my corner seat. For the past few years, I had always been the one to present this section. My presentations were known for being clear, rigorous, and incredibly persuasive. Evelyn turned around, mouthing the words to me: “Go on, Leo. Just like every other year.” After everything that had happened, she still expected me to be her workhorse. I didn’t move. I just glanced at my phone. The time on the screen was clear: 10:00 p.m. My workday was over. I stood up, but not to walk to the stage. “Mr. Moderator, esteemed experts, professors, everyone,” I began. They all thought I was about to start my presentation. “Before the presentation begins, I need to clarify a situation,” I continued calmly. “My name is Leo, and my research assistant employment contract with the ‘Intelligent Sensing and Computing Lab’ has, as of this moment, officially expired.” “According to the terms of the contract, all my work responsibilities have been fulfilled. Therefore, as of this minute, I am no longer a member of this lab, nor do I have the authority to represent the lab in any form of presentation or defense.”

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I was a high-risk pregnancy, which might be why I have a hard time picking up on social cues. Like when I ordered pungent snail noodles to the office for lunch, and my boss, Ava, walked past my desk with a smirk. “Enjoying that, are we?” The next day, I ordered a bowl for her too. Or when I put in for time off and the HR manager asked me, three times, “Are you sure this is for a concert? Not a family emergency?” I nodded enthusiastically every single time. Everyone had written me off as a lost cause, which only made them treat me with a strange kind of protective pity. It wasn’t until the company’s funding dried up and the office was shrouded in a fog of despair that things changed. “I have an idea,” I announced. Everyone laughed. “Gigi, sweetie,” my deskmate said, patting my arm. “Don’t make things harder right now.” Why wouldn’t they believe me? I mean, how could someone this clueless be this cheerful if they weren’t from a well-off family? Besides… those fertility treatments don’t pay for themselves. 1 After half a year of job hunting with nothing to show for it, I was starting to panic. My family, however, remained annoyingly optimistic. “Don’t worry, honey. You have to believe in yourself,” they’d say. “You’re not lucky enough to stay unemployed forever.” So, for my next interview, I dove deep into the internet’s archives and unearthed a few “killer interview tips.” On the day of the interview, the lobby was packed with at least fifty other candidates, the air thick with the tense, crackling energy of overachievers. And then there was me, a golden retriever who’d wandered into a wolf den, just looking around with wide-eyed curiosity. When a broom leaning against the wall clattered to the floor, I saw my chance. I leaped up and set it right. I spotted a crumpled piece of paper on the office floor and, with a sense of purpose, picked it up and tossed it in the trash. At the end of the interview, I gave the panel a deep bow and proceeded to walk backward out of the conference room, only turning around when my head connected solidly with the doorframe. That night, my dad looked at me over his newspaper. “Let me guess, Gigi. You got those tips from some twenty-year-old issue of Reader’s Digest?” He was convinced that my brain, already scrambled by the fertility hormones used to create me, had now been further poisoned by corny self-help articles. A unique combination of clueless and gullible. “Who in their right mind,” he declared, “would ever hire you?” Someone did. When the HR manager called to offer me the job, her voice was laced with pure disbelief. I found out later what my boss, Ava, had actually said. “I’m surrounded by sharks, and I’m going crazy. Hire the ditzy one. She can be our mascot. At least then I won’t have the lowest IQ in the room anymore.” 2 It took less than a week for Ava to start questioning her decision. I was the kind of person who ate fermented tofu on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and slurped down pungent snail noodles on Tuesdays and Thursdays. That particular Tuesday, a smell like the city’s entire sewer system had exploded permeated the open-plan office. Ava clicked past on her designer heels, her brow furrowed so deeply you could lose a pen in there. She raised an eyebrow, the corner of her lip twitching in a sarcastic smirk. “Enjoying that, are we?” My mouth was too full to reply, so I just gave her a huge thumbs-up while continuing to devour my lunch. This place was the best! Ava’s eye twitched. Without another word, she spun on her heel and stalked away. Chloe, the woman in the next cubicle, couldn’t take it anymore. She rolled her chair over, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Gigi,” she whispered, “call me crazy, but I think she was hinting that you shouldn’t eat things with such a… potent aroma in the office. It’s affecting the, uh, work environment.” I finally tore my gaze from my bowl, my expression one of righteous indignation. “No way! She’s the boss. If she didn’t want me to eat it, she’d just say so. Why would she beat around the bush?” Chloe fell silent. She looked at me the way you’d look at a fluffy kitten right before it’s scheduled to be neutered. To prove my point, the next day at noon, I ordered the exact same snail noodles for Ava, thoughtfully requesting “mild spice.” When the delivery guy hung that fragrant, steaming bowl on her office doorknob, a hush fell over the entire company. Everyone held their breath, waiting for the explosion. But it never came. Ava didn’t yell at me, but she didn’t thank me either. The day passed in an unnervingly calm silence. The only difference was that the trash can in her office was overflowing with tissues, and the water cooler level seemed to drop at an alarming rate. 3 Despite my survival, a company-wide consensus was quickly reached: I was an irredeemable idiot. But I was a cheerful idiot who never got angry and was surprisingly generous. Sarah, the HR manager, called me in to discuss making my position permanent, gently suggesting I should try to keep a lower profile for a while. I didn’t understand, so I cheerfully handed her my time-off request form to sign. “Gigi, this reason…” Sarah’s eye started to twitch as she read the form. “‘To see Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour’?” She looked up, her expression strained. “This is a cover for a ‘family emergency,’ right? Is someone sick? You? Your parents?” I was completely baffled. “Nope! Everyone’s great. My dad had three servings of lasagna last night.” Sarah looked like she was about to have an aneurysm. “Fine,” she snapped, signing the form with a flourish. “Take the time off. Let’s see how you’re going to get confirmed after this.” I was confirmed. When I came back, I brought a small gift for everyone. But the real kicker was the video I played from my phone. On the screen, Taylor Swift herself was holding a microphone, smiling into the camera. “I hear Gigi’s coworkers have been working really hard,” she said. “This one’s for you guys. You’re doing amazing, sweetie!” The office erupted. “OH MY GOD! I’ve loved her for more than ten years! SHE KNOWS MY NAME EXISTS IN THE UNIVERSE!” “Holy crap, Gigi! You’re the real deal!” “This is insane! The sweet girl was actually thinking of us!” And just like that, against all odds, I thrived. I’d give colleagues rides home in my “grocery-getter,” buy hot water bottles for the women on their periods, and even babysit for them when they had to work late. With all these redeeming qualities, my “stupidity” was rebranded in their eyes as “endearingly earnest.” 4 The atmosphere at our company was actually pretty great. Sure, Ava wore a permanent scowl, called us into her office one by one to tear us to shreds, and sarcastically compared our proposals to garbage and our presentation color schemes to funeral homes. She was ruthless. She’d even insult herself. But she was a good person. She hired women who were planning to have kids, gave generous maternity and nursing leave, and even allowed parents to bring their children to work if they were in a bind. More than that, at a networking dinner once, a greasy middle-aged client tried to grope Chloe, his hand creeping dangerously close to her thigh. Ava, who had been pouring wine, saw it happen. Without a second’s hesitation, she flung the entire contents of the bottle in his face. She looked at him, her voice dripping with ice. “I suggest you keep your hands to yourself. Unlike you, some of us prefer to make our money using our brains.” It was because of moments like that that everyone was fiercely loyal to her. But that temper of hers had made her a lot of enemies. Business started to decline, then plummet. Finally, this month, the reality hit: there wasn’t enough money left in the company account to make payroll. The shadow of bankruptcy loomed over every desk. The office was a graveyard of long faces and anxious sighs. The air was thick with the stench of impending unemployment. Even the owner of the snail noodle shop noticed. She texted me: [Gigi, honey, what’s going on? No orders from your office lately. You guys get tired of my food? I just launched a new double-egg, extra-pungent combo! Just say the word, and it’s on its way!] I thought for a moment, then replied: [Send two.] Half an hour later, I was carrying two bowls of destructively aromatic noodles toward Ava’s office when Chloe and Sarah intercepted me. “Are you insane? You’re going to poke the bear right now?” I shook them off and pushed the door open. Ava was drowning her sorrows in paperwork. Her desk was buried under files from potential partners, her hair was a mess from her running her hands through it, and her eyes were webbed with red veins. She didn’t even look up when I came in. Her voice was a low rasp. “Get out. Unless you want me to scream at you.” I didn’t listen. I opened the bag, pushed the extra-pungent bowl in front of her, and started fanning the fumes in her direction. Ava finally snapped, looking up to glare at me. But as the familiar, powerful scent assaulted her nostrils, her throat bobbed. Slowly, her gaze drifted from the list of partners to the bowl of crimson-slicked noodles. And my gaze drifted from the noodles to that list of partners. My eyes scanned the names and suddenly lit up. I recognized one! Hey, I know that guy! I pointed at the list, my voice bursting with excitement. “Ava, I have an idea!” Ava, her mouth now full of noodles, rolled her eyes. “What kind of idea could you possibly have?” she mumbled. “Bore them to death with your cluelessness? “Eat your food and stop messing around. This isn’t a joke. Now get out.” She kicked me out. Standing in the hallway, I felt a little hurt. Why didn’t she believe me? How could I be this clueless and still live such a sunny, carefree life if I didn’t have some connections? And besides… all that money my mom spent on fertility treatments to have me? That stuff is expensive! I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. “Hey, Dad. I’m craving that… what’s it called? Oh, right. I want you to meet my boss.” On the other end, my dad’s voice was cheerful. “Anything for my little princess. As long as you don’t quit and come home to take over the family business, you can have whatever you want.” Shortly after that call, Ava announced that there might be a light at the end of the tunnel. 5 The next evening, the dinner meeting was set at the most exclusive VIP lounge in the city. Ava brought me and Chloe, the three of us walking in like soldiers heading into battle. When she saw the middle-aged man sitting alone in the private room, her hand trembled slightly. He was a legendary tycoon in our industry, notoriously reclusive and difficult to work with. But all I saw was a man in a polo shirt with a slight paunch, smiling warmly at me. My dad. From the moment I walked in, my dad’s attention was solely on me. He looked at me with an expression of pure fatherly affection before turning to Ava. “So, you must be the boss of… Gigi, was it? I hear she’s quite the character.” Ava quickly jumped in. “Yes, Mr. Reed. Gigi is the heart of our company. Her technical skills are still developing, but she’s incredibly sincere.” Throughout the meal, trying to be proactive, I kept pouring my dad wine. “Mr. Reed, you have to try this fish! It’s exceptionally fresh!” I stood up and spun the lazy Susan, aiming the fish head directly at him. “Mr. Reed, this is a fantastic vintage. You should have some more!” I stood up again, grabbing the decanter and filling his glass to the brim, nearly overflowing. My dad’s eye twitched as he looked at the glass, but under my fierce glare, he downed it in one gulp. “Mr. Reed, you have the face of a very kind man. I’m sure you’d be willing to support a small, ambitious company like ours, right?” My dad’s face was flushed from all the wine, but he was beaming. This was the first time his daughter had ever waited on him so attentively. Usually, he was the one peeling shrimp for me. Just as I leaned in to whisper in his ear and tell him to sign the contract already, my dad couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, clutching his stomach. “I need to use the restroom.” He scurried out of the room. The moment the door clicked shut, Ava’s face transformed. It was a mask of cold fury. She whipped her head around to face me, her voice like shards of ice. “Gigi Reed!” I jumped. “Yeah?” Ava took a deep breath, pointing a shaking finger toward the door. “What was that? Leaning in close, forcing wine on him, whispering in his ear? Did you think I was blind?” I was completely lost. “I was just building rapport…” “Building rapport?” Ava let out a bitter, humorless laugh, but her eyes were turning red. “Let me tell you something. Even if this company goes bankrupt tomorrow, even if I have to spend the rest of my life delivering food to pay off my debts, I will never, ever need you to sell yourself to some old man!” She grabbed her purse and my wrist in one swift motion, pulling me toward the door with surprising strength. “Industry leader? What a disgusting pig! He’s old enough to be her father, and he’s trying to get his hands on my employee.” “Let’s go! This investment isn’t worth it! Disgusting!” I stumbled after her, catching a glimpse of her back—straight and proud, but trembling ever so slightly. A wave of warmth washed over me. Wow. My boss is terrifying, but she’s also kind of a badass. But… my dad was still in the bathroom. This misunderstanding felt… significant.

