For our family Christmas gift exchange, I bought my husband a pair of Italian leather loafers worth nearly a thousand dollars. I bought my son a limited-edition collector’s model kit he’d been begging for. And what did I receive? A pair of cheap, yellow rubber dishwashing gloves from the dollar store, with two scouring pads tied together to look like a “flower.” My husband hugged our son, looking at me with a doting smile. “Honey, you work so hard. This is for you.” I took the “flower,” forced the corners of my mouth up, and gave a stiff smile. The next second, my son looked at me with expectation. “Mom, you said you couldn’t cook the holiday dinner because you hurt your hand. But now you have gloves! You can cook now, right?” My husband chimed in immediately. “Yeah, whip up some wings and nachos. The guys are coming over for drinks later.” In that moment, the throbbing pain in my stitched-up hand was nothing compared to the cold ache in my heart. 1 For years, I don’t think I’ve received a single decent gift. I had told them weeks ago that walking to the grocery store in the winter wind was freezing. I wanted a red cashmere scarf. I didn’t expect a gift that was essentially a command to work harder. I listened to the sound of Mark scrolling through TikTok in the bathroom. Like clockwork, once he came out, I was expected to go in, open the window to air out the stench of his cheap cigarettes, and use the gloves he bought me for $1.99 to scrub the toilet stains he and our son left behind. Just thinking about it made a dull suffocating feeling rise in my chest. I tried to walk to the balcony for some fresh air, but I tripped over something. My son, Leo, had scattered his toys all over the floor I had just vacuumed. “Leo,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “Put the toys in the bin if you aren’t using them. Don’t leave them all over the living room.” “I won’t! If you want them picked up, you do it!” Leo snapped back without looking up. I grabbed his arm to pull him up and lecture him on respect. But before I could speak, Mark’s voice boomed from the bathroom door. “It’s just some toys, Sarah.” He wiped his hands on his pants, frowning at me. “Why do you always have to ruin his fun? You can just pick them up while you’re walking by.” Leo stuck his tongue out at me and dove back into his pile of plastic. The fire in my chest roared to life. It was always like this. Mark played the “Cool Dad,” and I was forced into the role of the nagging, unreasonable villain. I wanted to tell Mark that he was spoiling the boy rotten, but he cut me off impatiently. “Forget it. We’re starving. Go start dinner!” “Make sure there’s plenty of appetizers. The game starts at seven.” I clenched my fist. The stitches on my palm throbbed. “My hand is injured. I can’t cook.” “I know,” Mark said, as if it were obvious. “That’s why we got you the gloves.” “Don’t be so dramatic. It’s a tiny cut. It’s been two days, it should be fine by now.” I raised my left hand, showing him the bandage. “I got two stitches, Mark. You think this is fine?” Mark didn’t even look. He waved me off dismissively. “Who asked you to be so clumsy? You fell walking to the store. That’s on you.” “You’re just looking for excuses to be lazy.” The wound was still oozing slightly. The cold reality of his words stung more than the injury. I looked at Mark’s indifferent face, then at Leo, who was engrossed in his game. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. If Leo hadn’t thrown a tantrum demanding fresh lobster, and if Mark hadn’t insisted on specific cuts of steak, I wouldn’t have walked three miles to the butcher shop in the freezing rain before dawn. I wouldn’t have slipped on the icy pavement trying to protect the groceries. The anger I had been suppressing finally erupted. “Yes, I’m lazy,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “That’s why the food cooks itself, the clothes wash themselves, and this house magically cleans itself.” “Look at you, getting an attitude,” Mark sneered. “If you can’t handle a little housework, I might as well hire a maid. She’d do a better job than you.” “Then hire one,” I snapped. “Don’t ask me.” “Are you crazy?” Mark finally looked up from his phone. “If you don’t even cook, why the hell am I supporting you?” “You support me?” I looked at the rubber gloves and the steel wool “flower” on the floor and laughed. “You support me with this trash?” Since Leo was born, I gave him the best of everything. Organic food, expensive tutors. To save money for the family, I stopped buying skincare at Sephora and started using generic drugstore brands. I always thought Mark was the pillar of the family. He needed to look good for work, so I never complained when he bought designer clothes. And what did I get? Laundry detergent. A vacuum cleaner. And now, cleaning gloves. In their eyes, I was only worth gifts that served them. Mark frowned at the gloves on the floor. “I knew it. You’re ungrateful. We spent time preparing a gift for you, and you just turn your nose up at it.” “Fine. I’m not going to argue with you. I’ll Venmo you fifty bucks. Go buy whatever junk you want tomorrow.” 2 I took the fifty bucks. I grabbed my coat and walked straight out the door. I went to the mall. I bought a beautiful cashmere sweater and a satin skirt I’d been eyeing for months. I went to a bakery and ordered a slice of their most expensive cake. Then I walked into a jewelry store and bought a necklace I liked. It was dinner time. I picked a nice restaurant and ordered two dishes I loved—spicy curry and grilled scallops. Mark hated curry, and Leo was allergic to shellfish, so I never ate them. Tonight, I ate until I was full. After the meal, the heavy feeling in my chest lightened. I thought about Mark and Leo. They probably hadn’t eaten. Habit kicked in, and I pulled out my phone to call Mark. It rang and rang. No answer. Maybe he was in the shower. I sighed, ordered two takeout dishes from the restaurant, and hurried home. The house was empty when I got back. Mark must have taken Leo out. Toys were still everywhere. Ash on the floor. The toilet seat was up, and there were droplets on the rim—deliberate weaponized incompetence. I held my breath, opened the window, put on the gloves they gave me, and started cleaning. Just as I finished, collapsing onto the sofa, the door opened. Mark walked in, smelling of beer. “Oh, look who’s back. Done being lazy?” Leo nodded in agreement behind him. Mark saw the takeout boxes on the table and the shopping bags on the sofa. He scoffed. ” spending my money on yourself? Is that all you know how to do?” He turned to the two friends behind him. “Women have it so easy. We slave away at the office all day, come home, and can’t even get a hot meal.” His buddies laughed awkwardly. “Hey, Sarah. Sorry to intrude.” They pulled Mark toward the living room. I stared at Mark’s moving lips, but the sound seemed to fade in and out. There was a hole in my chest, and the wind was whistling through it. By the time I snapped out of it, they were already playing video games on the TV. Looking at Mark laughing with his friends, a sudden, uncontrollable wave of disgust rose in my throat. I turned around, went into the bedroom, and curled up under the covers. For ten years, I handled the school pickups, the homework, the teacher conferences, the extracurriculars. If the toilet clogged, the lightbulb burned out, or the kid got sick, I was the first responder. But the moment I bought something for myself, it was an unforgivable sin. If I rested for a moment, I was a criminal. He didn’t see the endless loop of labor. He only saw the moment I sat down. And Mark? He just had to show up to work, come home, tease the kid, and he was “Father of the Year.” Is this fair? As the sun began to rise, I made a decision. 3 The next morning, Mark sat at the table, his face dark when he saw no breakfast. “Sarah, you’ve been slacking off for days. That’s enough. Are you trying to starve us?” I didn’t answer. Leo mimicked his father’s tone. “I want pancakes! And bacon!” I looked at them quietly. My gaze slid over their righteous, demanding faces. “If you want pancakes, ask your father to make them. Don’t ask me.” Leo was a picky eater. When he was small, I spent hours making cute bento boxes just to get him to eat. I worried constantly about his nutrition. Now he was tall and strong. And this child, whom I poured my life into, hadn’t said a nice word to me in days. I knew he was acting out to support his dad. In every argument, Leo sided with Mark. Mark sneered. “It’s just breakfast. You act like you’re doing brain surgery.” “If you don’t cook, don’t expect another penny from me for household expenses.” He patted Leo’s shoulder. “Come on, son. Let’s go to Denny’s.” I watched their backs as they left. I wasn’t angry. I felt a strange, light sense of relief. For years, I had been too hard on myself. I thought that if I was the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect daughter-in-law, if I kept the house spotless and anticipated their every need, they would cherish me. But in the end, my sacrifice only raised two selfish, entitled men who took everything for granted. When they came home, they went straight to the gaming room. I was invisible. Fine by me. Usually, when Mark went on a business trip, I’d pack his bag a week in advance—underwear, socks, razor, chargers. This time, I knew he was leaving the next morning. I didn’t remind him to sleep. I didn’t pack a thing. At midnight, Mark called me from his hotel. He was furious. He had forgotten his underwear. “Why didn’t you remind me? What kind of wife are you?” In the past, I would have found a 24-hour store near him or DoorDashed him some basics. Today, I just said, “Oh.” And turned off my phone. When he returned, he complained for hours. I acted like I was deaf. That night, he tripped in the bathroom. “The light is burnt out! Why didn’t you fix it?” “I can’t reach it,” I said calmly. “Buy a new bulb tomorrow and change it yourself.” Mark looked furious. I ignored him. After a week of no cooking, no cleaning, and no talking, Mark cracked. He came home from work with a bouquet of grocery store flowers. “Okay, okay. Here’s your gift. Stop making a scene.” “I don’t know why you need this superficial stuff. It’s not practical, unlike what Leo and I gave you.” Leo glared at me, clearly agreeing with his dad. Right. Practical. But when I gave him “practical” gifts, he sulked for a month. “Practical” was only a requirement for my gifts. I looked at the wilting flowers. They looked like me. Mark thought I was pacified. “By the way, my mom is going in for surgery next week. You need to go to the hospital and take care of her.” “No.” I refused instantly. “If you don’t go, who will? You’re the only one with free time. I already told her you’d be there. I’ll give you an extra two hundred bucks for the month.” “Let whoever wants to go, go. I’m not doing it.” When I was pregnant, Brenda, my mother-in-law, said, “Whoever birthed it can raise it. I’m not helping an outsider.” She never lifted a finger to help with Leo. Never gave a dime. “Sarah, how can you be so cold-blooded?” Mark yelled. “That’s my mother!” “Exactly. She’s your mother. If you’re so filial, why are you outsourcing it to an ‘outsider’ like me?” Mark exploded. “Are you done yet?” “You don’t care about the kid, you don’t clean the house. I was blind to marry you.” “If you can’t live like a normal wife, then let’s divorce!” “Okay. Let’s divorce.” I agreed immediately. “House is mine. Car is yours. Savings split 50/50.” Mark was stunned into silence. But Leo started screaming. “Why do you get the money? That’s my dad’s money! That belongs to me!” “You bad woman! I don’t want you to be my mom anymore!” 4 I looked at the child I had raised from a baby. My chest tightened with a sharp pain. This was the boy who used to cry in the night, who would only sleep if I held him. Now, he didn’t need me. I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat felt blocked. Finally, I just nodded. Very gently. “Okay. I understand.” I looked at Mark. “You can have custody of the child, too.” Mark realized I was serious. He smashed his phone on the ground. “Sarah! You think you can threaten me with divorce?” He looked me up and down with a sneer. “Look at yourself. You’re in your mid-thirties. You think you can live the good life without me?” “You couldn’t even get a job as a maid. Don’t dream!” I looked him in the eye. “Divorce.” Mark paced the floor, agitated. He pulled out a cigarette, tried to light it, failed, and threw the lighter across the room. “Fine! Divorce! Whoever backs out is a coward!” “You’re leaving the kid with me? Fine. Just don’t expect anyone to beg you to stay.” I let out a cold laugh. “Finally said what you really think, huh?” “You and your parents never wanted me to work. This was the plan all along, wasn’t it? Make me dependent so I couldn’t leave.” “Say whatever you want. You asked for this!” Mark yelled, his face red. I didn’t say another word. I went to the bedroom and started packing.

