After successfully seducing the brooding male lead in my favorite novel, I chose to immediately exit the simulation. Even though he begged me to stay, I didn’t hesitate for a second. Back in the real world, my life was a mess. The System approached me again. It offered me five million dollars to return to the book and make him fall in love with me again. Just as I was about to agree, a stream of comments floated across my vision: “Ugh, the ex-wife who abandoned him is back.” “Does she seriously think the male lead still loves her? Delusional.” “The second transmigrator didn’t just fix his trauma; she stayed. She gave him a home.” “They’re about to get married. Can the ex-wife just have some dignity and leave them alone?” Chapter 1 It took me a long time to realize they were talking about me. “Ex-wife.” Beside me, the System was still pitching the deal. “You just need to make Julian Vance fall in love with you again. Five million dollars, cash. Even if you fail, you get fifty thousand for your trouble. Good deal, right?” It was a good deal. I desperately needed the money. But remembering the comments, I hesitated. I told the System I needed to think about it. So, the System sent me back into the book first. Specifically, to the small apartment Julian and I used to share. It was tiny, worn, but cozy. Exactly as I left it three years ago. Julian hadn’t moved a single thing. Even the dress I stained right before I left was hanging in the closet, clean and pressed. I remembered that dress. It was a designer piece, way out of our budget back then. When Julian secretly bought it for me, I scolded him for spending so much. He didn’t argue. He just stood there, eyes downcast, waiting for my anger to pass so he could coax me into wearing it. I touched the silky fabric, my chest tightening. If Julian had truly forgotten me, why keep this apartment exactly as it was? I looked around the small room. My gaze landed on a piece of white paper taped to the window. FOR SALE. URGENT. PRICE NEGOTIABLE. The handwriting was sharp and familiar. Julian’s. Chapter 2 The floating comments appeared again: “Haha, look at her face. She thought he was sentimental? He just hasn’t gotten around to selling the place yet.” “She probably thinks he still loves her. Jokes on her. Since he met the new girl, he doesn’t give a damn about his ex.” “The System only brought her back to be a villain for the main couple to overcome. Just wait for the humiliation.” I pressed my lips together. So that was it. The System offered five million because it knew I would fail. My real role was to be the evil ex-wife who tries to ruin the relationship. The fifty thousand “consolation prize” was my actual payment for being a plot device. Fifty thousand. I laughed bitterly. Being a clown for fifty thousand wasn’t bad. It would cover a week in the ICU. I called the System and accepted the deal. It happily transferred me a large sum of “in-world currency” for expenses. Since Julian was so eager to sell this place, I might as well buy it. I dialed the number I knew by heart. It rang for thirty seconds before someone picked up. “Hello?” A crisp, cheerful female voice. I paused, checking the number. It was definitely Julian’s. “I saw the for-sale sign on the window…” “You want to buy the apartment?” The voice brightened. “That’s great! We’ve been wanting to get rid of it.” I asked cautiously, “Are you the owner?” “I’m the owner’s girlfriend. You can call me Sophie.” So she was the second transmigrator. There was a muffled sound on the other end, like whispering. A moment later, a cold, familiar voice came through the line. “Hello? Can we meet to discuss the details?” It was Julian. Chapter 3 I waited nervously in the cafe. A sleek luxury car pulled up outside. A stunning couple stepped out. Three years had changed Julian. The boyishness was gone, replaced by the polished confidence of wealth and power. He leaned against the car door, smiling as he ruffled Sophie’s hair. From a distance, his gaze swept over the cafe window where I sat. It lingered for a split second, then moved on as if I were a stranger. When Sophie sat down opposite me, I was still dazed. She smiled apologetically. “My boyfriend has a meeting, so he just dropped me off. I’ll handle the sale.” I nodded. “You two look very happy.” Sophie’s smile widened. “Yeah. He runs a tech company now. Profits are insane. We don’t really need the money from this apartment, we just… want it gone.” Her tone held a hint of superiority. I asked to