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My name is Leo Grant. I’m young, successful, and the founder of a decent-sized tech company. People call me Mr. Grant. I hired a new executive assistant, Anna Vance. She’s beautiful, quiet, and a little bit lazy. She clocks in on the dot, clocks out on the dot, and wouldn’t stay a second longer if the building was on fire. A classic nine-to-fiver. The company’s head of sales, Vince Carter, took a liking to her. He started a full-blown campaign of flowers and breakfast deliveries, making sure everyone in the office knew. I know Vince’s type. He’d scrapped his way up from a small town. He was capable, but his ambition had a nasty edge. He was always looking for a ladder to climb. He saw a girl like Anna—pretty and a little spaced-out—as the perfect rung. I was mostly just an observer, occasionally stepping in to rescue Anna from one of his advances. Until the day Vince stormed into my office holding a paternity test, marched over to Anna’s desk in front of everyone, and slammed it down. “Anna! What do you have to say for yourself now? This baby is Leo’s!” I was completely floored. But what I didn’t expect was Anna’s reaction. She just slowly looked up, glanced at the report, and then picked up her phone. “Hello? Mr. Wallace? Yes, it’s me. I’m done playing. Buy out this company… ‘Voyager Tech,’ I think it’s called. I want it done in ten minutes.” And just like that, my entire worldview shattered. 1 My name is Leo Grant. I started my own company, a modest internet firm with about a hundred employees. In my circle, people show me some respect and call me Mr. Grant. Three months ago, I hired a new assistant, Anna. On the day of her interview, she showed up in a simple white shirt and jeans, no makeup. Her résumé was shockingly sparse, listing only her graduation from a state university. When HR handed it to me, they were planning to reject her. “Mr. Grant, she has almost no experience.” I was in the middle of a headache induced by a group of investors and just waved my hand dismissively. “Her. Hire her. She looks… quiet.” And just like that, Anna became my assistant. And she was, indeed, quiet. She appeared at her desk every morning at nine o’clock sharp. Not a minute early, not a minute late. The first thing she’d do was brew a cup of tea. Then, she’d leisurely turn on her computer and start sifting through emails. She was efficient. Every task I gave her was completed perfectly, exactly as requested, but never with an ounce of extra effort. If you asked her to summarize meeting notes, she would never take the initiative to create a supplementary PowerPoint. If you told her to book the conference room for 3 PM, she would never ask if you wanted coffee and pastries arranged beforehand. Zero initiative. The second the clock hit 6 PM, her computer was off before anyone else’s. She’d grab the canvas tote bag that looked like it had seen better years and vanish. Once, at a company team-building event, everyone was singing karaoke until midnight. She was the only one who announced at nine that she was going home to sleep. My head of administration joked, “Mr. Grant, your new assistant is the definition of someone who is just coasting.” I had to agree. She was a young woman with no apparent career ambition, perfectly content with the status quo, probably just looking for a stable job to pass the time. She was beautiful, though. A clean, fresh kind of pretty. Pale skin, bright eyes that always seemed to look at you through a thin veil of mist, creating a sense of distance. Plenty of the young guys in the office were interested, but she treated everyone the same: polite, but remote. Until Vince Carter from the sales department made his move. Vince was our top salesman. He was sharp, a smooth talker, a real go-getter. He’d fought his way out of a small town, had an incredible work ethic, and an even more incredible desire to get ahead. The way he looked at Anna was different. It was the look of a hunter spotting its prey, filled with a cold, calculated certainty. He probably figured that a beautiful girl like her, seemingly without connections and with an air of otherworldly detachment, was the perfect target. Conquering her would satisfy his male ego without any messy complications. And so, what I mentally dubbed the “Office Drone Mating Ritual” began. I just never imagined the script would take such a bizarre turn. 2 Vince’s pursuit began with a bouquet of roses. I walked into the office one morning to find a massive bouquet of red roses on Anna’s desk. The aggressively, almost tackily red kind. Anna hadn’t arrived yet. Colleagues from the surrounding desks were whispering. “Wow, who sent those?” “Has to be Vince. It’s not like he’s subtle.” “That’s gotta be ninety-nine roses, right? He’s really going all out.” I listened and shook my head. This kind of grand gesture might work on a fresh-faced intern, but it felt like he was trying way too hard. At nine o’clock on the dot, Anna arrived. She saw the flowers and paused for a beat, her face a blank canvas. No surprise, no blush, nothing. She stood there for a single second, then walked around the bouquet, sat down in her chair, turned on her computer, and brewed her tea. Her movements were fluid, practiced. It was as if the flowers were just an oddly shaped humidifier. Vince chose that moment to wander over from the sales department, two cups of coffee in hand. He placed them on her desk, his smile blindingly bright. “Morning, Anna. Do you like the flowers? I was passing by a florist this morning, and they just seemed so you.” A smooth line. Not a premeditated purchase, just a spontaneous “passing by” thought. The entire office was craning their necks, watching the show. Anna lifted her eyes and looked at him. “Thank you, but I don’t like roses. I’m allergic to pollen.” Her voice was flat, devoid of any emotion. Vince’s smile froze. “Oh. Allergic? I’m… I’m so sorry, I had no idea.” “It’s fine,” Anna said, taking a sip from her own mug. “Also, I don’t drink coffee. Only tea.” The look on Vince’s face went from awkward to mortified. He just stood there, completely at a loss. Anna, having delivered her statement, went back to her emails, not sparing him another glance. I was watching from my glass-walled office, trying my best not to laugh out loud. This girl was interesting. She wasn’t playing hard to get, nor was she delivering a dramatic rejection. She was… simply stating facts. I don’t like them. I’m allergic. I don’t drink that. There was no emotion, no accusation, but it was more devastating than any angry tirade could ever be. Vince clearly hadn’t anticipated this. He let out a weak chuckle, trying to save face. “Well… what should I do with the flowers, then? It’s a shame to throw them out.” Anna didn’t even look up. “The front desk could probably use them.” The receptionist loved decorating her desk with flowers. Vince’s face cycled through shades of red and white. In the end, he had no choice but to awkwardly scoop up the massive bouquet and, under the stifled laughter of his colleagues, deliver them to the front desk. I thought that would be the end of it. But then, at lunch, Vince reappeared. He carried his tray straight to Anna’s table and sat down opposite her. “Anna, I’m sorry about this morning. I was being pushy. I just think you’re a really great person, and I’d like to be friends.” Anna was in the middle of eating a piece of broccoli. She looked up. “Aren’t we already colleagues?” Another direct hit. Vince was speechless. She was right. Aren’t colleagues a type of friend? What other kind of “friend” was he trying to be? I sat a few tables away, watching Vince’s constipated expression, and thought for the first time that maybe my “coasting” assistant wasn’t really coasting at all. She just couldn’t be bothered to entertain pointless people and their pointless games. 3 Vince’s greatest strength, or perhaps his greatest flaw, was his thick skin and boundless self-confidence. The failure of the rose gambit didn’t deter him in the slightest. He probably interpreted it as a test. A woman’s coyness. So, he doubled down. His offensive escalated from daily breakfast deliveries to afternoon tea, accompanied by a rotating cast of small gifts. Artisanal cupcakes, limited-edition bubble tea, handmade hair clips… they started piling up on the corner of Anna’s desk. Anna’s method of dealing with them was simple. Anything shareable was distributed among the department. Anything that wasn’t, she left untouched until Vince eventually came to collect it himself. She never touched a single item. Thanks to Vince, the entire administrative department’s afternoon snack budget was reduced to zero. They started looking forward to what treat he would bring next. Vince didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he seemed proud. He likely believed this “winning over her friends” approach would show Anna his sincerity and popularity. Once, I overheard him bragging to another colleague in the breakroom. “Girls, you know? They’re shy. They don’t want to accept things in front of everyone. But look, she hasn’t thrown any of my gifts away, right? That means I’ve got a shot.” I was getting water and nearly choked. How did this man’s brain even work? She was giving the stuff away to her coworkers, and he twisted it into “she didn’t throw it away, so there’s hope.” That level of self-delusion was a skill in itself. The moment Vince truly started to get on my nerves