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My mother has an addiction to suffering. When I took her to the mall to buy new clothes, she stood in the middle of the store and screamed at me. “You make five thousand a month, and instead of saving it, you just think about shopping!” Then, she turned around and complained to our relatives that her life was so hard she was practically wearing rags. When she got sick and was hospitalized, I told the doctors to use the best medication available to minimize her pain. She accidentally saw the bill. She ran to the attending physician, threw a tantrum on the floor, and accused them of having no ethics. “This is robbery! It’s just a minor illness, why are you giving me such expensive drugs? Refund it! Give me my money back!” The doctor looked at me, embarrassed and helpless. I decided not to enable her anymore. I looked the doctor in the eye. “Doctor, listen to my mother. If she likes suffering, let her suffer. You don’t need to use the expensive meds anymore.” 1 My mother is a woman who thrives on hardship. There are three kids in our family. My older brother makes $40k a month. My sister-in-law is a full-time author; her income fluctuates, but she usually nets over $10k after taxes. My younger sister works for my brother and pulls in a steady $20k. I’m the “poorest” one, but I have a stable government job with great benefits. Even my dad, after retiring, took a job as a security guard at a bank. He makes about $4,000 a month, and he transfers almost all of it to Mom. My brother and his wife cover the mortgage and all household expenses. On top of that, they give Mom a $6,000 allowance every month. My sister gives $3,000. I give $1,000. Add it all up, and she has over $10,000 in disposable income every single month. Logically, she should be living the high life. She isn’t. We live right above a high-end supermarket and a fresh organic grocer. The produce is fresh, quality guaranteed. We beg her to just shop downstairs. She refuses. Every day, she insists on riding a rusted-out bicycle she salvaged from a dump. She rides for an hour to a wholesale market in the next district just to buy vegetables that are literally a few cents cheaper. Then, she rides another hour back. The road to that market is crawling with semi-trucks. We worry about her constantly. We’ve stopped her a thousand times, begging her not to risk her life for a ten-cent discount on cabbage. She gets furious. She screams at us in the living room. “Who am I saving this money for?! You think just because you make a little money now, you’re big shots? If something happens later and we need cash, what are you going to do?” What are we going to do? We all have insurance. We all have savings. Besides, if a real catastrophe hits, the fifty cents she saved on bok choy isn’t going to save us. We talked until we were blue in the face. She wouldn’t listen. She did whatever she wanted. Until one day, on her way back from the market, she rode into a truck’s blind spot. She almost got sucked under the wheels. She spent half a month in the hospital and racked up thousands in medical bills. That finally quieted her down. For two months. As soon as she healed, she forgot the pain. Ignoring our pleas, she’d wait until we left for work, tell my sister-in-law (who works from home) that she was just going downstairs, and then sneak off on the bike to the distant market again. We held a family intervention. We asked her what it would take for her to stop. She cried. She said we all despised her. In the end, we just gave up. We let her do what she wanted. Because none of us could out-stubborn her. 2 We couldn’t control the grocery shopping. But we thought we could at least fix her wardrobe. She had a significant amount of savings, but she wouldn’t spend a dime on herself. The pants she wore were bought fifteen years ago. The fabric was piling so badly it looked like sandpaper. I took her to the mall with good intentions. I wanted her to look decent and feel comfortable. She stood at the entrance of a store, looking inside but refusing to enter. I tried to encourage her. “Mom, Sarah [my sister-in-law] transferred me $10,000 today. She said whatever you pick is on her. Just relax and choose.” Instead of being happy, she started lecturing me. “How could you take Sarah’s money? Do you know what people will say if I spend her money? Send it back immediately. I can’t use it.” It was always this performance. Deep down, she was happy Sarah wanted to spend money on her. But she had to decline, and she always did it in a way that made it sound like Sarah was reluctant to give it. Luckily, Sarah wasn’t there, or it would have been another fight. “Mom, it’s a gift of filial piety. Just take it,” I urged. She got angrier and shoved me. “I said no! The clothes I have are fine. Do you think I’m embarrassing you by dressing like this?” I rubbed my temples. “No, Mom. No one thinks that.” “Then it’s Sarah. Does she think I embarrass her when I pick up my granddaughter from school? Is that why she sent money?” She was getting louder and more ridiculous. The sales assistants were giving us weird looks. I cut her off. “Mom! Sarah doesn’t think that! We just see your clothes are old and torn. We want you to have new ones. We aren’t poor. We can afford a few shirts!” She huffed and went silent. I took the opportunity to push her inside. I asked the staff to recommend some outfits. Several assistants swarmed her, picking out tasteful, comfortable clothes. I handed them to her to try on. Right in front of the staff, she checked every single price tag. Her face turned black, and she shoved the clothes back at them. Before I could react, she dragged me out of the store. I apologized to the confused staff over my shoulder while asking her, “What’s wrong? Why didn’t you try them?” She didn’t say a word until we were outside. Then she exploded. “Your salary is only five thousand! You don’t know how to save! All you think about is buying clothes!” My salary isn’t high, true. But I told her the money was from Sarah. It had nothing to do with me. I tried to explain. She wouldn’t listen to a word. She just kept rambling. “Do I need you to buy me clothes? My clothes might be old, but they cover my body just fine!” I couldn’t move her. In the end, I transferred the money back to Sarah and explained the situation so she wouldn’t overthink it. Sarah sent a voice note back: “Mom is really addicted to suffering. She has a life of leisure waiting for her, but she insists on living like an abandoned stray. I don’t know if she’s afraid people will steal her money or if she wants people to think we’re unfilial children.” I chuckled bitterly and sent back a helpless emoji. 3 I thought that was the end of it. But as soon as we got home, Mom called our aunt to complain. From the balcony, I heard her wailing. “Sigh, who has a harder life than me? My clothes are practically rags, and I don’t have money to replace them.” I don’t know what my aunt said on the other end. Mom’s voice suddenly pitched up. “Enjoy life? What enjoyment? I can’t sit still at home. My daughter-in-law does nothing all day. She sits at a computer writing ‘novels.’ When she gets bored, she goes shopping. So idle… I think I need to find a job. It’ll be hard work, but at least I can help the family so my son doesn’t have to work so hard.” My aunt must have asked what job she found. “I saw some landscapers planting flowers by the road the other day. I asked if they were hiring. They said yes. Three thousand a month. Start at 6:30 AM, two-hour break at noon, off at 6:30 PM.” “I think it’s good. I can make money and not rot at home.” Standing in the living room, my blood began to boil. “Mom!” I shouted. She jumped, quickly hung up the phone, and came back inside. “Why are you yelling?” “Are you seriously going to get a job?” She knew she couldn’t hide it. “Yes. I can’t sit still. Unlike your sister-in-law, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon. I already booked a physical exam at the hospital. If I pass tomorrow, I start work.” I almost passed out from anger. “With your health? Planting flowers under the blazing sun? Are you insane? Do you know how hot it gets? If you get heatstroke, who pays for the hospital? The three thousand you earn won’t even cover the ambulance ride!” She pouted. “It’s not like I’m under the sun all day. Besides, if other people can do it, why can’t I?” “Those other people don’t have children sending them thousands of dollars a month! Do you know how much we give you? Do you need to do manual labor?” I was on the verge of a breakdown. Seeing my state, she stopped arguing. But she still wanted the job. Then she muttered, “A household shouldn’t have two idlers sitting around doing nothing.” Sarah, who had just walked in the door, heard every word. Her face dropped instantly. 4 “Mom, what does that mean?” Sarah threw her bag on the sofa. “You think me writing novels full-time is ‘idling’? Am I an eyesore to you?” Mom didn’t expect Sarah to be home. She rubbed her hands together awkwardly and looked at me. She wanted me to explain for her. It was always like this. She’d say something passive-aggressive, upset Sarah, and then beg me to smooth things over. For the sake of family harmony, I usually did. But today, she went too far. If my mother-in-law said that about me, I’d be furious too. “Don’t look at me, Mom,” I snapped. “Tell Sarah yourself what you meant.” Seeing I wasn’t backing her up, Mom stammered. “Sarah… I didn’t mean you’re lazy. I just think… since you’re home anyway, maybe I should go out and work.” “You can wake up early, make breakfast, take Zoe [my niece] to school, make dinner, and pick Zoe up.” “You’ll still have plenty of time to write. It won’t interfere.” Silence. She added nervously, “If you don’t want to buy groceries, I can get up earlier, buy them, drop them off, and then go to work.” I glanced at Sarah. Her expression was thunderous. “Why aren’t you speaking?” Mom got anxious. “I’m different from you. I can’t be idle. I just want to work.” “Mom, are you serious?” Sarah finally spoke. Mom thought Sarah was agreeing. She lit up. “Oh, yes! I’m doing this for the family. I’ve thought it through.” Sarah took a deep breath, picked up her bag, and looked Mom in the eye. “Fine. Go find a job. I have no objection. But I’m planning to divorce Jason [my brother]. So, whether you want to suffer or enjoy life has nothing to do with me anymore. And you won’t need to make snide comments about me ‘idling’ at home.” Mom froze. She panicked and grabbed my arm. “Talk to her! I didn’t mean that! I just feel insecure without an income! She can’t divorce your brother!” I didn’t know if Sarah was bluffing or serious. I couldn’t hold back anymore. “If you didn’t mean that, why can’t you speak plainly? Why do you have to insinuate that staying home is ‘enjoying life’? You say you’re idle? Just last week, I heard you complaining to Auntie that your life is so hard, that you have to take Zoe to school and cook and clean, and that your back hurts every night!” I truly didn’t understand. What goes on in her head? I thought being blunt would wake her up. Instead, she sneered. “Right. It’s all my fault. If I died, you’d all be happier! Your lives would be so much better without me!” She started wiping away tears. “I’ve sinned! I just didn’t want to be useless. I wanted to contribute. Why can’t any of you understand me? Why do you all blame me?” Great. Talking to a brick wall. “Fine,” I surrendered. “I won’t say anything. Do whatever you want.” Her eyes sparkled. “So the flower planting job…” Sarah was threatening divorce, and she was still thinking about planting flowers. I sighed, turned around, and went to my room.

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A guy in my class wanted my attention, so he decided the best way to get it was by making lewd jokes to my face. I tried to ignore him. So, he escalated and started spreading filthy rumors about my mother. That was the last straw. I whipped around, grabbed a heavy metal water bottle off the desk, and went to town on him. It took the homeroom teacher and a security guard to pull me off. When they called our parents in, his folks pointed a finger in my face, screaming that girls like me should have been “drowned in the river at birth.” That was their mistake. Because this time, it was my parents’ turn to grab a weapon. 01 The guys in my class loved giving the girls nicknames. There was “Kong,” “Bucktooth,” “Darkie”—you name it, they had a slur for it. My desk mate, Sarah, had the unfortunate last name of “Stools,” so they’d called her “Poop” since freshman year. I wasn’t spared, either. Because I was tall and hit puberty earlier than most, I was one of the first girls to wear a real bra. So, I got the nickname “Dairy Queen.” It was their favorite topic of conversation. Today, after gym class, I heard my name in their mouths again. This time, they were even grosser. They were laughing, miming my running posture by cupping their own chests and panting heavily every two steps. Sarah was furious. “Are you guys psychotic? Jordan doesn’t run like that! You are so disgusting!” “Seriously, that is way out of line. We’re telling the teacher!” The other girls chimed in, rallying around me, angrily calling them out. Brad, the ringleader, just laughed. “What’s out of line? I didn’t say a name. Who told you I was talking about Jordan? I was talking about a cow! A big, milking cow!” He grinned that shameless, punchable grin, banking on the fact that I’d be too humiliated to clap back. He thought the shame would silence me. He was wrong. I stood up and glared right at him. “Who are you calling a cow, you needle-dick?” “You’re swinging around something the size of a toothpick, looking like a shriveled pickle, and you have the nerve to talk? Maybe you should go get surgery, though I doubt it would help you upgrade from a zero.” The insult was venomous. Brad was stunned for a second. Then, he exploded. “Jordan, you bitch!” “Who do you think you are? I’ll beat you to death!” Relying on his height and size, Brad was used to saying whatever he wanted without consequences. No one had ever verbally castrated him in front of an audience before. Humiliated, he clenched his fist and charged at me. The class erupted. Boys held Brad back, shouting “Bro, chill!” and “Don’t hit a girl!” while the girls formed a wall in front of me. The noise attracted the patrolling teacher, Mr. Henderson. But Mr. Henderson wasn’t there to serve justice. He was there to sweep things under the rug. After listening to the chaotic retelling of events, the balding, middle-aged man waved his hand dismissively and pointed at me. “Jordan, is it? Why is your language so foul? Is that how your parents raised you? Making jokes about people’s anatomy? Write a thousand-word apology letter. Have it on my desk by Monday.” “Excuse me?!” The girls were more outraged than I was. “Mr. Henderson, how can you blame Jordan? Brad started it!” “Jordan insulted him back, sure, but Brad gave her a sexual nickname first!” “This is harassment! You’re taking his side! We’re going to the Vice Principal!” Kids these days are sharp. They know exactly how to hit where it hurts. The moment they realized Mr. Henderson was siding with the boys, they rebelled. I stepped to the front and flipped Brad off. “Coward. Toothpick. Loser.” “Jordan!!!” Brad’s face turned purple. He lunged over a desk to slap me. The girls shoved him back, scratching and pulling, protecting me like a phalanx of warriors. I pushed my messy hair out of my eyes, seized the opportunity, grabbed Brad by the collar, and slapped him. My nails left three bright red streaks down his cheek. Seeing the situation spiraling, Mr. Henderson panicked. He ran to get our substitute homeroom teacher, Mr. Lee. Mr. Lee was another piece of work. He was the type who openly said, “Premature dating is always the girl’s fault for seducing the boy.” Seeing the gender war erupting in his classroom, he didn’t even ask questions. He ordered me to read my apology letter in front of the entire school at the Monday morning assembly. To appear “fair,” he told Brad to clean the chalkboard for a week. Everyone knew cleaning the board was a joke compared to a public apology at an assembly. That was a formal disciplinary action. It was a public shaming. The girls’ rage was enough to blow the roof off the school. I raised a hand to stop them. Looking at Brad’s gloating face and Mr. Lee’s blatant bias, I replied calmly. “Fine. Monday assembly. I’ll do it.” 02 I didn’t write a single word of that apology. I didn’t think I was wrong. I didn’t think I owed anyone anything. So, I found an old essay, crossed out the title, and wrote [Apology Letter] at the top. Then, I walked confidently onto the stage in the auditorium. I took the microphone from Mr. Lee, faced the entire student body, and said one sentence: “Please, learn from me.” “Jordan, are you crazy?!” Mr. Lee hissed, his eyes bulging. He realized too late that I was going off-script. He lunged to grab the mic. I didn’t let him. I ran across the stage, shouting into the microphone as I dodged him. “I don’t think I was wrong! And I don’t think fighting back is crossing the line! Some people are born cheap and won’t learn until they get hit!” “You laugh when you give people nicknames, but you cry when you get one back? Brad, you are the most spineless coward in history. Even a dog would spit on you for bad luck!” “You think you won? You only ‘won’ because the teachers are biased! If you had any guts, you’d own up to your nasty habit of sexually harassing girls! If your parents came to school, I’d ask them exactly how they raised such a disgusting piece of trash!” “You have no shame! You think acting like a clown gets you attention? Brad, let me tell you—in everyone’s eyes, you’re just a joke!” I got all my anger out before the administration cornered me like a game of hawk-and-chicken. I was caught, obviously. But I held my head high. I didn’t feel an ounce of shame. Standing in the principal’s office later, I was smiling. Especially when I saw Brad outside, looking furious but terrified to show his face, shrinking away from everyone’s gaze. I stared at him, remembering how arrogant he used to be. It felt amazing. “Well said!” “We’re with you, Jordan!” “Good job!” The girls in my class started clapping. Even though Mr. Lee was screaming for order, they cheered for me. Applause is contagious. Led by my class, girls from other grades started clapping too. Some even shouted that I was their hero. I felt vindicated. I realized that bravery feels good. I realized that if I go crazy enough, no one dares to bully me. Not even the biased teachers. The Principal reprimanded Mr. Henderson and Mr. Lee for letting it get this far, criticizing their lack of professionalism. Brad was quiet for a few days. The other boys, seeing their leader taken down a peg, stopped using the nicknames. We thought we could go back to studying, to living a normal high school life. We thought nobody would be stupid enough to start trouble again. That’s how I thought it ended. But I forgot that some people are born petty. They have to win, no matter how dirty they have to play. Brad was that kind of person. A few days later, a vague rumor started circulating on the school’s Discord server and anonymous confessions page. It said a female student’s mother worked in “that kind of industry” and serviced old men. The attached photo was a woman in a cocktail dress, her face blurred out. Because the post used banned words, the students, hungry for drama, started digging. They wanted to know whose parent was so “scandalous.” They dug and dug until they pointed the finger at me. Because my mom liked fashion. She liked wearing nice dresses when she picked me up. Just like that, inexplicably, my mother became a sex worker in the mouths of these disgusting boys. When I heard the rumor, I was stunned. I never thought the misogyny would be directed at my mother. I was consumed by rage. Without evidence, just because my mom dressed nicely, they did this? I was going to find out which little bastard started it, and I was going to kill him. I started my own investigation. I threatened the admins of the confession page, telling them this wasn’t over, that this was defamation, and I would call the police if they didn’t give me the source. The issue had gotten too big in the group chats. The admins, terrified of liability, gave me the user ID immediately. It was a burner account. But in the digital footprint, I found a frequent visitor link. It led straight to Brad’s main profile. There was nothing left to understand. I laughed out of pure anger. I gripped the heavy metal water bottle in my hand, feeling like I had been too gentle before. I had given him the ability to hurt my family. So, the next morning, I stood at the classroom door with my water bottle, waiting for Brad. The moment he walked in, I slapped him. Before he could react, I smashed the metal bottle directly onto his head. Clang. Everyone froze. No one knew why I had snapped. No one knew why I was starting the day with violence. They just watched, stunned, as I jumped on Brad and started swinging the bottle like a maniac. Brad took several hits. A lump was already forming on his head. But he refused to submit. “Jordan! Why are you hitting me?!” “I didn’t even talk to you today! Are you off your meds?!” “Off my meds? You want to know why I’m crazy?” I wiped a splatter of blood from my eye, smiling like a demon. “I’m not just crazy, I’m going to end you!” “You spread rumors about my mom! You photoshopped her face onto porn actresses and spammed the group chats! If I don’t beat you to death today, I don’t deserve to be her daughter!” I threw the dented water bottle aside and pulled a heavy thermos from my other pocket. I swung again. This time I missed, and Brad scrambled away, crawling on the floor, running for his life. I chased him, hair wild, thermos raised high. I was going to beat the shit out of him. “Jordan! Jordan, wait!” Sarah was chasing me. Seeing me standing at the school gate looking like a predator, she rushed over to grab my thermos. I was furious. “Sarah, are you stopping me? If you stop me, we are done! I have to end him today!” I couldn’t believe it. Sarah was siding with that trash? Was she not my best friend? My eyes burned with tears. Then, she pried my fingers open. She took the thermos. And placed a badminton racket in my hand. “My dad bought this. It’s titanium alloy. Light, aerodynamic, and hurts like hell.” “The thermos is too clumsy. This is better.” “…Oh.” 03 Armed with my new weapon, I resumed the hunt. I circled the playground but didn’t see the little coward. He was loud when he was insulting people. He was happy when he was spreading rumors. But when it came time to take a beating, he ran faster than a stray dog. He shouldn’t be running. He should be standing there like a man to take his punishment. I sneered and turned toward the academic building’s restrooms. Sure enough, in the first-floor boys’ bathroom, I caught Brad lurking. His face was black and blue, his hair was a bird’s nest, and his shirt buttons were ripped off. He looked like a beggar. Seeing me, he actually shrieked and tried to dive into a stall, looking like he planned to hide there until the end of time. I slammed the racket against the bathroom door and shouted inside: “Any guys in there, finish up and get out! I’m settling a debt with Brad.” “If you don’t want to be collateral damage, leave now! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” “I’m counting to twenty!” I counted down. Once I was sure the innocent bystanders had fled, I rolled up my sleeves and charged. I saw Brad scrambling to climb out the window, stepping on a mop bucket. I didn’t think. I sprinted over, grabbed his pants, and yanked him back. Mr. Lee and a crowd of administrators burst in just in time to see me dragging Brad by the waistband, trying to pull him off the windowsill. Brad was wailing, covering his exposed boxers, begging me to spare him. Spare him? Who spared my mother? I used all my strength, planted my foot against the wall, and yanked him down to the wet tile floor. Before the teachers could reach us, I grabbed his collar and slapped him again. “Why didn’t you think about this when you were typing those lies?” “Insulting me wasn’t enough? You had to go after my mom? I’ll teach you to talk about my mom!” I kicked. I swung the racket. The strings turned his face into a waffle. Three teachers tried to hold me back. I threw my shoes at him. I grabbed a wet floor sign and threw that too. I was uncontrollable. The Dean of Students finally had to call my original homeroom teacher, Mrs. Davis, who was on maternity leave, to talk me down. Hearing Mrs. Davis’s gentle voice on the phone, the adrenaline finally crashed. “Mrs. Davis… when are you coming back? Brad and the others are bullying us. The nicknames weren’t enough, now they’re going after my family.” “No one helps us. No one cares about how the girls feel. Mr. Lee doesn’t care, he only cares about the boys…” “No one helps me… no one…” I broke down, sitting on the dirty bathroom floor, sobbing my heart out. It hadn’t been like this before. When Mrs. Davis was here, Brad never dared to go this far. Mrs. Davis started crying on the other end of the line. She promised to come back as soon as she could. Before hanging up, she yelled through the phone for Mr. Lee to “Wait right there.” The teachers stood awkwardly. Mr. Lee looked pale. Facing the Dean’s angry glare, Mr. Lee couldn’t say a word. When the investigation revealed Brad was the source of the rumors, I had texted Mr. Lee for help. His reply? [Tell your mom not to wear such flashy dresses.] [If she wore normal clothes, none of this would happen.] So it was my mom’s fault? That text was the spark that burned my rationality to ash. It was why I hunted Brad down without mercy. Because the system had failed me. And I didn’t want my mom to know. I was too ashamed. “Dean.” I wiped the hair from my face, staring dead at Brad in the crowd. “Expel me. Suspend me. I don’t care. But Brad goes down with me!” 04 “Kid, don’t talk about dying. It’s bad luck.” The Dean didn’t argue with me. He handed me a pack of tissues and told me to clean myself up in the girls’ room, go to the nurse, and then come to the office to meet the parents. Only then did I realize that in my rage, I had hurt myself. My adrenaline had masked the pain of two torn fingernails. Sarah washed my hands for me, crying the whole time. The other girls fixed my hair and clothes. One girl took off her jacket and put it on me to cover my torn collar. “I know Brad’s parents,” the Class President said calmly as we walked to the nurse’s office. “They are notoriously unreasonable.” “They will definitely focus on the fact that you hit him first. Don’t let them twist the narrative.” “Don’t be afraid in that office. I’m going to borrow a phone and call my parents. I’m telling them about the insults. We’re making this huge.” “Right. Don’t be scared, Jordan. We’re here.” Sarah wiped her eyes. “Brad’s crew wrote disgusting stories about me, too. I ignored it before. I’m calling my dad now to come back me up.” “They always bully us because we stay silent.” “You can’t be afraid.” The Arts Rep’s eyes were red. “I… I’m calling my parents too. They call me ‘Blackie’ and say dirty things to my face. My mom is fierce. She’ll destroy them.” The girls surrounded me, a tight circle of support. I nodded, smearing tears across my face. “I’m not afraid. Don’t worry. I won’t be afraid.” I had accepted the consequences the night before. If you dare speak ill of my mother, you better be prepared for me to fight until the bitter end. So I went. To face Brad’s unreasonable, unforgiving parents. Sure enough, seeing their son looking like a waffle iron victim, Brad’s parents exploded. They tried to charge through the wall of teachers to tear me apart. I stood three feet away, watching them scream like banshees, and laughed coldly. “Uncle, Auntie. You’re right. I beat the hell out of your son.” “I admit I tried to hurt him. If I could, I’d do it again right now.” “I don’t think I’m wrong. Brad is a scumbag who deserved to be smashed into the floor. You should thank me. Thank me that I was the one who beat him today.” “If it were someone else, you’d be identifying a body right now.” That triggered Brad’s mom. She started shrieking. “You hit him and you’re proud?! If my son has a scar or brain damage, I’m calling the police!” “I’m calling the police too!” If she glared at me, I glared back harder. “If you can’t teach your son, shove him back where he came from!” “I’m telling you, this isn’t over! He came for my mother. I’m going to find every group chat he made, and you better prepare yourself for him to get slapped again!” The more I spoke, the angrier I got. I kicked a chair over, grabbed the sitting Brad, and cocked my fist again. The Dean had to sit between us, using his body as a shield. Seeing me target her son, Brad’s mom finally shut up. That allowed her husband to speak. “I know Brad made a mistake, but it wasn’t a big deal, was it? No one knows your mom. Just deny it. By chasing him around the school, aren’t you just admitting the rumor is true?” “Why make a mountain out of a molehill? If people gossip about your mom now, that’s your fault, not Brad’s.” “Besides, my son has a bad temper, but he doesn’t bully people without reason. There must be a cause.” “Last time he came home with scratches on his face. I asked him, but he wouldn’t say…” Brad’s dad sighed, acting like his son was a noble martyr who finally snapped. If I weren’t the victim, I’d have applauded this middle-aged man’s performance. He could teach a masterclass in gaslighting. Too bad I wasn’t falling into the self-defense trap. And I definitely wasn’t going to debate whether my mom should wear a qipao or a cocktail dress. I smiled openly. “Oh? Victim blaming. Classic.” “You blind, giant babies. With a disability like yours, why haven’t you applied for welfare?” “Let me tell you something. Leading a group to mock people is bullying. Your son didn’t stop there; he manufactured sexual rumors about my mother. If that post gets 500 reposts or 5000 views, your son goes to juvie!” “You can say ‘he’s just a child’ a million times, but the law doesn’t care. Take your twisted logic to the police and see if they buy it!” I rolled my eyes. I probably looked like a villain, mocking them like that. But it felt good. Watching Brad’s parents’ faces twist? Even better. Girls need to be brave. We need to be tough. When you decide to bite back hard, no one dares to yap at you anymore. See? Brad’s parents, who were screaming murder a minute ago, heard “juvie” and went quiet as mice. Too bad I wasn’t buying their peace offering. I sneered again. “You sneeze without a jacket and blame the kid blowing bubbles 200 yards away for giving you a cold. Sir, are you a professional scammer? You seem very practiced at lying down in traffic to claim insurance money.” “You!!” Brad’s dad turned purple, choking on his rage. I watched with a smirk, coldly observing, hoping he might actually choke on his own spit. As if they were the only ones with mouths. If they dared to push the blame on me, I’d dump the whole trash can on their heads. I hit him. I admit that. But Brad wasn’t going to play the victim. He didn’t deserve it.

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The day the “NYC Princess” returned from studying abroad, she broke the internet. All because she tagged me in a post: “Do all movie queens nowadays enjoy hooking up with other people’s boyfriends?” I was completely baffled. Then the hottest young actor of the moment immediately declared his stance: “I firmly reject the casting couch. In this life, I only love Cherry!” The entertainment industry went wild with likes and shares. Anti-fans flooded my comments, telling me to get out of showbiz. Brands started canceling my contracts one after another. I was blacklisted by the entire internet. Later, the “NYC Princess,” Cherry Lu, livestreamed her engagement party with that hot young actor. But the ceremony never started. Because the real head of the Lu family, and the wife he pampered above all else, hadn’t arrived yet. 01 I woke up to my phone blowing up. My agent, Ursula, had called me fifty times. The moment I picked up, her panicked voice screamed through the speaker: “Elara! How did you end up hitting on the NYC Princess’s boyfriend?!” My eyes popped open. Ursula sounded like the sky had fallen as she urged me to check social media. I opened the app and saw the post from Cherry Lu, the “Princess” who had just returned from Europe: “Do all movie queens nowadays enjoy hooking up with other people’s boyfriends?” Attached was a blurry photo of me and the actor Caleb at an event last night. In the photo, my back was to the camera, my expression hidden. Caleb was facing the lens, frowning deeply. Last night, after an event, I ran into Caleb on my way out. Usually, we had zero interaction. But last night, he approached me, extending a hand as if for a polite handshake. I shook it out of courtesy. But then he tried to press a slip of paper into my palm, winking at me. He lowered his voice, putting on a sickeningly fake tone: “Sister, if you’re bored, give me a call. I’m always available~” I was instantly revolted. I shoved the paper back into his hand—which was the moment caught on camera where he frowned! I remembered walking away immediately, disgusted. How did this turn into me trying to solicit him?! I was about to clarify when I saw another post trending at the top. Caleb had replied under Cherry’s post: “I firmly reject the casting couch. In this life, I only love Cherry!” The internet exploded. [OMG! I thought the Princess was joking! It’s real!] [Joking? Does a Princess have time for jokes?] [Maybe it’s a misunderstanding…] [What misunderstanding? Do you think Caleb would ignore a literal Princess to chase Elara?] Since my debut, I’ve had as many haters as fans. They were having a field day in Cherry’s comments section. I explained the situation to Ursula. She cursed immediately: “That little punk! He’s playing dirty! He’s projecting his own sleaziness onto you!” Ursula and I have worked together for years. She knows me. She believed me. She frantically tried to contact Cherry’s team to explain, but before she could, another post went up. Cherry posted a screenshot of Ursula’s call log, tagging me again: “Ha, interesting. You think my boyfriend would look at you? Where do you get the confidence?” “So eager to sleep your way up! Is it a habit? I bet that Best Actress award wasn’t earned cleanly either, was it?” [Ahhh, Princess Cherry is savage! Tell it like it is!] [Support the Princess cleaning up the industry!] [I like this attitude! I always thought Elara didn’t deserve that award. Turns out it was dirty!] [Does Elara have a death wish? Messing with the NYC Princess’s man?] Ursula was furious. “What does she mean? Does she think her boyfriend is some kind of prize everyone wants?!” I was furious too. But before I could speak, I felt a strong arm wrap around my waist and a pinch. “Hush.” On the other end of the line, Ursula paused, then roared: “You dare tell me to hush?!” “Sorry, Ursula, not you.” I glared at the man beside me. He nuzzled his face against my cheek. “Wifey…” At this distance, Ursula definitely heard him. Before she could explode again, I hung up. I turned to look at Liam. He pulled me into his arms and kissed my forehead. “Wifey, kiss…” Looking at Liam’s face, I narrowed my eyes. I snapped a photo of him and posted it directly online: Thanks for the concern. Married. Don’t flatter yourself. My husband is hotter than yours. 02 Liam. The youngest head of the Lu family empire. He grew up overseas. The media only knew that the elusive head of the Lu family was married, but no one knew what he or his wife looked like. Even within the Lu family, aside from Old Man Lu, few knew him. When I posted that photo, the internet broke. My agent broke too. Ursula stormed into my house. She was raging, but the moment she saw Liam, she froze. “Hello, I’m Liam.” Liam nodded slightly, greeting her. He looked even better in person than in the photo. Ursula stared blankly: “H-hello… I… I’m Elara’s agent, Ursula. Here’s my card.” She snapped back to reality and immediately started scouting him: “With a face like that, you were born for showbiz! Mr. Liam, consider it. One year—no, six months! I can make you a superstar!” Liam smiled politely: “No thanks.” He turned toward the kitchen: “Wifey, you guys talk. I’ll wash some fruit for you.” Ursula turned to me, eyes wide: “Talk! Who is this guy?! When did you get married? Why didn’t I know?!” “Cough. Two years ago.” “Two years?!” Ursula’s voice went up an octave. “You hid this from me for two years?!” I patted her hand soothingly: “If you found out later, it would have been hidden even longer.” Ursula looked like she wanted to strangle me. Once she calmed down, she got back to business: “Do you know that because of the NYC Princess, all the major brands are canceling your contracts?! The company wants to squeeze the last bit of value out of you. They want to put you and your husband on a reality show!” “No way!” I refused immediately. Me on a show is fine. But Liam? The head of a global conglomerate acting like a monkey for viewers? “If you don’t, the company terminates you! The penalty fees will wipe out everything you’ve earned!” I was about to argue when Liam walked out of the kitchen. “A reality show? Sure. I can experience my wife’s work.” Ursula beamed. “It’s a deal!” She ran out before I could say a word. At the door, she turned back: “Caleb and the Princess will be on the show too. Be careful. She’s powerful. Don’t clash with them!” Me: … 03 The news that I, the “Princess,” and Caleb were going on a variety show swept the trending topics. Netizens mocked me relentlessly. [Tsk, what is the director thinking? Inviting that trash Elara and her fake husband? My eyes!] [That guy is definitely Photoshopped! Bringing a plastic surgery face to whitewash herself?] [Anyone helping Elara isn’t a good person!] [I hate Elara’s morals, but her face is top tier. Prettier than the Princess!] [Pretty? So what? She’s a homewrecker! No one knew she was married before. Suddenly popping up with a husband? Probably a paid actor!] Reading the comments, I got angry. Insult me all you want. But insulting Liam? No. I hopped on my main account and started firing back: “Is your brain filled with water? Do you think before you type?” “Did you skip evolution?” “Pickled your mouth for a few years? It’s pretty sour.” Unsurprisingly, #ElaraHasNoClass trended #1. 04 The show started three days later. When Liam and I arrived, the director immediately pointed cameras at him. It was a livestream. When the close-up hit Liam’s face, the chat, which was there to mock us, went silent, then exploded. [Holy… that guy is genuinely hot! Not Photoshop?! Where did she find this actor? I want one!] [He’s actually hotter than Caleb…] [Who knows if it’s plastic? If he was that hot, he’d be famous already!] I scanned the room. Caleb was already there. Beside him sat a young woman in an expensive white couture dress, chin held high, radiating arrogance. They sat close, intimate. Seeing me, Caleb walked over first, extending a hand to Liam. “Hello, I’m Caleb.” The comments scrolled by. [Boohoo, Caleb is so gracious. Elara tried to seduce him, yet he’s still a gentleman. If it were me, I’d vomit seeing her!] Liam looked cold. He shook Caleb’s hand. “Liam.” Caleb nodded, but a second later, his expression changed. He tried to pull his hand back, but he couldn’t move it. Liam’s face didn’t change at all. I knew Liam was venting for me. But the Princess wasn’t happy. She scowled: “Caleb, why are you shaking hands with trash?” Caleb smiled weakly. The comments praised the Princess for being “domineering.” I smiled too: “Liam, did you get your rabies shot? If not, we’ll go later.” The chat exploded! [WTF? Elara dared to call the Princess a dog in public?!] [Who gave her the guts?!] [Disgusting woman!] Liam nodded seriously at me: “We’ll go later.” Our banter turned Cherry’s face black. Her fans and Caleb’s fans lost it. [Is she crazy? Does she know who she’s talking to?!] [Arrogant! Elara thinks one award makes her invincible? Or does she think her sugar daddy can protect her? Our Princess is the only daughter of the Lu family! Offend her, and Elara is finished!] I caught the info in the comments. Lu family? I raised an eyebrow: “Which Lu family?” The chat answered instantly: [The Lu Group in NYC, obviously! Scared now?!] I looked at Liam: “Your relative?” Liam frowned: “Never met her.” He looked at Cherry: “I’m a Lu too. Why haven’t I seen you?” Silence. Cherry’s expression shifted. She pulled out her phone and started a video call. A middle-aged woman appeared on screen, bowing respectfully: “Miss.” Cherry pointed the camera at Liam: “Have you seen this person at the Lu estate?” The woman looked Liam up and down, then shook her head: “Never seen him.” The chat went wild. [That’s the Lu family housekeeper! I’ve seen her in news clips!] [Omg, the background is the famous Jasmine Manor! So beautiful!] [This guy is such a poser. Tried to pretend to be a NYC Lu and got slapped in the face instantly!] [Does he have brain damage?] While the chat roasted Liam, on set, the actress standing next to Cherry, Jojo, laughed out loud. “Just because your surname is Lu doesn’t mean you’re the Lu family. Some people need self-awareness.” The crew laughed along. Caleb stepped in to smooth things over: “I see a lot of fans want to see the Lu family’s JW Manor. Cherry, what do you think?” Cherry lifted her chin: “No problem. Crew, arrange it.” The director was ecstatic! “Thank you, Miss Lu! We’re in for a treat!” [Ahhh! JW Manor is legendary! Worth billions!] [We are blessed by Princess Cherry today! Elara, see that? Even if you find a handsome boy toy, our Princess lives in a place your salary couldn’t buy in ten lifetimes!] [Don’t say that. Elara has sugar daddies. Maybe their combined assets equal Cherry’s pinky toe…] Cherry enjoyed the praise. She walked past me, sneering: “Elara, trying to fight me for Caleb with that? Look in a mirror.” She walked away without waiting for a reply.