see the apartment, as was standard procedure. Sophie hesitated. “I don’t have the key. If you want to see it, Julian has to take you.” I frowned. “He didn’t give you the key?” Sophie sighed, lowering her voice. “I asked, but he wouldn’t give it to me. He’s never even taken me there. To be honest, he lived there with his ex-wife when he was poor. It makes me uncomfortable, so I just want to sell it ASAP.” “Oh,” I said. “Then I’ll just sign. I don’t need to see it.” Sophie was thrilled. She pulled out the contract immediately. But since she didn’t have the deed, we couldn’t finalize it. We had to wait for Julian. While we waited, I got curious about my successor. “So, how did you two meet?” Actually, I wanted to know how she managed to fix him. The System told me that after I left, Julian relapsed. He became self-destructive and dangerous. His “Darkness Level” spiked so high it threatened the stability of the simulation. Sophie arrived during that chaos. She not only saved him but replaced me completely. Julian was a tough nut to crack. She must have suffered. But Sophie smiled breezily. “Oh, his ex had just dumped him. He was depressed. I comforted him for a bit, and we got together.” That simple? I couldn’t believe it. The comments flooded my vision again: “Look at her face! She’s so jealous. Julian just can’t resist our Sophie.” “The ex-wife spent ten years trying to fix him. She practically begged him to love her.” “Sophie just said a few nice words and boom, true love. That’s the difference.” I read the mocking words in silence. They were right. My journey with Julian had been brutal. So brutal I never wanted to relive it. Chapter 4 Julian’s parents hated him. They threw him into a mental institution as a child, where he was abused by the staff. Even with the System’s help, getting him out of there almost killed me. I took him to a new city. I made him go to school. I paid for expensive therapy. I did everything to earn his trust. But Julian was too smart. He figured out the world was a simulation, and that I was on a mission. When he became the top student in the state, I threw him a party. He pulled me aside, his eyes cold and mocking. “You did all this just to complete your mission, right?” I choked back tears and admitted it. “My mission is to make you love me. Because I like you.” He scoffed, not believing a word. I buried my face in his chest. “Julian, stop overthinking. Life has been hard. I just want us to be happy. I really like you. Please stop doubting me.” After college, he started his company. We moved into that tiny apartment. There was no heating in the winter. My feet were always freezing. Every night, Julian would warm my feet with his hands, his eyes red with silent guilt. By then, we were married. His life goal shifted from “destroy the world” to “make money to buy my wife a house.” I shielded him from business rivals, taking hits that sent me to the hospital. I endured humiliation from investors so he wouldn’t have to. It took ten years of blood and tears for him to love me. But Sophie? Three weeks. She lowered his Darkness Level to -100 and maxed out his Love Meter in three weeks.

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In my past life, I, a girl from nowhere, snagged the Ivy League admission spot that the heiress to a massive empire threw away. After graduation, I married into unimaginable wealth, transforming from a nobody into the wife of the richest man in the city. At twenty-eight, I had made every right turn at every crossroads of fate. But when I woke up, I was eighteen again. Suddenly, lines of text floated before my eyes like a livestream chat. [The heroine is so lucky. She stole the life meant for the supporting character.] [In her past life, the heiress must have been cursed. She threw away her Ivy League spot to chase a broke guy to a community college, and pushed the billionaire heir—who adored her since childhood—into someone else’s arms. She played a winning hand like a total amateur!] [It was just plot-induced stupidity to make way for the heroine. Thank god for rebirth. This time, it’s the supporting character’s redemption arc!] [I can’t wait to see how Luna survives without stealing the heiress’s destiny this time!] Luna is me. But— Who says I can’t be the heroine? People who only think about salvaging what they lost have already lost from the start. 