was last Friday. That afternoon, Anna got a call from her family about an emergency and needed to leave early. She came to my office to ask for leave, and I approved it. Not long after she left, the heavens opened up in a torrential downpour. I stood by my floor-to-ceiling window, watching the sheets of rain, wondering how she was going to get home. Just then, I saw Vince, holding an umbrella, dash into the storm. He ran to the curb, flagged down a taxi, and then ran back to the entrance of our building, apparently waiting for Anna. About ten minutes later, Anna appeared. She was holding a simple, clear umbrella, walking at her usual unhurried pace. Vince immediately rushed to her, trying to guide her toward the waiting taxi. I couldn’t see their expressions or hear what they were saying, but I could see Anna repeatedly shaking her head, trying to walk around him. Vince was persistent. He even grabbed her arm. Anna stopped walking. She closed her umbrella, letting the downpour soak her completely. Then, she looked up and said something to him. Vince’s expression froze. Then, Anna walked past him, went to the curb herself, and raised her hand. A black Rolls-Royce, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, glided to a silent stop in front of her. A chauffeur in a suit and white gloves got out, respectfully opened the rear door for her, and shielded her head with an enormous black umbrella. Anna got in, and the car pulled away smoothly. Vince was left standing alone in the rain, holding his umbrella, looking like a complete joke. And I, watching from my office on the 28th floor, was just as stunned. I had a feeling my understanding of my assistant was, and always had been, seriously flawed. 4 After the Rolls-Royce incident, whispers started circulating through the office. “Is Anna’s family secretly rich?” “Doesn’t seem like it. Look at her clothes, her bag. It’s all so basic.” “So what was with the car? A rental, probably. You know how some girls are, they’ll do anything to keep up appearances.” Vince was a firm believer in that last theory. Not only did he not back down, but he became even more convinced of his narrative: Anna was putting on an act. She was just an ordinary girl who craved luxury, and that car was a prop she’d rented to reject him. In his mind, he was the hero in a cheesy drama about a poor girl trying to maintain her dignity while a rich suitor tested her with money. And he was the one who could save her from it all. His imagination was truly something to behold. His “heroic rescue” plan was soon set in motion. The company was in the middle of negotiating a major deal with a new client. The head of their company, a Mr. Huang, had a notorious reputation for being a lech. Vince was the lead on this project. On Wednesday afternoon, Vince knocked on my office door. “Mr. Grant, about the dinner with Mr. Huang tonight… I was thinking… would it be possible for Anna to join us?” I frowned. “Why would she go? She’s not in sales.” Vince put on his slimiest smile. “Mr. Huang specifically requested we bring along a pretty assistant to liven things up. You know how these dinners are, having a woman there can help smooth things over. As your assistant, Anna represents the company’s image. She’s the perfect choice.” A wave of disgust washed over me. I would never parade my female employees in front of clients to “liven things up.” “No,” I said flatly. “Find someone else, or go by yourself.” Vince seemed to have expected this. He sighed dramatically. “Mr. Grant, I know you look out for your employees. But this client is crucial for us. If we lose this deal, our next quarter’s numbers will look grim. Don’t worry, I’ll be there. I won’t let anything happen to Anna. I just… I want her to see me in my element, fighting for this company. To show her that a man’s worth is based on his abilities.” That last line revealed his true motive. He wanted to stage a scene for Anna: “Vince Carter, protector of women, fending off a sleazy client.” A pathetic attempt to elevate himself by denigrating others. “My assistant,” I said, my voice turning cold, “does not need to attend these kinds of dinners. Vince, understand your role, and understand the company’s rules.” Vince’s expression flickered, but he eventually nodded and left. I thought that was the end of it. But I had underestimated Vince’s gall. Around 5 PM, Anna came in to drop off some documents. As she set them down, she asked casually, “Mr. Grant, is there a dinner meeting tonight? Mr. Carter told me to get ready and said you would be there too.” My stomach dropped. Vince had dared to use my name. “No,” I said, looking directly into Anna’s eyes. “I never said you should go. From now on, if anyone gives you an order like that, unless it comes directly from my mouth, you ignore it.” Anna just said, “Oh,” and nodded, her face showing no particular emotion. “Understood, Mr. Grant. If there’s nothing else, I’ll be heading out now.” She turned and left. I watched her go, then picked up my phone and sent a text to Vince. “You’re off the project. Hand everything over to the associate director tomorrow.” I tossed my phone aside and rubbed my temples. I was starting to think Vince wasn’t just thick-skinned. He was an idiot. And a stupid, arrogant man is capable of the most destructive things. 5 Being pulled from a major project was a significant blow for Vince. He was subdued for the next two days, avoiding my gaze whenever we passed in the hallway. I thought he had finally learned his lesson. I was, once again, proven wrong. On Friday afternoon, a commotion erupted downstairs. I was in a meeting, and the noise was getting distracting. I asked Anna to go see what was going on. She was gone for two minutes. When she returned, her expression was… odd. “Mr. Grant, Vince… he’s downstairs with heart-shaped candles and a banner. It looks like… he’s proposing to someone.” Every executive in the conference room fell silent, their eyes turning to me. A stampede of a million wild animals thundered through my mind. “To whom?” I asked through gritted teeth. Anna’s gaze flickered away for a second. “The banner has… my name on it.” Pfft— Our CTO, a balding man in his forties, couldn’t hold it in and sprayed a mouthful of water across the table. I could feel my blood pressure skyrocketing. I rushed to the window and looked down. Oh, this was fantastic. In the plaza below our building, a gigantic heart had been formed out of red candles. In the center, in candles, was the name “ANNA.” Vince stood in the middle of the heart, holding an even tackier bouquet of roses than the last one, and was shouting something through a megaphone. A large crowd of onlookers had gathered, all pointing up at our building. In that single moment, he had single-handedly obliterated our company’s professional image. “Get security down there and get rid of him!” I roared at Anna. But Anna was perfectly calm. She glanced at her phone. “Don’t worry, Mr. Grant. The police should be here any minute.” “The police?” I was taken aback. “Yes,” she nodded, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Someone is holding an illegal public assembly with open flames, creating a fire hazard and disrupting our business operations. I’ve already called them.” She said it with the same casual tone someone might use to say, “I just ordered takeout.” Once again, a dead silence fell over the conference room. Everyone was staring at Anna as if she’d just grown a second head. Looking at her unfazed expression, I suddenly realized that my previous assessments of her as “quiet” and “coasting” were colossally wrong. This woman’s brain operated on a completely different frequency from normal people. Her problem-solving method was simple, direct, efficient, and… entirely by the book. Sure enough, less than five minutes later, two police cars pulled up, sirens blaring. As the crowd watched in stunned silence, a few officers calmly approached Vince, had a “friendly” chat, and then “escorted” him and his flowers into the back of a squad car. The scene was hilariously anticlimactic. The building’s maintenance crew arrived and efficiently extinguished the giant candle heart with a fire extinguisher. A grand, romantic gesture ended in a spectacular public humiliation. After the commotion died down, Anna returned to my side as if nothing had happened. “Mr. Grant, shall we continue the meeting?” I looked at her, opened my mouth, but no words came out. I waved my hand. “Meeting’s adjourned.” The executives fled the room as if granted a pardon, each of them giving Anna a look of pure awe on their way out. Soon, it was just the two of us. “You’re not…” I chose my words carefully, “…angry?” “Why would I be angry?” she asked, her expression sincere. “If a fly keeps buzzing in your ear, do you get angry at the fly?” “…” “You just find a way to make it stop,” she added. I had no response. Later that afternoon, the police station called and asked the company to send someone to pick Vince up. I sent the head of administration. I heard Vince got off with a verbal warning and a five-hundred-dollar fine for disturbing the peace. It wasn’t a lot of money, but for someone as obsessed with his image as Vince, it was a fate worse than death. He couldn’t show his face at the company again. The next day, his resignation letter was on my desk. I thought that was the end of it. But I had no idea that it was only the beginning. A much crazier, more unhinged act of revenge was already brewing.