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Three years after I got out of prison, my fiancée Victoria Stone dragged me from an underground fight club. Her fist hit my face, eyes burning with rage. “Evan Tinkcom, who let you vanish and become… this?” I wiped blood from my lip, smiling coldly. “Twenty thousand a punch, Ms. Stone. If that’s not enough, keep going. I still need rent money.” Her fist shook, but her voice softened. “Come home… just apologize to Leo. He’s forgiven you.” Her gaze swept over my cuts and bruises. “Look at yourself, covered in blood. Like a stray dog in an alley.” I shuddered. She didn’t know—these scars were how I survived prison. “Remember,” she called sharply, “I’m still your fiancée!” How could I forget? Three years ago, at our engagement party, Leo drugged me and had me auctioned off to the elite. I was stripped of all dignity, turned into Port Stone’s joke. And the one who signed the papers selling me off? My fiancée. … The sound of jeering laughter echoed behind me. Victoria was furious, mortified that I was embarrassing her. She was the richest woman in Port Stone, and her fiancé was getting his face beaten in for a few thousand dollars in prize money. I ignored her and headed back to the locker room. When I stepped into the octagon again, the spotlights weren’t on another fighter. They were on a reinforced steel cage, and from within came the guttural roar of a predator. “Tonight’s main event! Fighter number 67 versus a Bengal Tiger! Place your bets now!” The curtain was ripped away, and a cavernous, bloody maw lunged at the bars, inches from my face. I sucked in a sharp breath. “Brother.” It was Leo. I looked up. He was leaning against the railing of a VIP box, decked out in designer clothes, a smug smile plastered on his face. “I heard you were short on cash,” he said, his tone a sickening mix of innocence and cruelty. “So I arranged a special gift to help you earn a little extra.” “I put a hundred grand on you to win. Don’t let me down, okay?” A hundred grand. My fists clenched. I thought of our family home, the one they’d sold out from under me, and I took a step forward without hesitation. Just then, Victoria stormed into the prep area. Leo smoothly wrapped an arm around her waist. “Vicky, my brother has his pride. Let’s let him win this hundred grand on his own.” He added, with a sly glance at me, “I hear he’s been on quite a winning streak. The owner here seems to take good care of him…” Disgust flickered in Victoria’s eyes. “If you get on your knees and apologize to Leo right now, in front of everyone, I’ll give you the hundred thousand myself,” she said, her voice like ice. “Otherwise, you can try prying it from the tiger’s jaws.” Every eye was on me. They were all sure I would break. Instead, I pulled on my gloves. Victoria’s face went dark, her eyes practically shooting flames. The tiger lunged. I somersaulted forward, dodging the attack, and landed a hard kick to its throat. But the difference in power was immense. Its jaws snapped shut inches from my skull more than once. Victoria’s expression grew uglier with every passing second. But I refused to give in. After a few brutal rounds, my arm was a shredded mess of flesh and blood. BANG. A tranquilizer dart hit the tiger’s flank, and the massive beast collapsed. Victoria threw the rifle down and grabbed my mangled arm, her voice a raw scream. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Blood dripped onto the canvas floor. Sweat beaded on my forehead, but I kept my jaw clenched. “I didn’t lose. Don’t forget to send the money.” Her hand shot out, her fingers wrapping around my neck. Her eyes were cold steel. “You’re hopeless. Since you’re so desperate for money, maybe I should have just let them sell you for a good price at that auction!” My body convulsed. The world spun, and then everything went black. As I lost consciousness, the secret I’d overheard all those years ago whispered in my ear. “Ms. Stone, we’ve completely ruined his reputation tonight. That should be enough to satisfy Mr. Leo.” “He brought it on himself. This is the price for smearing Leo’s name.” That auction was a nightmare I could never escape. Leo had orchestrated the whole thing. He’d leaked a few doctored photos of himself to the tabloids to play the victim, then pointed the finger at me. No matter how I tried to explain, Victoria wouldn’t believe me. On the night I thought was the happiest of my life, my engagement party, she had me dragged onto that stage. Through a thin black veil, I saw Leo embrace her from behind, whispering in her ear. The sight was a knife twisting in my gut. Wealthy socialites in the audience stared at me, their eyes greedy and calculating. “The first night with the Tinkcom heir! Highest bidder takes all!” Clinging to one last sliver of hope, I looked at Victoria, my eyes pleading. “I didn’t do it…” Through a haze of cigar smoke, her merciless eyes met mine. “When you do wrong, you get punished.” The cold glares, the humiliating bids, the jeers… they stripped me bare. Tears I didn’t know I had fell, my body shaking with a pain deeper than any physical blow. I never knew she could hate me that much. By the time it was over, it was late. Photos of my humiliation were already all over the internet. And after I overheard her conversation with the event manager, something inside me snapped. I set the whole damned place on fire. The flames that roared to the sky weren’t just burning a building; they were burning our past. The police arrested me on the spot. At the station, Victoria kicked me so hard I flew across the room. “Leo is in the hospital with smoke inhalation! He’s fighting for his life! How could you be so vicious, trying to burn him alive?” “Just you wait. This time, I won’t show you any mercy.” On the day I was sentenced, Victoria held a press conference. She officially named Leo as the new heir to the Tinkcom family fortune. Just like that, I had nothing. Three years in prison. I slept next to a toilet. My head was shoved into the bowl. I was beaten and degraded by the other inmates. To survive, I learned to fight. I fought my way through every day with my fists. My only hope was getting out alive to buy back my parents’ home. The day I was released, I scurried into the shadows of the underground fight scene like a rat, living a numb existence. With that hundred thousand, I would have been one step closer to getting my home back. The thought jolted me awake. My vision was a sea of white. “Did the money come through?” The club manager looked shocked that this was the first thing I asked. He was silent. It felt like a sledgehammer to the chest. Tears welled up, hot and unstoppable. Of course. It was a foolish dream. Victoria would never let me have what I wanted. “Forget it. I’ll just fight a few more…” “Evan.” The manager cut me off, his eyes full of pity. “You… you can’t come back here. Ms. Stone put the word out. Anyone who lets you fight will have their business ruined.” He dropped a bank card on the table and practically fled the room. The air was sucked from my lungs. I stumbled out of the clinic and into a torrential downpour, the rain mixing with my tears until I couldn’t see. I clutched the card so tight my knuckles were white. The dream of buying back my home was slipping even further away. Without realizing it, I had walked to my old neighborhood. There, through the curtain of rain, I saw her. Victoria was standing in front of my family’s estate, holding Leo’s hand for a crowd of reporters. “From this day forward, I am officially gifting this estate to Leo!” she announced. “He is now the rightful master of the Tinkcom family!” At that moment, the world tilted on its axis. I finally dialed the number I had saved for three years. “Get me out of here.” Back at the estate, Leo feigned surprise for the cameras. “But… what about my brother?” Victoria’s expression flickered before hardening back into a cold mask. “The moment he spread those rumors about you, he stopped being a Tinkcom.” “On what grounds?” My voice, shaking with rage, cut through the noise. I stepped out from the shadows, a drenched and battered wreck. “Is that Evan Tinkcom?” “It really is him! I thought he’d be too ashamed to show his face.” “Please. The guy’s done prison time. You think he cares about embarrassing the family name now?” “Tsk, tsk. To think the Tinkcoms raised a gigolo who preys on rich women. What a disgrace to his father’s memory.” I froze, the insults pinning me in place. Victoria rushed over and pulled me under her umbrella. “You’re injured! You should be in the hospital. What are you doing making a scene?” I shoved her hand off me and faced her down. “What gives you the right to give him our home?” “I’m the Tinkcom heir by blood. He’s just the adopted son. He has no right—” CRACK. My cheek exploded in pain. I stared at her, disbelieving. She had moved Leo behind her, shielding him like a precious treasure. “Before my uncle died, he entrusted both of you to my family’s care. In my heart, Leo has never been just an adopted son!” she spat. “You, who have done nothing but frame him and hurt him, are the one who doesn’t deserve to be a Tinkcom! What right do you have to object?” The whole situation felt absurd. I remembered when Leo first came to live with us. I was ten. I offered him one of my favorite toys. He ignored it, but the moment I turned my back, he tumbled down the stairs. “Brother… why did you push me? Is it because you don’t like me?” My parents believed me, but from that day on, his tears became his sharpest weapon. My mother’s missing jewelry, my father’s shattered antique vase—every time, he would look pitiful and innocent, and I would be left speechless, unable to defend myself. But back then, Victoria was always on my side. “I know Evan better than anyone. He would never do something like that.” “So what if he has a bit of a temper? The Stones spoiled him that way, and I’m happy to.” I was so naive. I thought she would stand by me forever. “You’ve disappointed me so much,” she said now, her cold voice merging with the memory of her crying with joy as she accepted my marriage proposal, promising to be with me for life. I was lost in a daze. “Evan, I’m giving you one last chance. Apologize to Leo, and the Tinkcom and Stone families will still have your back.” I looked at her hand, intertwined with Leo’s. And I laughed. “No, thank you.” “Just give me the hundred thousand. After that, we’re done.” A dead silence fell over the crowd. Victoria’s eyes were dark and dangerous. She stared at me, her jaw clenched. “What did you say?” She saw the defiance in my eyes and for a split second, she looked stunned, as if she realized she had missed something vital. “Brother!” Sensing the shift, Leo rushed forward and fell to his knees in front of me. “If you’re going to blame someone, blame me! It’s all my fault for coming into this family!” “I don’t want the house! I’ll leave Port Stone today! I’ll give it all back to you!” He scrambled up, sobbing, and ran down the stone steps. He “misstepped,” his ankle twisting, and he went tumbling down to the bottom. “Leo!” Victoria screamed and ran to his side. When she saw the blood pooling beneath him, her voice changed. “Doctor! Someone call an ambulance!” She glared at me, her face a mask of pure fury. “Tie him up! If anything happens to Leo, he’s going to pay!” At the hospital, the doctor’s words were grim. “Mr. Tinkcom has a comminuted fracture of the femur. And… his reproductive functions have been compromised. It will be very difficult for him to father children in the future.” “What!” Leo was inconsolable, biting his lip until it bled. “Vicky, what am I going to do?” Victoria fought to control her rage. She squeezed his hand, and after a long moment, she spoke. “It’s okay. I’ll get you the best doctors in the world. We’ll fix this.” “Besides…” She took his hand and placed it on her flat stomach. “You’re already a father.” “Have you forgotten? That night last month, when you’d had too much to drink…” The faint flutter of movement beneath his palm made Leo break down completely. “Vicky, thank you. Thank you for making me a father!” He shot a triumphant look over at me. I stared at her stomach, stunned. I remembered all her excuses for not letting me touch her. “We’re still young, Evan. After we’re married, we’ll have all the time in the world.” But now, she was willing to have Leo’s child. It was never that she didn’t want to. She just didn’t want to with me. A bitter, self-mocking laugh escaped me. “You’re a walking disaster, Evan Tinkcom! Look what you’ve done to Leo the moment you came back!” My laugh seemed to ignite her shame into rage. Her fist flew, catching me in the jaw. I spat out a mouthful of blood. “He deserved it,” I mumbled. “This is karma for what he did to me.” “He faked his own injury. I’d be careful if I were you. That baby in your belly might not even be his.” Before the words were fully out of my mouth, she backhanded me so hard my head slammed against the wall. Blood streamed down my face, blurring my vision. A sharp pain erupted on my scalp as she grabbed a fistful of my hair and dragged me to the window. She shoved the upper half of my body out into the open air, floors above the street. One release of her grip, and I’d be a smear on the pavement. “You really are insane,” she hissed, her face inches from mine. “For three years, I thought about getting you out every single day. I was so afraid you were suffering, I called in every favor I had to make sure you were looked after in there.” “But you! You’re so heartless! Three years without a word, and the moment you’re out, you vanish!” “Do you have any idea how long I looked for you? Do you know how much it killed me to see you destroying yourself in that fighting ring?” “You don’t know anything, Evan!” “All you know how to do is hurt Leo, slander Leo! You’re a complete and utter madman!” Her eyes were bloodshot, and huge, hot tears fell from them, splashing onto my shoulder. I was hanging out of a window, but my heart was colder than the whistling wind. “You’re right,” I said, my voice flat. “We’re done.” She threw me back onto the floor like a piece of garbage. Her voice was chillingly calm. “But you made a mistake. And you have to be punished.” I slowly lifted my head. “If you publicly confess to everything you’ve done, and willingly renounce all claim to the Tinkcom family name and fortune, I will give you back the house.” A ringing filled my ears, and the taste of blood rose in my throat. “You…” She looked down at me, the picture of power. “Think carefully. This is your last chance.” My fingers found the old photograph in my pocket, the last thing my father gave me. On the back of the faded family portrait, in his familiar script, were the words: Evan, when I get better, I’ll take you to see the snow-capped mountains in Switzerland. I remembered his frail arm in mine as he lay dying. A sob tore through me, and I bit down on my own arm to stifle it, my body shaking uncontrollably. “Fine,” I choked out. “I agree.” The next day, I knelt in front of the estate while the camera flashes went off, reading the “confession” she had prepared. “…I am responsible for the injuries sustained by Mr. Leo Tinkcom. My actions were despicable…” “…I admit to years of bullying and mistreating Mr. Leo Tinkcom. It was all my fault…” The crowd was a furious mob, throwing trash at me. “Die, you piece of scum!” “Why don’t you just kill yourself and apologize properly!” “Mr. Leo is a saint! This one is a venomous snake!” I curled into a ball on the ground as they beat me. Through the chaos, I saw Victoria step out of a luxury car, arm in arm with Leo. “In three days, Leo and I will be holding the wedding of the century,” she announced to the press. A little while later, security guards threw me into the back of a garbage truck. As it drove away, my phone rang. “Evan Tinkcom. I’m back. And I’m here to get you your revenge.” …