1 I opened my groggy eyes to meet the ecstatic gaze of my desk mate, Seraphina Sterling. She sprinted out the back door of the classroom, running to the next room over, screaming the name “Julian Vance”—the man who, in my past life, became my husband. She threw herself onto the boy, wailing. “Julian! I won’t be stupid this time! I promise!” Julian froze for a moment, then looked pleasantly surprised, clumsily trying to comfort her. The floating text reappeared. [Finally! The heiress belongs with the billionaire heir. Why should Luna, that country bumpkin, get the girl-boss script?] [Luna is a thief, a scavenger! We don’t accept this kind of heroine!] [Thank god the heiress woke up. This time, Luna goes back to the trailer park where she belongs!] I stared blankly at the calculus workbook on my desk. The complex formulas confirmed I really was back in my senior year. One month until the SATs. The seat next to me was taken again. Seraphina’s eyes were red, but they shone with a terrifying light. She smirked at me, confident and triumphant. “Luna, I’m taking back everything that belongs to me. Just you wait!” I smiled and didn’t reply. I was looking forward to it, too. Let’s see what path I carve out this time. 2 The bell rang, and our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Gable, walked in beaming. Seraphina’s face lit up with wild joy. The text scrolled faster. [Here it comes! The early admission notice!] [This is the first turning point for Luna. If she hadn’t taken the heiress’s spot, how could she have gotten into Harvard?] [People who steal the fruits of others’ labor without effort are rats in the sewer. And she stole the heiress’s fiancé too! Shameless!] The next second, Mrs. Gable spoke. “Seraphina Sterling, congratulations! You’ve secured the early admission spot for Harvard University!” Amidst thunderous applause, Mrs. Gable looked at me with a hint of regret. “Luna, although you also won an award in the competition, there is only one guaranteed spot.” In my past life. Seraphina’s competition score was 0.5 points higher than mine. I was cut. But to everyone’s shock, she rejected it. “Mrs. Gable, early admission is the easy way out. Give the spot to someone who needs it.” Because of that sentence, the whole class looked at her with new respect. Mrs. Gable even teased her. “Then I’ll be waiting for you to become the state valedictorian and bring glory to our school!” In reality, she had been brainwashed by her bad-boy boyfriend, vowing to go to the same college as him for a passionate romance. She was tired of hiding, of sneaking around just to hold hands. Seraphina was drowned in praise. But when I took the spot, everyone mocked me. “Charity case.” “Scavenger.” “Shameless.” I didn’t care. My grades hovered around the Ivy League cutoff. I cherished this opportunity. Seraphina had the safety net to fail the SATs. I, coming from nothing, did not. A secure future was more important than gossip. But this time. Seraphina’s voice was firm. “I accept the early admission to Harvard!” 3 Amidst envious gasps, she turned to me. “Luna, you must be disappointed, right?” [Of course! Luna must be grinding her teeth!]/ [This feels so good! The heiress dumps the delinquent and goes to the same college as the male lead!] Seraphina took a deep breath, trembling slightly, finally feeling the reality of her rebirth. “So sorry about that. This spot is mine.” I smiled faintly. “Congratulations.” Ten years. In the decade between eighteen and twenty-eight in my past life, I got my Bachelor’s, Master’s, and PhD, fighting tooth and nail to grow within the Vance Group. Meanwhile, Seraphina was playing games with her bad boy—breakups, abortions, running away from home. I had more than just ten years of knowledge over her; I had judgment and the courage to face anything. The SATs? This time, I had absolute faith in myself. No accidents. No failure. But Seraphina thought I was bluffing. She looked at me with disdain. “I can’t wait to see the look on your face when the scores come out in two months!” She was smug, certain she would see me fail. 4 However, her joy lasted less than one class period. The appearance of Tyler shattered it. Tyler was a troublemaker, and Seraphina’s current boyfriend. Seraphina was the only daughter of the Sterling family, old money elites. Tyler’s motives were obvious. He stormed in, furious, and kicked my desk. “We agreed to go to the same college! What does this mean?” Seraphina glared at him. “Why should I listen to you? With your grades, you’ll end up at a community college. Where do you get the nerve to say that?” The commotion drew a crowd to the