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My year-end bonus finally came through. Three hundred for me, eighteen thousand for everyone else. My general manager, Mr. Wang, clapped me on the shoulder, his smile dripping with false sincerity. “Claire, you’re young. Don’t focus on the money. Focus on the platform we provide.” I smiled back, nodded, and accepted the pathetically thin red envelope. A week later, my contract expired. The company did not renew it. On the day I left, Mr. Wang was popping champagne to celebrate. His phone, however, wouldn’t stop ringing. 01 The red envelope, stamped with the company’s gold-foil logo, lay in my palm, as light and brittle as a dead leaf. Three hundred dollars. The number registered in my brain without stirring a single emotion, just a pool of stagnant, silent water. I walked back to my desk, a forgotten island in a sea of files and sticky notes, tucked away in a neglected corner. The air was thick with the scent of celebration—a heady mix of perfume, coffee, and money. “Holy crap, eighteen thousand! Hermès bag, here I come!” “Where are we celebrating tonight? Three-Michelin-star, nothing less!” “My husband just called and told me to transfer it to him for the mortgage, lol.” Faces, distorted with excitement, swam before my eyes. They held up their phones like victory flags, the glaring bank transfer notifications a testament to their triumph. I sat down, a blank expression on my face, a spectator at a feast that had nothing to do with me. Mark, the colleague who loved to dump his grunt work on me, made a point of sauntering past my desk. He held his new iPhone so close to my face I could see the pixels, the “180,000.00” on the screen cranked to maximum brightness. “Hey, Claire, got yours?” he drawled, his voice slick with smug satisfaction. I didn’t look up. My eyes were fixed on the dusty keyboard in front of me. “I did.” “In this economy, for the company to be so generous… we really picked the right team.” He lingered, his voice just loud enough for the surrounding cluster of desks to hear. “It all comes down to ability, you know? The capable ones do more work. But sometimes, it’s just luck. Can’t expect a free ride forever.” Every word was a poisoned needle, aimed directly at me. A few stifled snickers rippled through the air. My fingers, resting on the keyboard, curled into a fist. My nails dug into my palm, a sharp, grounding pain. I still didn’t look up. I just opened my laptop. The screen flickered to life, reflecting my plain face and black-rimmed glasses, my expression a perfect mask of indifference. Ping. Ping. Ping. The department’s group chat was blowing up. It was the general manager, Mr. Wang. He’d sent a huge digital red envelope with the caption, “Great work, team! Let’s keep the party going tonight!” The chat was instantly flooded with “Thank you, Mr. Wang!” and “You’re the best, boss!” stickers. I tapped on the envelope. “Too slow. All envelopes have been claimed.” I closed the app, glanced at the member list. Mr. Wang had tagged everyone. Everyone except me. It wasn’t an oversight. It was deliberate. A public execution, carried out by a man in a position of power. He wanted everyone to know that I, Claire Chen, was insignificant. A heavy, cold stone settled in my chest. The internal office phone on my desk let out a piercing ring. “Claire, Client A’s system crashed again. Handle it. Their CEO is furious.” It was Mark’s voice, laced with impatient authority. Client A was notoriously difficult. Their system was ancient, plagued with problems. A cursed project no one wanted to touch. Whenever trouble brewed, the mess landed squarely on my desk. “Okay,” I said, a single word, and hung up. I opened the CRM, pulled up all of Client A’s files, and started analyzing the problem. In the bottom right corner of my screen, an inconspicuous icon began to flash. It was Sarah from administration. “Claire, don’t let them get to you. They’ve all lost their minds.” In this cold, sterile office, Sarah was the only one who called me by my first name. Seeing her warm message, my frozen heart stirred with a faint pulse. I typed back. “It’s okay, Sarah. I’m used to it.” Was I really? Or was I just numb? Numb to the pain, numb to the anger. I closed the chat window and navigated to a deeply encrypted folder on my D drive. Inside, there was only one file. I opened it. A dense spreadsheet filled the screen. Client Name, Project Details, Order Value, Key Contacts, Private Phone Numbers, Family Birthdays, Children’s Hobbies… For three years, every single deal I had personally closed, every client I had personally nurtured—it was all here. This was the data behind Mr. Wang’s “glorious achievements” in his reports, the ammunition he used to curry favor with the higher-ups. This was my final hand. After I was done, the group chat lit up again. Mr. Wang had posted: “To celebrate our department’s record-breaking performance, all expenses tonight are on me! We’re not going home sober!” Another wave of fawning praise followed. I opened the text box and typed a few words. “Mr. Wang, I’m not feeling well. I’d like to request leave from the dinner tonight.” I hit send. No reply. As expected. I shut down my computer and started to pack my things. There wasn’t much to pack. A few technical books, a three-year-old mug, and a dying potted plant. I placed the books in a cardboard box and picked up the mug. The company logo, a gift from my first day, was faded and barely legible. For three years, I had been like that logo, my presence here growing fainter and fainter, until I had almost disappeared completely. I opened a drawer and took out a pre-prepared handover document, placing it on the desk. It detailed the procedural steps for all the work I was responsible for. As for why those clients would call my personal phone with a problem at two in the morning… As for why the most demanding client would only accept proposals written by me… As for the “special relationships” that were maintained through personal care and favors… Sorry. Not a word of that was in the handover document. I threw the dying plant into the trash, along with three years of frustration and resentment. 02 In the final week before my contract expired, Mr. Wang’s exploitation reached a fever pitch. He summoned me to his office, a corner suite with a panoramic view of the city’s financial district. Sunlight streamed through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, so bright it hurt my eyes. He leaned back in his expensive leather chair, his fingers drumming a light rhythm on the polished mahogany desk. “Claire, this project is yours.” He pushed a thick file across the desk. The cover read: “Apex Group Strategic Partnership Proposal.” Apex Group. The company’s largest, most important, and most difficult client. I opened the file. After two pages, my heart sank. It was a new, incredibly complex, custom request involving multiple technical hurdles. And the client wanted to see a complete first draft in three days. Three days. It was an impossible task. This wasn’t just exploitation; it was sabotage. “Mr. Wang, three days is too tight. The technical feasibility study alone will…” “Claire.” Mr. Wang cut me off, that signature, knowing smile plastered on his face again. “I know it’s difficult. That’s why it’s a test.” He stood up, walked around the desk, and placed a heavy hand on my shoulder once more. “You’re young. Don’t be so quick to say no. The company has invested so much in you. It’s time we see what you’re really made of.” He leaned in closer, his voice low, laced with the smell of stale liquor and hypocrisy. “Your contract is up soon. Whether or not we renew it depends on your performance this time.” A naked threat, sugar-coated with the word “test.” My stomach churned. I didn’t argue. I just picked up the file, which felt as heavy as a block of lead. “I’ll do my best.” As I left his office, Mark immediately appeared at my side, his face a mask of undisguised glee. “Congrats, Claire. Mr. Wang is giving you a real opportunity. Work hard, and you might just get to stay.” His voice was low, but loud enough for the whole office to hear. Everyone was watching me, as if I were a character in a play. Pity, mockery, indifference. Their gazes wove a giant net, trapping me in the center. I returned to my desk and dropped the file with a dull thud. In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that Mr. Wang had no intention of renewing my contract. He just wanted to squeeze every last drop of value out of me before tossing me aside like trash. If I succeeded with this project, the credit would be his—a testament to his “strong leadership and capable team.” If I failed, the blame would be mine—proof of my “incompetence and inability to perform.” I was the final stepping stone in his climb to the top. I opened my laptop and stared at the impossible task before me. I felt no anger, no despair. Just a terrifying, preternatural calm. For the next three days, I became a ghost in the office. During the day, I sat at my desk, organizing files and dealing with the miscellaneous tasks Mark and the others threw my way. At night, when the office was empty, filled only with the hum of the air conditioning, my real work began. Sarah couldn’t stand to watch. At eleven o’clock one night, she placed a hot cup of coffee on my desk. “Claire, stop. It’s not worth it.” She looked at my bloodshot eyes, her face full of concern. “You’re going to ruin your health for this company, and who’s going to care?” I took the coffee. The warmth from the mug spread through my fingertips but didn’t reach my heart. I managed a tired smile. “It’s okay, Sarah. Just seeing things through to the end.” She sighed and didn’t press further, just quietly cleared away the empty takeout containers on my desk. After she left, I didn’t open the complex project file. I picked up my phone and dialed a number. The contact name was “Mr. Miller – Apex.” The call was answered quickly. A steady, slightly weary voice came through the line. “Hello?” “Mr. Miller, good evening. This is Claire Chen.” “Oh, Claire,” his tone immediately warmed. “It’s late. Is everything alright?” “Mr. Miller, I wanted to confirm a few technical details about the new strategic partnership proposal directly with you, to make sure we’re on the right track.” I didn’t bother