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Ten years after I took her place, the prodigal daughter who had been off enjoying the world finally came home. She was still as carefree and whimsical as she’d been a decade ago. She handed Adrian Thorne, now a man of thirty-two, a wishing bottle filled with sand as a gift. “Every grain of sand in here,” she said, her voice breathy, “represents a day I missed you.” Adrian’s posture went rigid. Then, Livia turned to me, her chin held high with confidence. “I’m back. The stand-in can leave now.” At twenty-two, Adrian Thorne had nearly died of a broken heart when Livia left. I couldn’t help but wonder. How would the cold, ruthless titan of the business world he’d become react now? 1 Adrian casually placed the wishing bottle on the passenger seat. I took the hint and slipped into the back. He paused, looking back at me. “What’s wrong?” I knew what he meant. It was a silent understanding forged over ten years of shared hardship. “We agreed when we got married,” I said, my voice even. “I would never try to take Livia’s place.” Ten years ago, Livia had run away from home without a word. My biological parents, the Ashwoods, had rushed to bring me back from the countryside, hastily announcing my identity to the world just in time to salvage the arranged marriage with the Thorne family. On our wedding night, Adrian drank himself into a stupor, calling out Livia’s name all night long. For ten years. While Livia was dancing in Hawaii, I was bowing and scraping to Adrian’s stepmother on his behalf. While Livia was flashing a peace sign at penguins in Antarctica, I was drinking myself into a bleeding ulcer to land our new company’s first major contract. While Livia was chasing the northern lights and watching African sunsets, experiencing jungles and savannas… I was losing our first child, and then our second, in the crossfire of Adrian’s family power struggles. I’d even had a kidnapper’s knife pressed against my throat. She had her decade of freedom, and now she could just waltz back in and demand I leave? Did she always expect to swoop in and claim the spoils without lifting a finger? On what grounds? Hearing my words, Adrian’s lips parted as if to say something. “Amy, actually, we…” He never finished. Livia’s call came through. His phone was connected to the car’s Bluetooth, and he hit accept. “Adrian,” Livia’s voice bubbled through the speakers, “Mom and Dad told me you two still don’t have any children.” “Is it because… you were waiting for me?” Her voice was thick with a poorly concealed shyness and glee. “Livia, what are you talking about!” Mrs. Ashwood’s frantic voice cut in from the other end. The topic of children was a minefield for me. At twenty-five, I was pregnant with our first child. Adrian’s stepmother tricked me into drinking an herbal tea that caused a miscarriage. At twenty-eight, I was pregnant again. I was so careful, hiding it until I was six months along, but then I was inexplicably, slowly poisoned. The baby didn’t survive. The day of the induction, my cries were primal, tearing from my soul. Adrian held me tightly, his own tears streaming down his face as he swore he would never let me suffer again. And he had kept his word. In three years, he drove out his stepmother and half-brother, seizing total control of the Thorne Group. At thirty-two, as one of the country’s top CEOs, Adrian gave his first-ever business interview. During the broadcast, he offered a few polite, rehearsed words of thanks to me for my support over the years. A week after that program aired, Livia returned. Now, Adrian caught my expression in the rearview mirror and immediately ended the call. “Amy, Livia doesn’t know what happened these past ten years. Don’t mind her.” “She’s always been sheltered. She just speaks her mind, sometimes without thinking…” “Enough,” I cut him off, my patience gone. “How is it that the ever-composed Mr. Thorne becomes so chatty when it comes to Livia?” “You’re even making excuses for her now?” Adrian’s brow furrowed. He suddenly wrenched the steering wheel, pulling the car to a screeching halt on the side of the road. “Amy, are you still holding that against me?” 2 In our first year of marriage, Adrian’s half-brother suddenly had a severe allergic reaction. His stepmother insisted I’d laced the cookies with peanut butter. Two housemaids held me down, forcing me, the supposed young mistress of the house, to kneel on the floor. I looked at Adrian, pleading. He had been with me the entire time; he knew I was innocent. But he just kept his head down, silent. That day, those two old women slapped me twenty times, until my lip was split and my face was a swollen, bruised mess. When we got back to our room, Adrian handed me two ice packs, his face a mask of guilt. “The timing isn’t right,” he’d said. “I hope you understand.” That single word, understand, forced me to swallow all the pain and humiliation. Later that night, the throbbing in my face woke me. I went to the kitchen for more ice and heard Adrian on the phone. “Thank God it wasn’t Livia,” he was saying. “She never would have been able to handle it…” I froze on the spot. Building a relationship, seeing true colors in hard times… what a goddamn joke. To this day, Adrian has no idea I heard him. My sarcastic remark brought him back to the present. He lit a cigarette and got out of the car, agitated. Just then, Livia called again. He answered, but he forgot to disconnect the Bluetooth. Trapped in the car, I was forced to listen to Livia’s sweet, cloying voice. “Adrian, can you come be with me tonight?” The Bluetooth cut out instantly. Through the window, I saw Adrian crush his cigarette under his shoe. He kicked at a small stone on the pavement as he listened, a flustered expression on his face that made him look like the twenty-something boy I first met. Ha. So this was the power of the one that got away. It could make a man an idiot in a second. Ten minutes later, he got back in the car, his eyes weary. “Amy, I’ll take you home first.” “Tonight, I might have to…” “Don’t,” I snapped, cutting him off. I couldn’t bear to hear what bullshit excuse he would invent for Livia’s sake. Realizing I’d lost my composure, I forced my voice to soften. “Mr. Thorne, you don’t need to report your plans to me.” The cold formality wasn’t lost on him. He slammed his hand on the steering wheel in frustration. “Amy Ashwood, you’ve always kept a wall up around me. Are you that desperate to draw a line between us?” How ironic. He was the one dancing on the edge of our marriage, yet he had the audacity to blame me. I turned my head away, fighting back the tears that were threatening to spill over. Ten years had taught me one thing: you can lose anything, but you can never lose your composure. As the tension thickened, my mother called. “Amy, your father and I… we’re not good with words. We had to ask Adrian to come over and help us convince Livia to move on.” “Can you just give your sister a little time? She’s still young. She’ll understand eventually.” I let out a bitter laugh. Young? She was thirty years old. How funny. Ten years ago, when they were forcing me into this marriage, they’d said, “You’re a grown woman now, Amy. You need to learn to help the family.” My voice was ice. “Mom, I see you and Dad haven’t changed. Still cleaning up Livia’s messes for her.” “But I will say,” I added, “your tone is much gentler now than it used to be.” I was eighteen when my biological parents found me. But Livia couldn’t stand me. She framed me again and again with clumsy, obvious lies, and every single time, my parents chose to believe her. The last straw was when she threw herself down the stairs and claimed I pushed her. My father slapped me without even asking for my side of the story. My mother called me vicious and said they never should have brought me back. Without a single thought for my feelings, they unanimously decided to send me back to the countryside. They only remembered they had a biological daughter when Livia ran from her wedding, and they needed a replacement. All in all, I had spent barely a year of my life with them. “Amy, do you really hate us that much?” my mother’s voice was filled with disbelief. Her question actually made me pause. I thought my lack of affection for them was obvious. Had the last ten years, free of Livia’s presence, somehow made us all forget our places? 3 Adrian didn’t come home that night. I wasn’t surprised. My head throbbed all night as I drafted a divorce agreement I was finally satisfied with. The wrong baby, taken home, abandoned, then forced to marry… I never had a choice in any of it. But this, at least, could be my decision. At 9 AM, Adrian called. “Last night…” “Adrian, come have breakfast! I made you sunny-side up eggs, just the way you like them!” Livia’s voice chirped in the background as he spoke, and a wave of irritation washed over me. “I’m not interested,” I said, my voice cold. I had already imagined a hundred different scenarios for their night together. I didn’t want to hear a single one of them confirmed. “Amy, do you have to be so cold?” I waited in silence for him to continue, but Livia’s voice drew closer. “Adrian, don’t fight with my sister. If she really can’t stand having me around, I can just leave again for another ten years.” “That won’t happen,” Adrian soothed her, his voice gentle. Then, back to me: “There’s a family dinner at the Ashwoods’ later. I expect you to be there.” “You have to come, sister!” Livia called out playfully. The line went dead. I gripped my phone, my knuckles white. Go? Of course I would go. My parents, my husband… what was there to be afraid of? Two hours later, I arrived at the Ashwood villa, dressed to kill in a couture gown. Livia, however, was sitting cross-legged on the sofa, barefoot, excitedly showing the three of them a thick stack of photos from her travels. She was in her pajamas, her hair loose and tousled. When she saw me, she froze for a second, then burst out laughing, covering her mouth. “Sister, it’s just a family dinner. What’s with the battle armor?” “Don’t tell me you’re trying to compete with me over a meal?” I faltered, my hands clenching into fists. But I forced a small, disdainful smile to my lips. “Oh, please. That ‘no-makeup’ look on your face must have taken some effort.” “Unlike you, I have an image to maintain. If a reporter snaps a photo of Mrs. Thorne looking sloppy, it reflects poorly on the family.” “You!” Livia shot up from the sofa, her eyes turning red, tears welling up perfectly. “You’re nothing but a thief who stole my life while I was gone! What right do you have to flaunt it in my face?” Coming from her, the girl who had lived my life, the irony was almost comical. I glanced at my flustered parents and threw my head back, laughing. “Hahaha! Between the two of us, who is the real thief?” “When you were happy, you were Miss Ashwood, heiress to the family fortune. When you were unhappy, you were just Livia, a free spirit who had to live her own life.” “You got to just walk away from it all, so why was I the one left to clean up this mess and go through with this goddamn marriage?” “Amy Ashwood!” Adrian, who had been silent until now, roared my name. “Do you have to make your regret so painfully obvious?” His eyes were bloodshot. He stormed toward me, his right hand raised high. I lifted my chin, meeting his glare without flinching. Let the slap come. It would be the perfect way to wake me from the ten-year dream of being Mrs. Thorne. “Adrian, don’t!” Livia cried, throwing her arms around him from behind, her voice choked with emotion. “We made our feelings clear last night. That’s enough for me.” “I couldn’t bear it if you fought with my sister because of me.” Made our feelings clear? Why wasn’t he pushing her away? My mind was a chaotic mess. The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop them. “You’re only brave enough to act tough in front of me, Adrian Thorne. In front of her, you’re nothing but a well-behaved dog!” SLAP! The blow finally landed. From behind Adrian’s back, Livia peeked out, a triumphant smirk on her face. “Amy,” my mother whispered, rushing over, her trembling hands reaching for my face. “Get away from me!” I screamed, stumbling back, putting distance between us. Then I fixed my eyes on Adrian, my voice low and steady. “Mr. Thorne, I want a divorce. And for ten years of my life, two billion dollars seems fair.” Adrian’s pupils contracted. He stood frozen, his gaze burning into me.