with any so-called corporate procedures, because I knew that for Mr. Miller of Apex Group, I, Claire Chen, was the most efficient procedure. For the past three years, every time their internal system had an emergency failure, no matter the time of night, I was the one who responded immediately, solving the problem remotely. Every time they had a wild, blue-sky idea, I was the one who stayed up all night creating a prototype that matched their vision. His trust was never in my company; it was in me. “Of course. Go ahead.” Over the next hour, I worked directly with the project’s final decision-maker to hammer out all the core details and technical pathways. He’d raise a technical challenge, and I’d immediately offer three viable solutions. I’d mention a resource constraint, and he’d immediately approve the allocation of internal group resources to support it. Everything that Mr. Wang saw as a “barrier” or a “challenge” was, for me, simply a problem to be solved. Three days later, as the first rays of dawn streamed into the empty office, I printed out a one-hundred-and-twenty-page, flawless proposal. I placed it neatly on Mr. Wang’s desk. Then, I went back to my own computer and selected all the folders I had created for the “Apex Project” over the past few days. They contained all my notes, technical prototypes, communication records with Mr. Miller, and the final source files for the proposal. I hit “Delete.” And then, I emptied the recycling bin. All traces were gone. At ten in the morning, a beaming Mr. Wang strode into the office. He saw the proposal on his desk, flipped through a few pages, his satisfaction practically radiating from him. He walked to the center of the office and cleared his throat. “Everyone, I have some great news! The Apex project… our team has, against all odds, secured it!” “This proposal is outstanding. It perfectly showcases our department’s incredible strength and professionalism!” A round of thunderous applause erupted. He basked in the praise and adulation, never once looking in my direction, never once mentioning my name. It was as if the proposal had sprouted from his desk on its own. He clutched the document, the result of my three sleepless nights, like a trophy and marched proudly toward the senior executive’s office. I watched his retreating back, my eyes cold and empty. I knew that the final tie between me and this company had just been severed. By my own hand. 03 The day my contract expired, the weather was beautiful. The sky was a washed-out blue, clear and cloudless. At ten in the morning, an email from HR appeared in my inbox. “Dear Ms. Chen, due to business adjustments, your employment contract will not be renewed upon its expiration today. Please complete all departure procedures by 5:00 PM. Thank you for your three years of service.” Cold, corporate jargon, without a single extraneous punctuation mark. I read the email once, then again, and then deleted it. The office was a hive of activity, or at least, feigned activity. No one looked at me. No one spoke to me. I was an invisible woman, about to evaporate from this space. Only Sarah came over and gently patted my shoulder, saying nothing. But the warmth of her hand let me know I hadn’t been completely forgotten. Mr. Wang didn’t even show his face today. He probably didn’t see the need. Or the worth. A tool, used and discarded. Why bother with a final glance? At three in the afternoon, my phone vibrated. A text from Mr. Wang. “Wishing you a bright future.” Four words, as if they’d been fished out of an icebox. I stared at the message for a few seconds, didn’t reply, and just long-pressed to delete it. The departure process was unnervingly smooth. Hand in my badge, sign the papers, receive my proof of employment. Everyone I interacted with offered a professional, soulless smile. As if I were just a visitor, not an employee who had poured three years of her life into this place. I walked out of the office carrying a small cardboard box. Inside was just a book, a mug, and my personal notebook. I had arrived with nothing, and I was leaving with not much more. As I passed through the large glass doors, I paused instinctively and looked back. A grand champagne party was in full swing. Mr. Wang stood at the center of the crowd, radiating success. He raised his champagne flute high, his voice booming with unshakeable pride. “Everyone! I have some incredible news!” “Because our team did such an outstanding job securing the Apex Group project, creating immense value for the company, I have just been appointed by the board as the Vice President for the Southern Region!” A roar of applause and cheers erupted in the office. Streamers and confetti rained down, a surreal, theatrical display. Everyone crowded around Mr. Wang, toasting him, showering him with flattery. He stood in the spotlight, basking in his moment of glory. A pedestal I had built for him, piece by piece. My gaze cut through the noisy crowd and landed on his face, flushed red with excitement. I smiled. A genuine smile. There was no bitterness, no resentment. Just the cold, detached amusement of watching a clown perform. I turned and walked away, not looking back. The warm sunlight fell on me, chasing away the chill that had settled in my bones for three years. I hailed a taxi at the curb. As I settled into the back seat, I took out my phone, opened my contacts, and found the number for “Mr. Miller – Apex.” I composed a text message. “Mr. Miller, I have resigned from my previous company as of today. Thank you for all your support. I wish you all the best.” I hit send. Almost instantly, my phone buzzed. A reply from Mr. Miller. “Claire, where are you headed next? I’ll only work with you from now on. Give me a call when you have a moment.” I read the message, the smile on my face deepening. Next, I opened my messaging app and selected a group I had named “Core Clients.” There were ninety-nine contacts in it. Every single one of them was what Mr. Wang referred to as his “most important resources.” I typed the same message and sent it as a mass text. Outside the car window, the city’s skyscrapers flew by. I knew that a storm was about to break in the glittering glass tower I had just left behind. 04 Mr. Wang’s celebration was at its peak. Champagne bubbles danced in crystal flutes, reflecting his glistening, self-satisfied face. “To our glorious future! Cheers!” He raised his glass, ready for another round of adulation. Just then, a shrill, insistent ringing cut through the joyful noise like a knife. It was his personal phone. Mr. Wang frowned, annoyed by the interruption, and glanced at the caller ID. “Apex Group – Mr. Miller.” The annoyance on his face was instantly replaced by a fawning smile. “Excuse me, everyone. A call from our most important client, no doubt to congratulate us.” He preened under the envious gazes of his colleagues and sauntered to a corner to take the call. “Hello, Mr. Miller! You’ve got great timing, I was just…” His enthusiastic greeting was cut short by an icy voice on the other end. “Mr. Wang, I am officially informing you that Apex Group is terminating all existing and future business with your company, effective immediately.” The smile on Mr. Wang’s face froze, like a cheap wax figure melting under a hot lamp. “Mr… Mr. Miller? What do you mean? We just signed the strategic partnership…” “You lost your most important asset.” The voice on the other end was devoid of emotion, like a judge reading a verdict. “That’s all.” Beep… beep… beep… The line went dead. Mr. Wang stood frozen, phone in hand, his mind a complete blank. Most important asset? What did that even mean? Before he could process the shock, the phones in the office began to ring, one after another, as if a switch had been flipped. His work phone, his assistant’s phone, the main company line at the front desk… Suddenly, the office was filled with a frantic, heart-stopping cacophony of ringing. “Hello, this is…” “Hello, this is Eastward Tech. I’m calling to inform you that we are cancelling all our current orders.” “What? Why?” “No reason.” Mark hung up one call, his face pale, only for another to immediately come in. “Hi, this is the procurement manager from Blue Ocean Logistics. We will not be renewing our contract for the next quarter.” “Mr. Lee! Mr. Lee! Please, let me explain!” “There’s nothing to explain. We only deal with Claire.” “Claire?” One by one, familiar names echoed from the other end of the line. Apex Group. Eastward Tech. Blue Ocean Logistics. … These were the crown jewels of Mr. Wang’s presentations, the “loyal clients” he had bragged about countless times. And now, as if by a coordinated signal, they were delivering the fatal blow in the coldest way possible. Terminating partnerships. Cancelling orders. The smell of champagne still hung in the air, but the laughter and celebration had been replaced by a dead silence. Only the incessant ringing of the phones, like a death knell, echoed in the hearts of everyone present. The women’s faces were stricken with panic, the men were at a complete loss. The subordinates who had been fawning over Mr. Wang just moments before now avoided him like the plague. Mr. Wang collapsed into his leather office chair, his eyes vacant. His assistant, trembling, handed him an emergency report. His gaze fell on the list of client names, crossed out in red ink, searing his eyes. These were the “connections” and “achievements” he had been so proud of. He had always believed these clients were loyal to him, to the company’s platform. Now, he was discovering just how wrong he had been. “Claire…” He mumbled her name, a dazed, uncomprehending sound. He suddenly remembered something and, like a drowning man grasping at a straw, began frantically searching his phone for Claire’s contact information. Just then, with a loud bang, the door to the senior executive’s office was kicked open. The company founder, a normally composed man in his sixties, was red-faced, his eyes blazing with a rage that was almost palpable. He stormed up to Mr. Wang and slammed another report onto his face. The papers scattered to the floor like a flurry of hopeless snow. “Wang!” The founder’s voice trembled with fury. “Is this your idea of a huge success?!” “Is this the regional vice presidency you brought me?!” “Half of the company’s orders… gone! In one afternoon!”