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My dad built a wooden swing in the sunroom, just to see me smile. But I was afraid of heights, too scared to really use it. When my little brother, Leo, was born, he became the prince of the family. One day, he was swinging too high and went flying off. I lunged to catch him, and we both crashed to the ground. I gritted my teeth against the pain, trying to pull Leo up. But when Dad came running, all he saw was my brother on the floor. His face was a mask of fury. He grabbed a metal drying rack and lashed at my legs. “You vicious little brat! Did you want to cripple your brother?” He scooped Leo into his arms but locked me, my leg now broken, in the scorching sunroom. “Stay in here and think about that black heart of yours!” They rushed Leo to the hospital, and no one looked back at me as I collapsed from dehydration under the brutal sun. As my throat burned with thirst, I could only wonder: when they came back, would they still love me? 1. The sun was a searing hammer, beating down on the glass of the sunroom. The heat found its way into every crack, every pore. I’d always been frail. The doctor said I needed more sun to build up my calcium. So Dad built this sunroom for me. But now, this room, once a symbol of my father’s love, had become my torture chamber. My skin reddened, then stung, a pins-and-needles fire spreading across my body. Soon, transparent blisters began to bubble up, a dense, horrifying constellation that made my scalp crawl. The agony of my shattered leg was buried under the burning, only to scream back to life with a fresh wave of blinding pain every time I tried to move. My throat felt like it was packed with hot coals. I licked my cracked lips and tasted blood. My vision started to blur. The familiar tightness of an allergic reaction, of anaphylaxis, was closing around my neck. The temperature in the sunroom kept climbing, the UV rays a million invisible knives slicing into my exposed skin. I curled up in the small shadow cast by the swing, but even that sliver of mercy betrayed me as the sun arced across the sky. In my final moments, I was still thinking of my dad. He would come back. He would hold me, just like when I was little, and call me his “sweet girl.” He would tell me a story to help me fall asleep. He would definitely come back. Clinging to that last, desperate hope for a father’s love, I took my final breath. I felt my body grow light. So light that it began to float, rising through the glass roof until I was hovering in the air. I looked down. On the floor of the sunroom lay a twisted, broken thing. That was me. My once-pale skin was covered in hideous blisters and red patches. Some had burst, leaking a yellow fluid. The broken leg was bent at a grotesque angle, swollen like proofing dough. My face was a frozen mask of pain, my mouth wide open as if in a silent, unending scream. So ugly. No wonder Dad didn’t love me anymore. I just watched, suspended in the air. There was no pain, no sadness. Just a strange, hollow peace. So this is what death is like. The sun sank below the horizon, the sky shifting from orange to a deep, bruised purple. The world fell silent. And I just hung there, watching as my body slowly stiffened in the cooling air. … At eight o’clock, the familiar sound of a car engine pulled into the driveway. They were back. Dad opened his door, and Mom got out, carrying Leo. He was bouncing with energy, clutching a Captain Comet action figure, looking completely fine. “Thank goodness Leo was quick on his feet today,” Mom said, her voice a mixture of relief and lingering fear. “Who knows how badly he could have been hurt if his sister had managed to push him off.” Dad was carrying a chilled watermelon in one arm and a large bag of snacks in the other—all of Leo’s favorites. The three of them looked like the perfect, happy family. I watched them walk right past the sunroom. For a moment, Dad paused. He glanced at the closed glass door, the curtains drawn just as they had left them. Silence radiated from within. “Stubborn little thing, isn’t she? Not making a peep.” Dad snorted, then yelled at the door, “Lily! Are you playing dead in there?” At that exact moment, my corpse, already stiff with rigor mortis, suddenly spasmed. A muscle contraction caused my limbs to straighten out, and my body slammed heavily against the floor. THUMP! A dull, solid sound. Dad’s face instantly turned a shade of deep crimson. He thought I was stomping in defiance, talking back without words. “Hey! You still have the nerve to give me attitude? You’re getting bold, aren’t you!” “Have I been too soft on you? Is that it?” He pointed a shaking finger at the door. “Fine! You can stay in there! Let’s see who gives in first! I’m going to beat this rotten attitude out of you if it’s the last thing I do!” With that, he grabbed Mom and Leo and stormed into the house without a backward glance. A little while later, the smell of dinner began to drift through the air. I floated into the dining room. Four dishes and a soup were laid out on the table. In the center was a platter of my favorite pot roast, glistening with gravy, its rich aroma filling the room. My mother picked up the largest piece and placed it in Leo’s bowl. “Eat up, sweetie. You must have been so scared today.” Leo let out a happy cry and dug in. Mom picked up another piece. Her hand paused mid-air, her gaze drifting toward the sunroom. “Don’t you worry about that little viper,” Dad said, his voice loud, almost shouting. “A couple of missed meals and she’ll learn her lesson. No gratitude at all, after we’ve raised her all these years!” He shoveled a mouthful of rice, chewing loudly. “She’s just jealous of the attention we give Leo! Did you see how she went after him today? She was trying to kill him! If we don’t teach her a hard lesson now, she’ll be completely out of control!” My mother’s hand faltered, and she slowly lowered the piece of meat back into her own bowl. She didn’t say a word. I knew what her silence meant. She agreed with him. In her heart, I was just as monstrous as he said. But I wasn’t. That wasn’t what happened. No one else mentioned my name for the rest of the meal. I could only watch as the entire platter of my favorite food disappeared into my brother’s stomach. After dinner, Mom cleared the table with her usual efficiency. She walked to the sunroom door and hesitated for a long time, her hand hovering over the glass. A flicker of softness. “Lily? Stop being stubborn. Come out and apologize to your brother, then say you’re sorry to your dad. We can put this behind us. Just don’t do it again.” “Your father is only doing this for your own good. What you did today was just too much.” “If Leo hadn’t been so clever, he could have been seriously hurt.” “Lily? Are you listening to me?” Of course, there was no response. My body was lying cold and still on the floor. Dad sauntered over, a toothpick dangling from his lips. Seeing my continued silence, he yanked Mom away from the door. “Look at her! Is she even listening to you? I’m telling you, you’ve spoiled her rotten. She’s never known a day of hardship in her life, and now she’s a stubborn brat who thinks she can defy us!” “She tried to hurt her brother today! What’s she going to do tomorrow? If we don’t get her under control now, she’s going to end up in jail!” He pointed at the door and delivered his final verdict. “She’s sleeping in there tonight! Let her reflect! She can come out when she’s ready to admit she was wrong. Not a second sooner!” “But there’s not even a bed in there! You want her to sleep on the floor?” “What’s wrong with the floor? Kids sleep on the floor all the time! Is one night going to kill her?” Mom opened her mouth, as if to argue, but then closed it. She nodded, accepting his logic. “Well, Lily, you think long and hard about what you’ve done,” she said finally, her voice laced with disappointment. Then she turned and walked away with Dad. The hallway light clicked off, plunging my little glass prison, and the world around it, into total darkness. They had abandoned me again. … The next morning, the sun rose again. I floated in the air, watching my mother busy herself in the kitchen. Sausages sizzled in a pan, the smell of coffee filling the house. She wiped her hands on her apron and carefully set the table. “Breakfast is ready!” she called out. “Just a minute! I’m almost done with my castle!” Leo’s little voice chirped from his room. Mom smiled, a flicker of exasperation in her eyes. As she turned, she noticed my empty seat at the table. Unlike the other three, piled high with food, mine was bare. She paused. A complex, unreadable expression crossed her face. I watched her brow furrow in conflict. Then, with a look of resolve, she started walking toward the sunroom. My non-existent heart fluttered. My ghostly hands clenched. Her footsteps echoed in the hall. One step, two steps, closer and closer. Was she finally going to find me? Would she be sad that I was dead? My gaze was fixed on her hand as it reached for the curtain. DING-DONG! The doorbell rang. “Honey, can you get that?” Dad yelled from the other room, where he was helping Leo with his LEGOs. Mom’s hand stopped. She hesitated for a moment, then turned and walked toward the front door. My spirit sank. So close. She was so close to seeing me. Why now? I drifted after her as she opened the door. A delivery driver stood on the porch. He handed her a package, then wrinkled his nose and sniffed the air inside. “Whoa, ma’am. What’s that smell? Cooking something… funky?” He practically shoved the package at her, got his signature, and bolted, as if being chased. Mom closed the door and sniffed the air. There was a strange smell, sickly sweet with an undercurrent of rot that turned the stomach. She frowned and began to search for the source. The trash was empty. The fridge was fine. She followed the scent, and it led her right back to the sunroom door. The smell was strongest here. She placed her hand on the curtain again, about to pull it back. My heart, or the memory of it, leaped into my throat. Mom, pull it back. I’m right here. Your Lily is waiting for you. “Found it!” Dad’s booming voice suddenly echoed from the kitchen. His shout broke her concentration. She completely forgot about the overpowering stench coming from the sunroom. Dad emerged, holding a plastic bag that was dripping a dark liquid. “I knew I smelled something! It’s the fish I was trying to cure a few days ago. The heat must have spoiled it!” He pinched his nose and held the bag out for her to see. The putrid, fishy odor completely masked the smell of my decay. Mom recoiled, covering her nose. “Get that out of here! It stinks!” Dad took the “culprit” and tossed it into the large trash bin outside. But Mom still stood there, frowning, staring at the sunroom as if trying to remember something. Just as a final glimmer of hope sparked within me, Leo, finished with his LEGOs, came running out and threw his arms around her legs. “Mommy, I’m hungry.” His voice shattered her train of thought for good. “Well, let’s get you fed. Your breakfast is ready.” “Okay!” And just like that, I was forgotten. At the breakfast table, Leo chattered about his day at kindergarten, his mouth full of eggs and toast. My parents listened, laughing and smiling. After breakfast, the happy family moved to the living room. The air conditioning blasted cold air as they ate slices of chilled watermelon. Cartoons played on the TV, and Leo giggled. Dad handed him the biggest slice of watermelon, his face full of adoration. He leaned back on the sofa and sighed contentedly. “Leo is such a good kid. So easy to love.” His tone shifted, becoming laced with disgust. “Not like that little ghost, always sulking around. The sight of her ruins my day.” The mention of my name finally jogged Mom’s memory. She glanced uneasily toward the sunroom. “Keeping her in there… is that really okay? It’s been almost a whole day.” “What’s there to be afraid of?” Dad slammed his watermelon rind into the trash bin with a loud bang. “She’s not going to starve to death.” He sat up straighter, his voice full of self-righteousness. “Besides, didn’t the doctor say she was frail? That she needed more sun? Well, if she’s not going to repent, she can stay in there and get some sun! It’s not like it will kill her!” Dad always had a twisted way of justifying everything. And Mom was convinced. She nodded, agreeing that it made sense. “Lily is too spoiled. She needs to be taught a lesson, or she’ll be impossible to manage later.” And so, with a few careless words, they sealed my fate. … A little while later, the doorbell rang again. This time, it was my aunt. Aunt Carol, my dad’s sister, was the only person in this family who had ever truly, unconditionally loved me. “Mark! Sarah!” she called out, her voice preceding her as she walked in, her arms laden with bags of produce from her garden. She set everything down and immediately looked around. “Where’s my Lily-bug?” It was always the first thing she asked. My parents’ faces grew awkward. Mom spoke first, forcing a smile. “Oh, Lily… she’s at a friend’s house for a sleepover. She left yesterday. Said she’d be back in a couple of days.” “A sleepover?” Aunt Carol’s brow furrowed. “Which friend? I didn’t hear her mention anything. She knows to call me when she stays over somewhere.” She pulled out her phone. “I’ll just give her a call. I brought her those smoked sausages she loves.” Dad shot forward and put a hand on her arm. “Oh, let her be. She’s having fun with her friends. Don’t be a spoilsport and call her.” His voice was rushed, his eyes darting away from hers. “Besides, her phone’s probably dead. It won’t go through.” Aunt Carol paused, looking at them with suspicion. Just then, she sniffed the air, and her expression changed. “Mark, what is that smell?” It was an odor beyond description. It was the smell of a forgotten trash can, fermenting for a week in the summer heat. It was the smell of a fish market at closing time, of rotten shrimp and old blood. It was the smell of a body, beginning to decay under the relentless sun. Aunt Carol’s face grew paler and paler. She followed the smell, step by step, toward the sunroom. My parents’ faces went white. “Carol, where are you going?” Dad lunged forward, blocking her path with his arms outstretched. “There’s nothing to see over there. It’s just a mess.” Mom hurried over and grabbed her arm. “He’s right, we’re just storing some junk in there. It’s smelly, don’t go over there.” They weren’t trying to hide a crime. They were just trying to hide their shame. They were afraid that if I saw my aunt, I would tattle, I would complain, I would make them lose face. They never imagined I could be dead. “Junk?” Aunt Carol shook off my mother’s hand, her eyes fixed on the closed glass door. “What kind of junk could smell like that?” Dad was still trying to lie. “It’s… it’s fertilizer! We bought some a few days ago, and I think… I think it went bad! That’s all it is!” “Fertilizer?” Aunt Carol let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Mark, do you take me for a child? What kind of fertilizer smells like that? Are you growing corpses in here?” Her words were like hammers, striking my parents’ hearts. Aunt Carol knew her brother and sister-in-law too well. Their every glance, every nervous gesture, told her something was terribly wrong. “Move,” she commanded, her voice dangerously quiet. Dad tried to block her again, but she shoved him aside with surprising force. He stumbled, nearly falling. Aunt Carol rushed to the sunroom door, gagging at the wall of stench that hit her. Without a moment’s hesitation, she reached out and, with a violent rip, tore open the heavy, light-blocking curtain. The fabric was flung to the side. The noon sun poured in, unfiltered and blinding. A wave of terrifying heat, thick with an almost solid odor, billowed out from behind the glass. It was hot. Scalding. Like opening a giant steamer. And then, they saw what was inside. Aunt Carol’s hand froze in mid-air. Every drop of blood drained from her face.

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1 Good news: I was reborn into a novel. Bad news: I was reborn as Stella Sterling, the fake heiress destined to be kicked to the curb. Good news: I’m the one who wrote the book. I knew that when the real heiress returned, she would use our parents’ guilt to grind me into the dust. She would even frame me for selling company secrets, getting me thrown out of the family before running me over with her car. So, at the age of four, I took a sewing needle and poked holes in every single one of my parents’ condoms. From then on, I plied them with fertility-boosting foods and vitamins, determined to bless them with an abundance of children. Finally, when I was five, my first little sister was born. The next year, my second brother arrived. … And now, on my eighteenth birthday, the real heiress was back. She stared at the eight little gremlins running around. She was speechless. … “I’m looking for Arthur Sterling. I’m his biological daughter.” Riley, the original protagonist of my book, stood before the video intercom. She held up a paternity test, her back ramrod straight. “This is the DNA report. I… I’ve come home.” Our butler, Mr. Gable, looked utterly exhausted. “Ma’am, there’s a young lady at the gate. She claims… she claims to be the master’s biological daughter.” At that moment, my mother, Eleanor, was holding the wailing, one-year-old Lydia in her left arm while her right hand was busy prying six-year-old Finn off his older sister. The household staff didn’t dare intervene, forming a nervous circle around the chaos. Hearing the words “biological daughter,” my mother froze for a split second. According to the original script, this was the moment for shock and disbelief, followed by her rushing out to tearfully embrace her long-lost child. But in reality— “Mom! Ethan stole my Iron Man figure!” “Mom! Where’s the dress I’m supposed to wear tomorrow?!” “Mom! Sam threw up! All over my homework!” “Mom!” A chorus of “Mom!” erupted from every corner of the house. My mother ran a hand through her thinning hair. “Stop ‘mom-ing’ me! Go find your big sister!” She radiated an aura of pure, unadulterated despair, the kind that silently screams, Let the world burn. “I’m not seeing anyone! Tell her to go away! I don’t need any more daughters!” Mr. Gable looked pained. “Ma’am, the young lady has a paternity test. It… it looks authentic.” My mother scratched her head in frustration. I watched from the second-floor landing, trying to stifle a laugh. In the original story, I was the villainous fake heiress. As the only daughter, I was spoiled rotten before the real heiress came back. After Riley’s return, guilt and blood ties made her the new family favorite. But now? When my older brother, Ethan, was born, my parents wept with joy and consulted astrologers for his name. When Riley was born (in the original timeline), they were thrilled to have a son and a daughter. When my third sibling, Maya, was born, my parents had faint smiles, thinking it would be nice for the girls to grow up together. By the time Finn was born, number six, my mother had decided to get her tubes tied. I talked her out of it. With the seventh, eighth, and ninth, my parents’ faces grew darker with each birth. When Lydia, the tenth, was born, my mother had finally had enough and booked the surgery. My father, after finishing a shortbread cookie, casually named the baby “Cookie.” To my mother, another child wasn’t a pleasant surprise; it was a horror story. “Ma’am, the report…” Mr. Gable ventured. “I don’t want to see it! Just leave it there!” my mother snapped, not even looking up. “Just get Lydia to stop crying! Oh, for heaven’s sake, you little monster, please stop. You’re giving Mommy a migraine!” She frantically bounced Lydia in her arms, humming a nursery rhyme. As for the real heiress at the gate, clutching her DNA report and waiting for a heartwarming family reunion? Nobody had the time. I strolled down the stairs, took the tablet from Mr. Gable, and glanced at the security feed. On screen, Riley was still holding her defiant pose. After a long wait, her expression had shifted to one of impatience and confusion. A small smile played on my lips. “Let her in,” I told Mr. Gable. “She is Father’s flesh and blood, after all. We wouldn’t want people to think the Sterlings abuse their illegitimate children.” “Miss Stella, but…” Mr. Gable hesitated. “It’s fine. If anything happens, I’ll take responsibility.” I smiled, the very picture of a gracious and understanding older sister. Mr. Gable finally nodded and opened the gates. 