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1 It was New Year’s Day, and a message from my boss, Ms. Evans, pinged in the company group chat: paychecks were in. But mine was the only one that hadn’t arrived. When Ms. Evans found out, she was cool about it. She just had me confirm my account details and sent the payment again. Still, nothing. My coworkers didn’t believe me. Thankfully, Ms. Evans was willing to try one more time, right there in front of everyone, so we could all witness the transfer process from start to finish. And still, my salary never hit my account. That was the last straw for my colleagues. Accusing me of trying to scam the company, they practically ran me out of the office. The moment I stepped out the front door, I was hit by a truck and killed. Even as I died, I couldn’t understand it. The transfer process was flawless. Why was I the only one not getting paid? The next time I opened my eyes, I was right back where it all started: payday. … I stared at the zero balance on my bank statement, then at the stream of “1”s popping up in the group chat as my colleagues confirmed their payments. My mind was a tangled mess of questions. The company had set up these bank accounts for us years ago; they’d never been a problem. Besides, in my past life, I’d already had the bank run a full diagnostic. The payments were all processed in a single batch. How could mine be the only one to vanish? Sarah Evans was a generous boss. The fact that she had tried to pay me multiple times proved she wasn’t singling me out. So what in the world was going wrong? As my thoughts raced, another message from Sarah popped up in the chat. “If anyone has an issue with their pay, speak up now. This is your only chance.” I froze. My first instinct was to lie low and investigate on my own, to avoid repeating the same disaster. But if I didn’t say something now, company policy meant I’d forfeit my salary for good. My mortgage and car payments were due. I needed that money. I had no choice. Steeling myself, I tagged Ms. Evans in the chat. She quickly sent back a screenshot of the transaction. “Chloe, there’s nothing wrong on my end. See for yourself.” A coworker immediately jumped in. “Chloe, Ms. Evans has never had a problem with payroll. We all got our money. It’s probably an issue with your account.” A chorus of agreement followed. I scrutinized the screenshot. It looked perfect. The money had definitely been sent. I mumbled a few excuses in the chat and bolted straight for the bank. Just like last time, the teller assured me my account was in perfect working order. But this time, I needed to see it for myself. I transferred a few dollars from another card to my payroll account. The money appeared instantly. My account could receive funds just fine. Next, I had them check the sender’s account—Ms. Evans’s. No issues there either. If the sender’s account was fine, and the receiver’s account was fine, where did the money go? Could it have just gotten lost somewhere in the digital ether? The bank teller looked at me like I was an idiot. “Ma’am, our systems have world-class stability and security. Nothing like that has ever happened. I’d stake my career on it. If both accounts are active, the transfer goes through. Period.” His confidence left me with no other option. I headed back to the office to talk to Ms. Evans. She was in the middle of a call, but she waved a hand dismissively and told the finance department to wire me the money directly and sort out the cause later. This time, I was smarter. I watched over the accountant’s shoulder as she processed the transfer, staying on the phone with my bank the entire time to track its progress. Having worked in finance before, I knew the transfer from our end was clean. I immediately asked the bank representative for an update. A moment later, he confirmed it. “The funds have been successfully deposited into your account, Ms. Hayes.” At the same time, a notification popped up on my phone. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. Finally. The money was mine. But when I opened my banking app, I froze. 2 The balance hadn’t changed. Not by a single cent. I immediately called the bank back. The representative on the line sounded suspicious. “Ms. Hayes, are you trying to pull some kind of prank? We literally watched the deposit clear on our end.” “Maybe a family member transferred it out?” he suggested. “Or it was used for an automatic bill payment? That’s private information, of course, so we wouldn’t be able to see those details.” I hung up, my brow furrowed. No one else knew my account information. And even if the money had been moved or used for a payment, there would have been a notification, a record. It couldn’t just vanish into thin air. Just then, the accountant from finance called. “Did you get it, Chloe? If everything’s good, come sign the payment confirmation form.” I had no choice but to tell her the truth. As expected, she didn’t believe me. “Are you kidding me, Chloe? You were standing right here when I sent it. The bank even confirmed it landed in your account. And now you’re telling me you don’t have it?” Her voice sharpened. “You’re not trying to pull a fast one just because Ms. Evans is generous, are you?” “No, I swear!” I started to explain, but she cut me off, her voice dripping with impatience. “Look, I don’t have time for this. I sent the money. Whether you sign the form or not is your problem.” She hung up. I just stood there, my heart pounding with a mixture of panic and confusion. If it wasn’t a system error, it had to be deliberate. Human intervention. But I’d always been careful, always kept to myself. I hadn’t made any enemies. Who would go to such lengths to mess with me? A client messaged me, and I had to shake it off and head back to my desk. The moment I walked into the main office, I felt their eyes on me. Everyone was staring, their expressions a mix of suspicion and disdain. Mark, the closest thing I had to a real friend at the office, sidled up to my desk, his voice a low whisper. “Chloe, what’s going on? Ms. Evans paid you twice. Why are you still saying you didn’t get it? The finance department is furious, they think you’re making trouble. Everyone’s starting to think you’re up to something.” My face flushed. “I don’t know why, Mark, but I swear, the money isn’t in my account. I’m not trying to cause problems!” My voice was a little too loud, and the others heard me. A woman from accounting, Brenda, sneered from across the room. “Oh, please, Chloe. We all use the same bank, the same payroll process. Why are you the only special one who can’t get paid? Ms. Evans is a good person, but that doesn’t give you the right to be a shameless freeloader. What does that make the rest of us who actually work for our money?” Others quickly chimed in. “Yeah, Chloe! Know when to quit. Don’t push your luck!” My face burned with shame and anger. “I am not a freeloader! I can show you my bank account right now!” But Brenda just laughed coldly. “Save it. You probably spent it all on some boy toy and now you’re trying to blame the company. Do you really think we’re that stupid?” A wave of mocking laughter filled the room. I was pale with fury, about to tear into her, when Ms. Evans appeared in the doorway. 3 Without a word, she walked over and handed me a thick envelope. “Chloe,” she said, her voice firm. “Since you keep saying the transfers aren’t working, here. This time, it’s cash.” She paused, her eyes locking onto mine. “Count it. And let this be the end of it.” Clutching the stack of bills, I tried to explain. “Ms. Evans, I’m really not trying to…” She held up a hand. “We’re a team here. There’s no need for this drama over a paycheck. Let’s just drop it.” With that, she turned and walked away. The others dispersed, though Brenda couldn’t resist a parting shot. “Well, I guess someone can’t claim the company didn’t pay her this time.” I ignored her, heading straight for the bank with the cash. To be extra safe, I went to a different, more reputable bank. I opened a brand-new account, set a new password, and only then deposited the money. Seeing the numbers finally appear on my balance, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. That night, for the first time in days, I slept soundly. The next morning, I went to unlock a shared bike with my phone, but a notification popped up: Insufficient Funds. I blinked, confused. My hands trembling slightly, I opened my new banking app. Balance: $0.00. A roar filled my ears, and the world went fuzzy at the edges. The money I had fought so hard for, gone. Again. Vanished overnight. What was happening to me? I couldn’t take it anymore. I went straight to the police station and filed a report. The officer told me that financial cases were complex and required cross-agency verification. I would have to be patient. I went home in a daze. I had just collapsed onto my sofa when a notification from Ms. Evans lit up the company chat. “Everyone, apologies for the inconvenience. There’s been an issue with the latest financial report, and we need everyone to return this month’s salary. As compensation, your next paycheck will be doubled. Please transfer the funds back and reply with a ‘1’ in the chat to confirm.” This had happened before, and Sarah Evans always made good on her promises. One by one, the “1”s started flooding the chat. Soon, I was the only one left. I stared at the screen, my blood turning to ice. I lived paycheck to paycheck; I had no savings. The salary I’d just received had disappeared. What was I supposed to return? After a few minutes of silence, Ms. Evans tagged me directly. “Chloe, this is time-sensitive. What’s your status?” There was no way out. I had to tell the truth. The moment I did, the chat exploded. 4 A barrage of question marks flooded the screen. Brenda was, as usual, the first to attack. “Are you for real, Chloe? Ms. Evans gave you cash in front of all of us yesterday, and now you’re claiming it just ‘disappeared’?” “If you’re trying to scam Ms. Evans, just say so. Did you really think we’d fall for such a lame excuse?” Others piled on. “First you can’t receive your pay, now it vanishes into thin air? This is getting ridiculous, Chloe.” “Look, we want to believe you. You’ve always seemed like a decent person. But you can’t keep doing this.” … I desperately typed out explanations, but my words were drowned in a sea of accusations. Finally, a message from Ms. Evans cut through the noise. “Enough. I’ll cover it for you, Chloe. But this is the absolute last time.” I was flooded with gratitude and shame, apologizing profusely to her. After all, yesterday’s fiasco had proven the problem was somehow with me, not the company. Just then, my phone rang. It was the police. They had conducted a full audit of the banking systems but found no anomalies, no traces of hacking or unauthorized access. My accounts were all perfectly normal. It was as if the money had simply ceased to exist. From a scientific standpoint, that was impossible, of course. They told me they would have to dig deeper. I hung up, my heart heavy with dread. But the nightmare wasn’t over. The next day, a major client needed to make a payment. There was an issue with our corporate account, so the standard procedure was for an employee to receive the funds personally and then transfer them to the company. I was the only one on-site with a debit card. I tried to refuse, desperately explaining the bizarre things that had been happening, but nobody believed me. They thought I was making it all up. Cornered, I had no choice but to comply. The moment the client’s payment—several million dollars—hit my account, I immediately initiated a transfer to the corporate account. But in the blink of an eye, the millions vanished. Everyone stared at the empty balance on my screen, their jaws slack with disbelief. The shock lasted only a second before it curdled into rage, all of it directed at me. “Chloe, you have some nerve!” someone shouted. “You’d steal millions right in front of us?” “Call the police! We have to call the police and have her arrested!” … Surrounded by their furious faces, I felt like I was losing my mind. Why? Why did any money that touched my accounts just disappear? Just then, my phone buzzed with a new text message. I glanced down, and my world tilted on its axis. I finally understood.