2 The moment Riley stepped into the Sterling family living room, her face was a spectacular canvas of emotions. The sprawling space was a war zone of scattered toys, picture books, and snack wrappers. A boy of about six or seven was riding another five-year-old like a horse, yelling, “Giddy-up! Giddy-up!” The “horse” was wailing his eyes out, snot bubbles forming at his nose. The two of them barreled straight into Riley. Caught off guard, she stumbled back. Instinctively, she lashed out, shoving the boy with all her might. “Get off me!” That push was delivered with full force. “Where did this little brat come from, daring to run into me!” Five-year-old Sam was no match for that shove. He went flying backward, his head cracking against the corner of the marble coffee table with a sickening thud. “Waaaaah!” A huge lump immediately swelled on Sam’s forehead, a trickle of blood running down from his temple. “Sam!” Maya, my third sibling, scooped him up and shot a venomous glare at Riley. “Who are you?! What gives you the right to come into our house and bully my brother!” Riley, furious, shot back, “The Sterlings only have two children, me and my brother! What makes you think this is your house?” “You, and that bitch Stella, you’re all impostors!” CRACK! The sharp sound of a slap cut through the noisy living room. Riley clutched her face, staring in disbelief at my mother, who had appeared out of nowhere. My mother’s hand was still raised, her chest heaving with rage. Riley’s eyes widened in a flash of panic. My mother roared, pointing at the swarm of children. “Let me tell you something! Every single one of these children is one I carried for nine months!” “Who are you calling a brat? Huh? Who are you calling a brat?!” Trembling with fury, my mother grabbed a feather duster from a nearby table and started whipping it at Riley. “You dare hit my son the second you walk in the door? You dare call them brats?” “Which one of Arthur’s mistresses are you the daughter of? Do you have no manners at all?!” Riley was stunned, frozen by the assault. She whipped her head around, her eyes landing on me, still watching the show from the staircase. I leaned against the railing and gave her a brilliant smile. “Mom, calm down.” I walked down and gently patted her back. “Riley wasn’t raised with us, after all. It’s understandable that her etiquette is a little lacking.” “We can teach her over time.” I turned to Riley, my face a mask of innocence. “Riley, just apologize to Mom, and we can put this all behind us.” 3 Riley gritted her teeth and dropped to her knees with a thud. The tears came instantly. “Mom… I’m sorry…” She wept beautifully, a sight that would soften any heart. “I grew up in an orphanage… I was bullied my whole life. If I wasn’t tough, people would walk all over me. I had to fight dogs for scraps just to eat. I wasn’t lucky like Stella, who got to live a life of luxury in my place. Please, Mom, forgive me.” She looked up, her eyes, so similar to my mother’s, peering timidly at her. Wow, she even managed to take a jab at me while playing the victim card. “Mom, I honestly didn’t know I had so many brothers and sisters… I just wanted a family so badly…” My mother’s tense expression softened. The fire in her eyes faded, replaced by a flicker of guilt. “Alright, get up,” she sighed, reaching out a hand to help Riley. A flash of triumph crossed Riley’s face. But just then— “WAAAAAAH!” A deafening, soul-shattering cry erupted again. This time, it wasn’t Sam. It was Lydia. “Scawy… sister is scawy… so scawy…” Three-year-old Lydia buried herself in my arms, her little face red from crying, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. She was a preemie and had always been frail. This crying fit was so intense she almost passed out. “Oh, my sweet angel!” My mother’s hand, which had been reaching for Riley, instantly retracted. She lunged toward Lydia. “What’s wrong, my darling? Did she scare you? It’s okay, Mommy’s here!” The other children who had gathered around Riley scattered, now hovering anxiously around Lydia. Riley’s eyes were locked on Lydia, the center of everyone’s attention, and she ground her teeth so hard I could hear it. I held Lydia, gently patting her back. Suddenly, Riley was standing behind me. “Owie! Hand owie!” Lydia shrieked, holding up her little hand, her cries heart-wrenching. I looked down. On the back of Lydia’s pale, tender hand was a bright red nail mark, already beading with blood. Riley saw it and immediately launched into a tirade. “Stella! What did you do? How could you pinch your own sister!?” “If you don’t want me here, I’ll leave! Why do you have to hurt our sister just to humiliate me?” Her accusation hung in the air, plunging the room into a dead silence. I almost burst out laughing. “You’re saying… Stella pinched Lydia?” Leo, my fourth sibling, scoffed as if he’d just heard the world’s dumbest joke. He walked over, grabbed my hand, and held it up in front of Riley’s face. “Open your damn eyes and look closely!” My nails were trimmed short, perfectly even with the tips of my fingers. To take care of my younger siblings, I never let them grow out, and my hands were softer than my face. I couldn’t scratch a block of tofu, let alone draw blood. Riley, on the other hand… Her hands were rough, her nails long, sharp, and pointy. She was the only one in the entire house who had them. My mother, trembling with a fresh wave of rage, pointed at the door and roared: “Take her to her room and lock the door! Let her think about what she’s done!” Two security guards then dragged a protesting Riley away like a sack of potatoes. 4 After a few days of confinement, Riley emerged much more subdued. Finally, the night of my older brother Ethan’s engagement party to a Miss Davenport arrived. This was a pivotal scene in the original book. It was also the turning point that sealed my fate. According to the original plot, Riley would drug me tonight, causing me to end up in bed with the Sterling family’s mortal enemy, the novel’s main villain, Vincent Hawke. Then, she would plant a USB drive containing company secrets, stolen from our father’s study, in my room. She would then lead a crowd to catch me in the act, cementing my reputation as a traitor. Faced with this impending setup, I decided to do nothing. I would simply wait for Riley to make her move. The party began. Riley’s eyes kept drifting toward the wine glass in my hand. I played my part perfectly, raising the “spiked” glass of red wine and downing it in one go. I even swayed a little, feigning dizziness. “Stella, are you drunk?” Riley immediately rushed to my side, her face a mask of concern as she supported me. “Let me help you upstairs to rest.” I leaned against her, nodding groggily. Riley helped me to a room, shoved me onto the bed, and quickly left, locking the door behind her. I felt someone else lying next to me. The person pulled me into their arms as my consciousness faded completely. The next thing I knew, I was being woken up by shouting. “Dad, Mom, I swear I saw Stella go into this room with our family’s nemesis!” Riley’s anxious voice came from outside the door. “That’s impossible! Stella would never cheat!” That was my mother. “Mom, Stella isn’t your real daughter, you can’t trust her!” CRASH! The door was thrown open. Riley burst in first, followed by my parents and a crowd of guests. “Ah!” Seeing the scene on the bed, Riley let out an exaggerated scream. “Stella! Dad never planned to kick you out! How could you do something like this for money and power?!” Vincent Hawke and I were sitting up in bed, “disheveled.” I quickly pulled the covers over myself. “What are you doing? Why are you barging into my room!” Vincent moved to shield me. “Riley, what is the meaning of this?” he asked, his voice cold. My father’s face was dark as he stared at Riley. Seeing her audience assembled, Riley began her performance. She pointed at me, her voice thick with tears. “Dad! Don’t be fooled by her! She’s a thankless traitor!” “Not only did she collude with the Hawke family, but she also stole confidential files from your study to give to Vincent!” “I saw it with my own eyes! It’s right under that pillow!” She rushed forward and yanked the pillow away. Sure enough, a black USB drive lay there. “You framed me!” I exclaimed, frowning at the drive. Riley held it up triumphantly. “Caught red-handed! Stella, what do you have to say for yourself?!” “You sold out the family that raised you for money! You’re worse than an animal!” “Dad, Mom, we have to throw this backstabbing snake out of our family!” Sam, my ninth sibling, ran out and stood in front of me, crying desperately. “No! You can’t make Stella leave! She’s the best to us!” “Stella would never betray the family! It’s you, you bad woman, you’re framing my sister!” Noah, number eight, stepped forward and started shoving Riley. “Dad, Mom, I also have security footage of Stella going in and out of the study!” Riley announced, trying to seal my fate. “It’s definitely her, stealing company secrets.” She shot me a provocative glance and pulled out her phone to play the video. Then, she pulled Lydia, who was standing in the corner, into the spotlight. “Lydia, can you tell all the uncles and aunts what you told me earlier? Was it Stella who went into the study and stole the files? Tell everyone.” Lydia hesitated, looking from our parents to me. “Big… Big Sister… I… I’m sorry, please don’t be mad at Lydia… It was—” Before Lydia could finish, Riley interrupted loudly. “Stella, even if you’re not Mom and Dad’s real daughter, they still cherished you and gave you everything! How could you betray them? If you hate me that much, I’ll leave! You don’t have to betray our family just because of me!” Riley’s accusations were passionate and filled with tears.

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1 I was halfway through a shower when the bathroom door was thrown open. I screamed, catching a glimpse of my husband’s childhood friend, Anya, rolling her eyes at me. “Chill,” she said. “We’re both girls. What’s the big deal?” From outside the door, I heard my husband, Ethan, call out, “What’s going on in there?” Anya’s voice was nonchalant. “It’s just Isla. She’s back from her trip and taking a shower. I walked in on her.” Then she added with a smirk, “By the way, I don’t see what you’re always raving about. She’s not that stacked.” Just as I was about to tell her to get out, she whipped out her phone and started snapping photos. Then she ran out of the bathroom, shouting. “Everyone, come see! Was I lying? Ethan acts like his wife is a goddess, but look at this!” … By the time I’d thrown on some clothes and emerged, Anya was lounging on the living room sofa, proudly showing my pictures to Ethan’s friends. “A woman needs to have curves, you know? Up top and in the back. But look at Isla,” she said, zooming in on the photo. “She’s even got a little tummy. You know what that means, right?” “What’s it mean?” someone jeered. The room filled with mocking laughter. “It means,” Anya announced, “that she’s not spending enough time at the gym.” Another wave of snickering went through the group. “If a woman’s body isn’t hot, it’s our boy Ethan who suffers. Right, Ethan?” “Ethan?” Anya turned, and her smile vanished. I was standing right in front of her, dressed, with a cold smile of my own. “Whether my body is good enough or not,” I said, leaning in, “is none of your damn business.” Ethan immediately stepped in, playing peacemaker. “Come on, Isla. That’s just Anya. We’ve all spoiled her since we were kids. She doesn’t mean any harm. Don’t be angry.” I have a temper. Ethan knows this. So when I first found out there was a girl in his tight-knit group of childhood friends, I’d made a fuss. But Ethan had always kept a respectful distance, and I thought he understood. Now, I just looked at him and laughed. “Don’t be angry?” “Fine.” My voice was so calm that Ethan visibly relaxed. He smiled. “See? My wife is so understanding. Besides, we all grew up in diapers together. We’re practically family. It’s—” Before he could finish, I reached out, yanked down the strap of Anya’s tank top, and, as she shrieked, I pulled out my own phone and started snapping away. “Not so impressive, is it?” I said, mimicking her tone perfectly as I clicked the shutter. “Looks like we’re dealing with a flat landscape here. No wonder you haven’t found a man after all these years. You know what that means, don’t you?” I threw her own words back in her face. “It means our dear Anya isn’t trying hard enough. Maybe it’s time to think about implants?” “Isla!” Ethan grabbed my arm and pulled me back. The other guys rushed to cover Anya with jackets and pillows. Her face was pale, her eyes welling with tears. She pointed a trembling finger at me. “You bitch! Have you no shame?” Ethan jumped to her defense. “Anya’s not even dating anyone! How could you do that to her? What is she supposed to do now?” A laugh, sharp and bitter, escaped my lips. Anya took pictures of me naked in the shower. They told me to be generous, that it was just a joke. But when I do the same to her, I’m the one with no shame? It’s a problem because she isn’t married? I turned to face Ethan’s furious expression and slapped him hard across the face. “There’s something you need to understand,” I said, my gaze sweeping from him to his friends, who were all glaring at me as if I were the enemy. “The moment Anya walked into my bathroom and started taking pictures, I called the police.” “Let’s let them decide who’s right and who’s wrong, shall we? Let’s see who the law protects.” A sharp knock came at the door. Ethan finally understood. I was serious. He stared at me in disbelief. “You called the cops over something this small?” “Isla, haven’t you caused enough trouble?” “Not even close.” At the police station, I showed the officer the security footage from my phone. “My husband had friends over. That’s fine. But this woman entered my private bedroom without my permission, walked into my bathroom while I was showering, and maliciously took photos of me, which she then shared with others. I want to press charges for invasion of privacy and distribution of obscene material.” Hearing this, Anya, who had been silent until now, shot up from her chair. “You think I wanted to see your pathetic body? Like you’ve got something special?” She whirled on Ethan. “I told you not to marry this woman! We were all happy together, just our group. But you had to be the one to get tied down!” “And now look!” “Your wife is trying to press charges against me!” “She wants me to go to jail!” Anya burst into tears, a loud, dramatic wail that clearly tugged at Ethan’s heartstrings. His face softened with pity. He turned to the officer to smooth things over. “Officer, this is all just a big misunderstanding.” “My wife is just joking around with us,” he said, then walked over to me, his voice low and pleading. “Isla, if Anya gets a criminal record, how am I supposed to face her parents for the rest of my life? If you won’t think about anyone else, at least think about me.” I looked at his face, so sure that I would back down. It felt like a physical blow to my chest, a dull, aching pain that spread through my ribs. I had to ask. “And if I refuse?” I held his gaze, my voice steady. “What if I refuse to let this go?” “Ethan.” “Whose side are you on? Hers, or mine?” I fought back the wave of nausea and watched as conflict flickered across his face. Over Anya’s theatrical sobs, he looked at me, completely bewildered. “Isla, when did you become so petty and narrow-minded?” He turned back to the officer. “It was just a misunderstanding, sir. My wife was playing a prank on my little sister, that’s all. We can drop it.” Ethan pointed at the footage. “My wife already got her revenge.” I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. “She took private photos of my sister, too. So we can just call it even, right?” They forced me to settle it privately. As we left the station, I saw Anya already sitting in the passenger seat of our car. She rolled down the window as I approached. “Isla, I only call you ‘sis’ to give Ethan some face. Did you really start thinking you were somebody important?” She smirked, her face glowing with triumph. “Let me tell you something. The only reason Ethan married you is because I let him. If I had said no, you could have thrown yourself at him and he wouldn’t have given you a second look.” I watched as Ethan, carrying Anya’s handbag, walked past me. “Honey,” he called out, “get in, let’s go home.” Then Anya shouted from the car. “Don’t you dare call her that! If you do, we’re done!” Ethan froze, looking at me with a pained, apologetic expression. He was about to give in. I could see it. My fingertips went numb. I looked from Ethan to Anya, and then I said, very clearly, “If I remember correctly, this car is in my name.” “So,” I said, walking to the passenger side and yanking the door open, “get out.” “Don’t make me say it twice.” Anya’s eyes widened in disbelief. She looked to Ethan for help, and he immediately grabbed my wrist. “Isla, it’s just a car ride! So you can’t sit in the front seat. Is it impossible for you to take a taxi? Do you have to make a scene and embarrass me like this just to be happy?” Before today, I had never once considered divorce. But after today… I looked at the hand gripping my arm, and I slapped him again. “And let me remind you, it’s not just the car. The house we live in is also my property.” “And one more thing.” “Ethan.” “You,” I said, watching the shock spread across his face as he clutched his cheek, “are out.” I dragged Anya out of the car. Ignoring her stream of curses, I got in, locked the doors, and as Ethan banged on the window, shouting my name, I told him. “Ethan, I’ve made up my mind.” I looked him straight in the eye. “We’re getting a divorce.” My family wasn’t rich, but we weren’t poor. My parents died in a car crash when I was young, and my aunt raised me. She never married, pouring all her love and energy into giving me a warm, stable home. A few years ago, she had a bad fall and broke her leg. That’s when Ethan stepped up. He was with me at the hospital day and night. When the doctor explained the risks of the surgery, he was the one who held me steady when I thought I would collapse. He signed the consent forms for me. “Isla,” he had said, “if the sky falls, you still have me.” How could it not hurt? After all these years, after giving him my whole heart, now I had to face this. I sat in our messy living room, the aftermath of their party still strewn about. From a drawer in the coffee table, I pulled out the surprise I had brought back for him. I had been away on business for three months. I had rushed everything, worked overtime, just to get back in time for his birthday. Now, I held the gift in my hands, and a wave of grief so powerful it stole my breath washed over me. The tears finally came, hot and silent. I threw the gift away, then smashed our wedding photo against the wall. As I stumbled back, my foot caught on a cable, and the projector flickered to life. An image filled the wall. It was Ethan, smiling, as Anya, wearing my silk pajamas, straddled him. “When are you finally going to divorce her?” she asked. My body went rigid. “If I hadn’t left back then, there would be no Isla. She’s had you for this long. How much longer are you going to let her keep you?” It felt like a giant hand was squeezing my heart. I watched as Anya leaned down and kissed him. “Do you love her?” she murmured against his lips. “When you got married… if I had shown up to stop it, would you have left with me?” I remembered our wedding day. Ethan had been distracted, his eyes constantly scanning the entrance to the hall. I thought he was nervous. I thought he was just disappointed that his friends hadn’t all made it. I made a thousand excuses for him. I never once thought it was because of her. “Yes.” I sank to the floor. “If you had come, I would have left with you.” “Because,” Ethan said, taking her hand and pressing it to his chest, “this heart has only ever had room for you.” The sound of their intimacy made my stomach churn. I ran to the bathroom and threw up until there was nothing left. The shattered glass of our wedding photo seemed to mock me from the floor. When I came out, I saw a new message from Ethan. Honey, you were in the wrong today. Since you’re not willing to apologize, I’ll do it for you. I promised Anya I’d take her on a trip for a couple of days to make it up to her. I’ll be back after she’s cooled off. This is the best compromise I could think of, he wrote. Honey, can you please try to control your temper in the future? Even now. He still thought I was just throwing a tantrum. He thought he could buy me a little gift and everything would go back to normal. A voice message followed. I picked out a bag for you at Louis Vuitton. You can go pick it up whenever. In the background, I could hear Anya’s petulant voice. “She’s only getting it because I didn’t want it. She’s so lucky.” So even the gifts he gave me were her cast-offs. I opened my closet and looked at the collection of peace offerings he’d bought me over the years after our fights. Then I opened Anya’s social media. Every piece of jewelry, every handbag… they were identical to mine. Even the colors. The truth was laid bare, and a chill spread through my entire body. I struggled to keep my voice steady. “Ethan.” “I want a divorce.” “Ethan,” I said, my voice trembling despite my efforts, “just sign the papers, and we’re done.” In the background of the call, Anya’s voice grew louder, laced with excitement. “Do it!” she taunted. “Whoever backs out is a dog!” Ethan’s gentle tone was gone, replaced by a cold edge. “Isla, how old are you? Still threatening divorce every time you get upset. Can you be any more childish?” “That’s enough,” he snapped, his patience clearly gone. “I’m just spending a few days with Anya, and then I’ll be back. This whole mess is your fault anyway! I’m the one cleaning it up for you!” He hung up. A moment later, a message from Anya appeared on my screen: [You’re pissed, aren’t you, Isla? As long as you’re miserable, I’m happy. Hahaha.] When I arrived at my aunt’s place with my bags, she was still teasing me. “What’s this? Taking a break from your precious Ethan to come see me?” But then she saw my face, and her expression immediately turned serious. “What happened?” “Aunt Caroline,” I said, placing my laptop on the table. “I want a divorce.” “I’m divorcing Ethan.” I played the video from the projector. The sounds of their panting filled the quiet room. “He’s the one who cheated on me,” I told her. “I don’t owe him any mercy.” Ethan’s job, his connections, even the projects his company worked on were all thanks to my aunt. Without her, he would be nothing. He certainly wouldn’t have the money to be taking Anya on trips and buying her luxury goods. Now, my aunt’s face was like stone. She watched the entire video, then simply asked me, “Have you made up your mind?” She closed the laptop. “The women in our family don’t just take a hit and lie down. Isla, if someone hurts you, you hurt them back. Do you understand?” She pulled me into a hug. “I will always be your rock.” Ethan decided to throw a grand art exhibition for Anya. Her social media became a daily diary of the preparations, a testament to how much he adored her. Finally, the opening night arrived. As Anya entered the gallery on Ethan’s arm, surrounded by influencers and media that had been invited to generate buzz, a reporter asked her, “The theme of tonight’s exhibition is ‘The Muse.’ Ms. Scott, can you tell us who your muse is?” Anya’s gaze softened as she looked at Ethan, who was smiling and chatting with a guest. She turned back to the cameras. “I’m sure my muse will reveal himself to everyone very soon, and we will make our relationship public.” A ripple of applause went through the crowd. Then, someone shouted from the back. “Is this really an art exhibition?” All heads turned. Anya and Ethan looked too, just in time to see the curtain fall from the centerpiece of the exhibit. It wasn’t a painting. It was a massive, blown-up photograph of Ethan and Anya, naked and tangled together. Phones immediately came out, flashes popping as reporters swarmed Anya. “Ms. Scott, what is this?” “Is this your muse?” “Of course not,” I said, stepping out from the crowd before Anya could answer. I smiled at them both. “Think of it as a small gift from me to Ms. Scott.” “Isn’t that right,” I said, my smile widening as I looked at Ethan. “Husband?”