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The first day I moved into the apartment complex, my new neighbor sued me. She stood in court, tears streaming down her face, and accused my son of assaulting her daughter. “My Dahlia just turned eighteen, and that pervert, that monster Coke Miller, violated her!” she shrieked. “He’s an animal with no upbringing, and he deserves to be locked away for life!” Her daughter sobbed, insisting it was true. “Coke… he said if I didn’t take off my clothes, he’d strangle me… I was so scared…” The gallery erupted in outrage, the jury members muttering amongst themselves, their faces masks of fury. They were already demanding justice for the poor girl. “He’s a monster! That Coke Miller is a monster!” “Throw away the key! He can’t get away with this!” But when the judge called my son to the stand, a stunned silence fell over the courtroom. Because my son, as it turns out, really is an animal. 1 “Ms. Miller! Your animal of a son had the guts to defile my daughter, but now he’s too cowardly to show his face in court?” My neighbor, Karen, glared at me from across the courtroom, her eyes burning with a hatred so intense it felt like she wanted to peel my skin from my bones. “Hiding him won’t do you any good! I won’t let this go! Your son needs to be put away, and you need to pay my daughter half a million dollars for her pain and suffering!” Her daughter, Dahlia, wept beside her, a perfect picture of innocence and terror. I met their performance with an icy calm. “My son did not assault Dahlia Peterson, nor could he have,” I stated clearly. “You’ve got the wrong person. Stop trying to drag my son through the mud.” I never imagined my first interaction with my new neighbors would be in a courtroom. The day my son and I moved in, Karen had been incredibly welcoming, helping me with boxes and insisting that if I ever needed anything, she was just a door knock away. When she heard I had a son, her face lit up. She told me all about her daughter, Dahlia, and said it must be fate. That night, everything changed. She was at my door, pounding on it with both fists, a disheveled Dahlia cowering behind her. She screamed that my son, Coke, had assaulted her. I was completely bewildered. When I finally processed what she was saying, I tried to explain that it was impossible, that my son would never do such a thing. But Karen wouldn’t listen. She was convinced it was him, and Dahlia, sobbing, backed her up, claiming my son had cornered her in the stairwell and dragged her to the roof. No matter what I said, they were like a pair of wolves who had locked onto their prey. They demanded a million dollars in compensation and insisted that my son marry Dahlia to make things right. If I refused, they would go to the police and make sure he rotted in jail. I knew my son was innocent, and their demands were ludicrous. I refused. And so, they sued me. My firm denial only made Karen angrier. “Impossible? Open your eyes, Miller, and look at the bruises on my daughter!” She ripped open Dahlia’s jacket, revealing a constellation of ugly purple marks on her skin. “Your animal son did this to her! My Dahlia is only eighteen!” Dahlia looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears. “Aunt Sarah, Coke did this to me. He threatened to kill me if I didn’t… I was so scared!” Karen hugged her daughter, and they both burst into loud, theatrical sobs. And there I was, the mother of the accused, watching them with what must have looked like cold, unfeeling detachment. The gallery started murmuring, their angry whispers directed at me. “Shameless! Her son commits a monstrous crime, and she just denies it!” “Like mother, like son. A bad tree bears bad fruit.” “That poor girl… this will leave a scar for life.” The criticism washed over me. I didn’t care. It had nothing to do with me. My indifference only made Dahlia cry harder. “Aunt Sarah, why won’t you just admit it was him? I’m only eighteen… how am I supposed to face anyone now? How am I supposed to live?” She started beating her own head with her fists, a picture of despair that brought tears to the eyes of several people in the jury box. Karen, her heart apparently breaking for her daughter, pointed a trembling finger at me. “You have a child too! How can you be so heartless? If it were your daughter who had been attacked, would you be this cold?” I laughed, a short, sharp sound. “My son is being falsely accused. What’s wrong with defending him?” I knew, with absolute certainty, that Coke could never have done what they claimed. But in their eyes, I was just making excuses. The murmuring in the courtroom grew louder. “This woman is unbelievable!” “She’d throw away her conscience to protect her son.” “With a mother that vile, no wonder the son is a monster.” The courtroom was descending into chaos. The judge frowned and banged his gavel. “Order! Since the two parties have conflicting accounts, you will each present your evidence.” Dahlia’s lawyer immediately stood up. “Your Honor, we have sufficient evidence to prove that the defendant, Coke Miller, assaulted my client, Dahlia Peterson.” She prompted Dahlia to recount the events of that night. Dahlia took a shaky breath. “It was ten o’clock at night. I was coming home from my tutoring class. The elevator in our building was broken, so I had to take the stairs. When I got to the 26th floor, someone grabbed me from behind and covered my mouth. I fought, but Coke was too strong. He dragged me up to the roof and… and he told me he wanted to ‘play.’” I raised an eyebrow. “How do you know it was my son, Coke?” Her eyes met mine, and her voice choked. “I… I saw his face, of course!” “He tried to force me to take off my clothes. When I refused, he put his hands around my neck and said… he said he would kill me if I didn’t do what he wanted… I was so terrified, I had no choice…” She broke down completely, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe, her hands twisting the hem of her shirt. Everyone in the room was filled with sympathy for her. I was the only one who knew she was lying. “You’re lying, Dahlia,” I said, my voice cutting through her sobs. She flinched as if struck, then screeched at me, her composure shattering. “Lying? Why would I lie about something like this? Why are you being so cruel?” “Look at my bruises!” she screamed, clawing at her own clothes. “Look at what your son did to me!” Her lawyer rushed to her side, wrapping a protective arm around her. “Objection! How dare you accuse my client of lying? The bruises on her body are proof! Your baseless accusations are causing further trauma to the victim!” I turned my cold gaze on the lawyer. “If she had ever actually met my son,” I said, enunciating each word, “she would never have made such a ridiculous claim.” The day we moved in, Karen and Dahlia had only seen me. My son, Coke, had never once made an appearance. If they had seen him, even for a second, they never would have accused him of assault. The lawyer scoffed. “And why is that? Is your son some kind of saint that my client would need a reason to falsely accuse him with her own reputation on the line?” Dahlia quickly added, “I did see him! I saw him leaving your apartment when I was going to my class. We even took the elevator down together. He told me his name was Coke Miller and that he was the new neighbor.” Karen jabbed a finger at me. “Don’t think you can confuse everyone and get your son off the hook! My daughter saw him with her own eyes. She even knows his name! You can’t deny it!” Watching their coordinated performance was almost laughable. Dahlia was so confident because she knew the stairwell and the rooftop were blind spots for the security cameras. They had found a loophole and were exploiting it for all it was worth. I didn’t bother arguing with them further. Instead, I addressed the judge. “Your Honor, the plaintiff’s testimony is full of contradictions and inconsistencies. It is not sufficient evidence to prove that my son, Coke Miller, committed this crime.” Seeing the judge nod thoughtfully, Karen panicked. She shot up from her chair. “Contradictions? Inconsistencies? Stop trying to twist things! Every word my daughter said is true! Her bruises are the proof!” I smiled. “You think you can convict my son based on nothing but her word? The law doesn’t work that way.” My words made Karen’s face flush with rage. Dahlia looked like she was about to faint. The jury, however, seemed to think I was the one being unreasonable. “This woman is delusional! The evidence is right there, and she’s still arguing!” “It’s a shame it wasn’t her child who was assaulted!” “The mother is a bitch, so of course the son is an animal!” They attacked me with their words, trying to wear me down, to force me to submit. But I stood tall, my back straight, and swept my gaze over them. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm, “the truth has yet to be determined. Be careful you’re not being used as pawns in someone else’s game.” They didn’t know the facts. They were just spouting nonsense based on a misguided sense of justice. Fools. My words silenced them for a moment, then someone shot back. “Pawns? Your son is the criminal here!” “Yeah, a young girl wouldn’t joke about something like this!” Seeing that she had allies, Karen’s confidence returned. She shot me a smug, triumphant look. “You want proof, Miller? Well, you’re about to get it! Let’s see how you talk your way out of this!” She exchanged a look with her lawyer, who then produced a document and held it up for the court to see. “In my hand,” the lawyer announced, her voice ringing with authority, “I have a lab report confirming the presence of bodily fluids belonging to the defendant, Coke Miller, on my client, Dahlia Peterson!” The announcement was like a bomb exploding in the courtroom. Every eye, including mine, was fixed on that piece of paper. Dahlia’s lawyer held it high, like a trophy. “This report states that DNA highly consistent with the defendant’s son, Coke Miller, was found on Ms. Peterson’s undergarments and on her person!” “Ms. Miller,” she said, turning to me with a victorious smirk. “The evidence is ironclad. What do you have to say for yourself now?”

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My roommate used my curated selfies to catfish a billionaire heir online. Just now, a string of comments floated past me in the air: 【My sweet protagonist, don’t be afraid! So what if you’re 175 pounds? He loves your soul!】 【Just have a good cry when you meet him, and the CEO will definitely forgive you. After all, you only did it because you love him so much.】 I glanced at my roommate, who was currently gnawing on a greasy pork knuckle, then back at the photo of the heir on my phone. My eyebrow shot up. He’s been falling for my face? In that case, starting right now, he’s my boyfriend. 1 This was the third month of Sonya using my photos for her online romance. The commentary track above her head was still scrolling furiously: 【This is killing me, why does our girl keep refusing to meet him in person?】 【She can’t help it. Our baby heroine has low self-esteem. After all, she’s using photos of Aria Coy, the campus queen. She’s afraid he’ll be disappointed.】 【Don’t worry, our hero is the heir to the Sterling Group. He’s seen plenty of beautiful women. It’s our girl’s fascinating soul that he fell in love with!】 A fascinating soul? I tilted my head, looking at Sonya on the top bunk, currently picking at her feet. She had just finished a round of a mobile game when her phone buzzed. A smug look instantly spread across her face. She shoved the screen toward me. “Honestly, Aria, aren’t men just idiots? I told him I didn’t want to talk, and he sent me another two grand.” On the screen, the memo for the transfer was glaringly clear: 【For my baby. Buy yourself some snacks. Don’t get too thin.】 Sonya gleefully accepted the payment and sent a voice message in a syrupy, high-pitched tone. “Thank you, hubby~ I love you~” The floating comments went wild: 【I’m squealing! This is the most romantic thing ever!】 【Actually, she doesn’t need to lose weight. He loves curvy girls.】 【Exactly. That roommate of hers, Aria, might be pretty, but you can tell she’s a total schemer. She’s nothing like our pure, adorable heroine.】 A schemer, am I? Fine. Since you’ve all said it, I’d be letting you down if I didn’t live up to the title. I put down my book and asked casually, “So when are you going to introduce us to this generous boyfriend of yours?” The smile on Sonya’s face froze for a second, her eyes darting away. “He’s… he’s busy. You’ve heard of the Sterling Group, right? He’s the heir. He has billion-dollar deals to close every day. He doesn’t have time to meet you common folk.” She then looked at me, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Aria, you’re not jealous, are you? I guess it makes sense. So what if you’re beautiful? You still have to work part-time at a coffee shop to pay your bills. Not like me. I just have to lift a finger, and the money rolls in.” I smiled and stood up, walking to the mirror to adjust the new white dress I’d just bought. The girl in the mirror was all slender waist and long legs, with skin so pale it practically glowed. “Jealous? Not really. It’s just that…” I turned, giving her a meaningful look. “Since he loves you so much, don’t you think you should let him see the real you?” My stare seemed to unnerve her. She quickly changed the subject. “Hey… Aria, can you send me that new portrait photo you just took? I want to… I want to use it as my phone wallpaper.” I sneered internally. Wallpaper my ass. The Sterling heir was clearly asking for more photos. Without a word, I sent it to her. The comments erupted in cheers again: 【Our baby heroine is so kind! She’s working so hard to maintain her image in his eyes.】 【He’s going to be obsessed when he sees this new picture.】 【Can’t wait for them to meet in person! He’ll realize that even though she looks different, their souls are a perfect match, and they’ll be together forever!】 Meet in person, huh? Funny, I was waiting for that day too. 2 On Saturday afternoon, I put on a careful “no-makeup” makeup look. Before I left, Sonya was still lying in bed like a corpse, her mouth full of potato chips. “Where are you going on a weekend?” she mumbled. “Meeting a friend,” I replied, slipping on my shoes. Sonya scoffed. “What friend? Some broke guy? Aria, don’t say I didn’t warn you. A woman needs to find a rich man. Otherwise, you’ll be stuck at the bottom forever.” I ignored her taunts and walked out the door. The Sterling Group tower was a gleaming skyscraper in the heart of downtown, the most expensive part of the city. I sat in the coffee shop on the ground floor for half an hour before I finally saw a familiar figure. Liam Sterling. I had to admit, the prize Sonya was after was top-shelf. Broad shoulders, a narrow waist, all wrapped in a perfectly tailored suit. His face was even more handsome than the blurry photos online. The comments were getting excited too: 【Ahhh, there’s our hero! So handsome!】 【Is he getting off work to go to dinner? If only our baby heroine were here.】 【Wait, look, why is that schemer Aria here too? What is she up to?】 What am I up to? Just giving your hero a little shock to the system. I timed it perfectly. Just as he was about to reach the door, I picked up my coffee and pretended to rush out. Thump. I stumbled right into his arms, the coffee splashing onto his expensive cufflink. Liam’s hand instinctively shot out to steady my waist. Our eyes met. In that instant, I saw the pure shock in his eyes. “It’s you?” Liam’s voice was deep and pleasant, with a tremor of disbelief. I immediately straightened up and pushed away from him, a blush blooming on my cheeks. “I’m so, so sorry! Sir, are you alright? I… I was in a hurry for my part-time job and wasn’t looking where I was going. I’m terribly sorry!” My performance was flawless. Panic, shyness, guilt—I played every note to perfection. Liam was stunned. In his mind, the “girlfriend” who flirted with him over text and accepted his money without hesitation was now standing right in front of him. But my reaction was that of a complete stranger. “You don’t know me?” he asked tentatively. I blinked my wide eyes, feigning confusion. “Should I… know you?” I glanced at my phone and gasped. “Oh no, I’m going to miss my bus! Sir, if your suit needs to be dry-cleaned, please come find me at the ‘Wanderlust Café’ just up the street. My name is Aria. I promise I’ll pay for it!” Before he could react, I turned and ran. My dress fluttered behind me, leaving him with the image of a beautiful, flustered girl rushing away. Liam stood there, watching me disappear, his brow furrowed. He whispered the name to himself, “Aria…” 3 When I got back to the dorm, Sonya was showing off to Tina from the next bed. “Ugh, I told him not to, but he insisted on buying me this Louis Vuitton bag. He’s just impossible.” Tina looked on with envy. “You’re so lucky, Sonya. We don’t even have boyfriends.” When Sonya saw me, she quickly hid her phone and said in a snide tone, “Oh, look who’s back from her date with Mr. Broke Guy. Did he treat you to a hot dog from a street cart?” I hung up my bag and replied coolly, “We didn’t eat. Just had coffee.” “Tch, I knew it,” Sonya said with an eye-roll. “By the way, do you have any more of those portrait photos? Send me a couple more.” I raised an eyebrow. “What, one wallpaper isn’t enough?” “None of your business. Just send them. Stop asking so many questions.” I casually sent two more photos her way. Watching her happily save and forward them, I couldn’t help but feel a wicked sense of glee. Go on, send them. The more you send, the deeper Liam’s suspicion will grow. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Sonya’s expression soured. She stared at her phone, chewing her fingernails anxiously. The comments started to stir: 【What’s wrong? Why isn’t he replying?】 【They were just talking, what happened?】 【He’s probably just busy. He’s a CEO, after all.】 Busy? More like busy questioning his entire reality. Just then, my phone vibrated. It was a friend request from an unknown number. The profile picture was a deep-space nebula. The note read: 【This is Liam Sterling. You bumped into me earlier outside the Sterling tower.】 A slow smile spread across my face as I accepted. Liam: 【Miss Coy, you work at Wanderlust Café?】 Me: 【Yes, that’s right. Sir, about your suit…】 Liam: 【The suit is fine. I’m free tomorrow. I’d like to buy you a coffee and discuss the compensation.】 Discuss compensation? Right. His intentions were crystal clear. I replied with a simple 【Okay】 and turned off my phone, ready for a nice, long beauty sleep. 4 The next morning, a black Maybach was parked at the school gate, drawing stares from every student who passed by. Liam Sterling was leaning against the car door, one long leg crossed over the other, holding a designer bag with breakfast inside. His eyes lit up when he saw me, and he strode over. “Good morning, Miss Coy.” I feigned surprise. “Mr. Sterling? What are you…” “I was in the neighborhood,” he said, his expression perfectly straight. “I have business nearby, so I thought I’d give you a ride.” I hesitated for a moment before getting into the car. The interior was filled with a subtle, pleasant woody scent. As he drove, Liam asked, seemingly at random, “Miss Coy, you’re still in college, right? Why are you working part-time on the weekends?” I looked down at my hands. “My family’s situation isn’t the best,” I said softly. “I want to earn my own living expenses to lighten their burden.” Liam’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. I could almost hear his thoughts: I just sent her two thousand dollars last night. Why is she still working today? We soon arrived at the café. I got out and thanked him, but instead of leaving, he followed me inside. He chose a table by the window and ordered an Americano. I busied myself behind the counter, grinding coffee beans and frothing milk. Liam’s gaze never left me, a mixture of curiosity and something else… fascination. After a while, he got up and walked to the counter, pointing to my bare neck. “Miss Coy, you don’t like wearing jewelry?” I blinked. “Oh, I don’t really wear any. I… can’t afford it.” Liam’s pupils contracted. Just last week, he had bought his “girlfriend” a $10,000 necklace. She had sent him a picture of herself wearing it, saying she absolutely loved it. And the collarbone in that photo was identical to the one right in front of him. Just then, his phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and his expression became even stranger. I snuck a peek at the comments. 【What is he doing? Why is he staring at that schemer?】 【Our baby heroine just texted him saying she misses him, why isn’t he replying?】 Liam looked from his phone screen to me, who was just setting his coffee down. On his phone, Sonya’s message was displayed clearly: 【Hubby, I’m studying in the library. So tired, I need a hug~】 In reality, the girl from the photos was standing in front of him, wearing an apron and serving him coffee. Case closed. Liam took a deep breath. His eyes cleared, and a hint of coldness crept into them. He took the coffee, his fingertips brushing against the back of my hand. “Miss Coy, could I get your number?” I feigned a shy blush. “Oh… okay, sure.” After we exchanged numbers, Liam, right in front of me, changed my contact name to—【Aria (The Real One)】. 5 Back at the dorm, the atmosphere was tense. Sonya was sitting on her bed, furiously typing on her phone, clearly arguing with someone. She didn’t show off when I came in like she usually did. Instead, she just shot me a dirty look. Tina rushed over, her face alight with gossip. “Aria! Who was that who dropped you off? In a Maybach! He was so hot!” Sonya’s ears immediately perked up. “Oh, just a friend I recently met,” I said nonchalantly. “A friend you just met drives a Maybach to give you a ride?” Sonya couldn’t help but interject, her voice dripping with acid. “Aria, don’t tell me you’ve become some rich guy’s sugar baby. Those men are just playing with you. You’ll end up sold and still be counting the money for him.” I smiled. “What, are you the only one allowed to have a rich boyfriend? I can’t have a friend with a nice car?” Sonya was speechless for a moment, then scoffed. “I’m in a serious relationship! Not like whatever you’re doing… Hmph!” Just then, Sonya’s phone rang. She glanced at the screen, her eyes widened, and then she erupted in pure joy. “Oh my god! He wants to see me! He wants to meet in person!” The comments exploded: 【Ahhh, it’s finally happening!】 【Our hero couldn’t wait any longer!】 【Get ready for the face-slap! That schemer Aria is about to see what true love looks like!】 Sonya’s hands were trembling as she typed out a reply. “He said tomorrow night! At that new revolving restaurant downtown! It’s the most expensive place in the city!” She jumped off her bed and started frantically rummaging through her closet. “Aria, let me borrow your red dress! And that Chanel bag!” I leaned against my wardrobe, watching her scramble around like a clown. “No.” Sonya froze, looking at me in disbelief. “What did you say?” “I said no,” I repeated slowly. “I’m a bit of a germaphobe. I don’t like other people wearing my clothes.” “You!” Sonya’s face turned red with anger. “You’re so stingy! Fine, don’t lend it to me! When I’m Mrs. Sterling, I’ll buy out the entire mall, and then we’ll see who’s jealous!” She turned away, muttering curses as she went back to her own collection of cheap, fast-fashion clothes. I glanced down at my phone. Liam’s profile picture was lit up. 【Aria, are you free tomorrow night? I’d like to take you to dinner. At that new revolving restaurant.】 I looked at Sonya, still lost in her fantasy, and replied: 【Of course. See you there.】 Same time, same place. It seemed Liam was planning to bring both the real and fake monkeys to the table for an immediate verdict. This was getting interesting.

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