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1 On my way to the airport, a Porsche tried to cut me off. I didn’t let him. In response, he gunned it, swerved in front of me, and started brake-checking me. I was in a hurry and had no time for road rage, so I decided to let it go. I never imagined my patience would only make him bolder. He brake-checked me five times in less than a hundred yards. That was it. I called the police. But as I was reading his license plate to the dispatcher, a surge of adrenaline hit me, and I stomped on the gas. Because as I looked closer at the plate, I realized this Porsche was the exact birthday present my wife had asked me for last week. … CRUNCH! My Volkswagen Phaeton slammed squarely into the Porsche’s rear end. A man in sunglasses with a cigarette dangling from his lips jumped out of the Porsche. He stormed over to my car and kicked my driver-side door. “You broke-ass punk! Did you see the logo? It’s a P-O-R-S-C-H-E!” “You dare hit a Porsche in that piece of junk VW? You got a death wish or something?” Seeing a man climb out of the driver’s seat sent a cold dread through me. Things were exactly as bad as I had feared. I rolled down my window and studied him, searching his every word and gesture for clues. “Three million!” he yelled, jabbing three fingers at me through the window. “Not a penny less, or I’ll make you wish you were never born!” I fought the urge to get out and slap him silly. Instead, I decided to wait and see. I needed to know what his relationship with my wife was. A collision between two luxury cars in a busy downtown street quickly drew a crowd of onlookers. “This is gonna be good. That Porsche is worth millions. The guy in the VW is screwed.” “That’s what you get for being impulsive. Should’ve just let it go. Now he’s going to lose everything.” Fueled by the crowd’s comments, the man in sunglasses grew even more arrogant. He kicked my door again, his eyes filled with menace. “Driving a crappy VW, you should know to get out of the way of a Porsche! Who the hell do you think you are?” “Scared now, are you? Hiding in your car like a coward? Too late!” “This is the new car my wife bought me! Three million dollars! Pay up now, or I’ll have you thrown in jail!” His wife? So there it was. That damned woman. Let’s see how you get out of this one. After a moment’s thought, I slowly pushed my door open and stared at his arrogant, boyish face. “If anyone’s paying, it’s you,” I said coolly. “I was driving straight. You were changing lanes illegally and brake-checking me. You’re 100% at fault.” “And as for jail,” I added, “those two kicks to my door count as willful destruction of property. That alone is enough to get you locked up.” “I don’t give a damn about the law, so don’t you dare quote it to me! All I know is I’m in a Porsche, and you’re supposed to get out of my way!” he sneered. “Jail? The jail that can hold Kyle Chen hasn’t been built yet!” Seeing his clueless arrogance, I couldn’t help but let out a cold laugh. Some of the onlookers, seeing his expensive car and hearing his domineering talk, assumed he was some rich young master and tried to curry favor. “That VW driver has some nerve. He hits someone’s car and demands they pay him? Then threatens to send the guy to jail for kicking his door? He must think the kid’s an easy target.” “Don’t be scared, son. Take my number. I can be a witness for you if you need it!” “Yeah, bro, I’ve studied some law. Property damage is only a crime if it’s over five thousand dollars. That kick probably just chipped some paint. No way a paint chip on that old VW is worth five grand.” Kyle, already full of himself, puffed up even more at their encouragement. He slammed his hand on the hood of my car. “Today, you’re not just paying for my car, you’re getting on your knees and apologizing. Otherwise, you’re not walking away from this!” I scoffed and pointed to the approaching traffic police. “Why don’t you ask them who should be paying? As for getting on your knees, you’d better start looking for a good spot for yourself.” “I’ll f—” Enraged, Kyle lunged at me. I sent him sprawling with a single kick. He scrambled up, ready to come at me again, but the police officers intervened. “Stop it, or you’re both coming down to the station!” “Officer! This broke-ass loser hit my car and then assaulted me! Arrest him!” Kyle whined, clutching his side. The officer ignored his wild accusations and asked for our dashcam footage. I pulled up the video on my phone and showed it to him. After watching it, the officer shot Kyle a cold look. “It’s clearly your fault. How do you have the audacity to demand compensation?” “You’d better resolve the damages with the other driver immediately,” the officer warned. “Otherwise, we’ll have to take you in for reckless driving.” “Are you cops blind? Can’t you see I’m driving a Porsche? And my wife is a very important person. You can’t afford to offend us—” “I don’t care what car you drive or whose husband you are. We enforce the law impartially. I’m warning you, if you refuse to comply, you’re coming with us.” Kyle grumbled but, seeing the officer’s stern expression, finally backed down and made a phone call. I glanced at the number. Of course. He was calling my wife, Isabella Reed. I couldn’t hear their conversation, but from the simpering smile on his face and his intimate tone, I knew they were doing more than just solving a problem; they were flirting. After the call, Kyle’s arrogance returned. He pointed at his car and sneered, “So what if I have to pay? Big deal!” “My Porsche is insured for three million. That’s more than enough to cover your piece-of-junk VW. I won’t short you a single penny, you broke-ass punk!” I laughed to myself. His insurance wouldn’t even cover my limited-edition Phaeton, let alone the fact that insurance companies don’t pay out for claims caused by the driver’s own malicious acts. Today, I was going to expose both of them for the frauds they were. Soon, the insurance adjuster arrived. He clearly knew his cars. One look at my Phaeton and his face went pale. But when he saw the accident report in Kyle’s hand, he breathed a sigh of relief. “Sir,” he said calmly, “this accident was caused by your intentional and malicious driving. It is not covered by our policy. Please negotiate a settlement directly with the other party. Thank you.” He turned and walked away, ignoring Kyle’s sputtering protests. “Well?” I said, my voice flat. “Are you going to pay up, or are you going to jail?” The tide in the crowd had turned. Hearing the truth, many of them started to rebuke him. “You think driving a Porsche makes you king of the road? You can just endanger people because they didn’t get out of your way?” “And then you expect your insurance to pay for your own stupidity? What a joke.” His attempt to flex had backfired spectacularly. The mockery from the crowd sent him into a rage. He stormed to his car, pulled out a baseball bat, and started smashing my Phaeton to pieces, screaming curses as he swung. “You want me to pay? Fine! I’ll smash your car to bits right in front of you, and then I’ll just buy you a new one!” He was completely unhinged. This was perfect. I simply stood to the side and watched the show. After venting his fury, he threw a stack of cash onto the hood of my car—what was left of it. “Here’s fifty grand, you scumbag. More than enough to buy this wreck. The rest is a charity donation. Take it and get the hell out of my sight!” I laughed. “Fifty grand wouldn’t even cover one of my headlights. You’d better start figuring out how to get some real money, or you’re going to rot in a cell.” He sneered. “Are you crazy? You see I have money and now you’re trying to extort me? Everyone knows this piece-of-shit VW is worth thirty grand, tops. I’m giving you fifty and you’re still running your mouth? That’s extortion, and that’s a crime. Don’t think I don’t know the law.” Some of the onlookers chimed in. “Hey buddy, just take the money. Fifty grand for a thirty-grand car is a good deal. Don’t get greedy.” Just then, the appraiser from the VW dealership arrived. “Who said this car is only worth thirty thousand?” he announced. “This is a ten-million-dollar, top-of-the-line luxury vehicle. A single headlight costs over half a million.” Hearing this, Kyle’s face turned white, but he tried to maintain his arrogant facade. The crowd gasped. “Whoa, so this guy is the real millionaire. So low-key!” “The truly wealthy don’t need to show off. Not like some kid who thinks a Porsche makes him a king.” “Yeah, he probably rented that car anyway. Now he’s smashed a ten-million-dollar vehicle. He’s finished.” The appraiser finished his assessment and reported to me. “Mr. Blackwood, the damage is catastrophic. The repair costs would be close to the price of a new vehicle. It’s not worth fixing.” I nodded and turned to Kyle. “Pay up. Ten million. Every last cent.” His bravado faltered, but he still tried to bluff. “Just because you say it’s worth ten million? You hired some actor to back you up so you can scam me? This is fraud! I’ll sue you!” To crush his last bit of hope, I pulled out the vehicle purchase receipt and shoved it in his face. “Does this look like fraud to you?” He glanced at the receipt, his expression flickering for a second before his arrogance returned. He pulled a black credit card from his pocket and waved it in my face. “So what if it’s ten million? I’ve got thirty million on this card. I’ll pay you.” Someone in the crowd gasped. “Wow, that’s a Centurion Black Card! You need to be a billionaire to even qualify for one of those. This kid really is loaded.” The praise went to his head. He flaunted the card, beaming. He had no idea it was a supplementary card I had given to my wife. All I had to do was make one call, and it would be a useless piece of plastic. After calling the bank, I looked at him coldly. “Don’t wave that thing around like you own the world. I bet you can’t even get ten thousand out of that card.” He flew into a rage. “Give me your account number! I’ll transfer the money right now! And when I do, I’m going to break your face!” I gave him the account details. He tried to make the transfer. Again and again, the transaction was declined. Card disabled. The crowd started jeering. “Another fake rich kid. A black card that can’t even handle ten grand.” “Why pretend? If you can’t afford it, just say so.” Sweat beaded on his forehead. He ducked behind his car to make another call. A moment later, my phone rang. It was Isabella. “Damian, what happened to my card? Why is it blocked? Call the bank and reactivate it. And have them raise the limit to a hundred million. I need it urgently.” “Why do you suddenly need so much money?” I asked, my voice flat. “I have my reasons. Don’t ask so many questions, just do it!” I clenched my jaw and hung up. I had been far too lenient with her. For ten years, I had been away on… business of a sensitive nature, leaving her to manage Apex Corporation. I never imagined she would be keeping a boy toy on the side with my money. She thought that just because I let her guard the gate, the entire kingdom now belonged to her. She sent a flurry of texts, which I ignored. A few minutes later, Kyle strutted back over, holding up his phone to show a transfer confirmation for ten million dollars. “I told you, my wife is a billionaire! A measly ten million is nothing to her!” He shoved the phone in my face. “There. The money’s been sent. Now you can piss off!” I let out a cold laugh. “You’ve only paid for one car. What about the other one?” The entire crowd fell silent. Kyle looked like he was about to explode. “Are you insane, or just addicted to scamming people? When did I hit two of your cars?” I pointed to the Porsche. “This car is mine too. It’s worth three million. Pay up.” Everyone was stunned. “Has this guy lost his mind?” “He must have hit his head in the crash. He doesn’t even know which car is his.” “You psycho!” Kyle screamed. “Are you ever going to stop?” Ignoring his tantrum, I pulled out the Porsche’s registration and threw it at him. “See for yourself. Is this car mine or not?” He snatched it, saw my photo, and froze in disbelief, which quickly morphed into pure rage. “This is impossible! My wife bought this for me for my birthday! This is your car? You must have faked this to extort me!” “Do I look like someone you can mess with? My wife is Isabella Reed, the head of Apex Corporation! She’s on her way here right now. Just you wait and see what she does to you!” At the mention of Apex Corporation, the crowd’s demeanor shifted again. “His wife is Isabella Reed? The ‘Iron Lady’ of Apex? No one in Sterling City dares to cross her.” “Hey man, you should just take the win and go. You might have some money, but Apex Corporation is on another level. You don’t want that kind of trouble.” Seeing my silence, Kyle thought he had intimidated me. “Scared now, are you?” he taunted. “Too late! When my wife gets here, she’ll crush your company. We’ll see how arrogant you are then!” I just smiled. “We’ll see.” Just then, a convoy of black cars pulled up. A regal, elegantly dressed woman stepped out of a Range Rover, flanked by several bodyguards. Kyle’s face lit up. “My wife is here! You’re dead!”

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