door. Julian Vance heard Seraphina’s voice from next door and rushed in, shielding her. His voice was cold. “If you want to cause trouble, get out. This isn’t the place.” Humiliated repeatedly, Tyler snapped, pointing at Seraphina and shouting. “You’re acting high and mighty now? You slut! You begged me to take your virginity after graduation!” He laughed maniacally. “First time I’ve seen a rich heiress desperate to get laid by me. Isn’t she cheap?” Seraphina shook with rage, then suddenly pointed at me. “It’s you, isn’t it? You didn’t get the spot, so you brought him here to threaten me? To ruin my reputation! “Luna, you are shameless! You and him, conspiring to steal what’s mine!” The chat text exploded, furious for Seraphina, cursing me out. [I knew Tyler found out too fast! Luna must be working with him!] [In the past life, the heiress was tricked by Tyler because she was innocent and kind. She was raised in a bubble by her family and Julian. She never saw through Tyler’s schemes or Luna’s malice.] [Seraphina suffered so much because of them. Now that she’s awake, they’re done for!] I laughed. “If you’re delusional, go see a doctor! I haven’t moved from this seat all class. Are you blind? You made this mess yourself, don’t pin it on me.” The surrounding students looked at each other and nodded in agreement. Seraphina turned red and said nothing. Tyler was chased out, leaving my books scattered on the floor. I quietly picked them up, bumping into Julian, who was also bending down.

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On our wedding night, Liam, who never touched a drop of alcohol, got completely wasted out of sheer happiness. Or so I thought. Just as I was wondering what to do, my best friend sent me a wall of text on how to handle it. My cheeks burned with a slight blush, but I followed her instructions, carefully soothing him. Miraculously, Liam, who had been a restless mess, quieted down. But as I reached for my phone to thank her, a pair of arms wrapped around me from behind. Liam buried his face in my neck, his voice ragged with something that sounded like heartbreak. “Robin,” he murmured, his breath hot against my skin. “It was always you I wanted to marry.” As he spoke, his shirt shifted, revealing a tattoo just over his heart. It was a small, exquisitely detailed bird, a robin, so lifelike it seemed ready to take flight. A roar filled my ears. Robin. My best friend of twenty years. And just like that, I understood. Liam wasn’t drunk with joy. He was drunk with the misery of marrying the wrong woman. 1 My mind went blank for a long time before the world slowly seeped back in. My phone buzzed against the silk sheets. I picked it up with a trembling hand. It was Robin. “Nina, don’t let him lie flat on his back when he’s this drunk. He could choke if he gets sick. You need to prop his head up…” The message went on, a five-hundred-word essay on care and concern, but the words swam before my eyes. I couldn’t read a single one. Robin was always like this, so thoughtful, so caring. When Liam had stomach problems, she’d be the one to show up with a thermos of homemade soup. When his car broke down on the highway, she was the first to arrange for a tow. Even when Liam and I had issues in the bedroom, she would just smile gently and whisper advice in my ear, sharing her worldly wisdom. She always wore this serene expression, a patient, all-encompassing smile gracing her lips. I used to thank my lucky stars for giving me such a wonderful sister. But now, a violent shiver racked my body. A hot, shameful wave of humiliation washed over me. I’d been played for a fool. When I didn’t reply, my phone started ringing, the sound echoing in the silent room, again and again. I’d never noticed it before, but that was her way. If Robin didn’t get what she wanted, she would push, relentlessly, almost defiantly, until she did. This time, though, I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. A few seconds after I silenced the call, Liam’s phone lit up the darkness. The custom ringtone seemed to have a magical effect. Liam, who had been dead to the world moments before, stirred and answered instinctively. He glanced at me, his eyes glassy, before turning off the speakerphone. I couldn’t hear what Robin said, but the tense lines around his eyes softened instantly. A low chuckle escaped his lips, and soon they were lost in conversation. One of them, oblivious to his new bride sitting right beside him. The other, seemingly forgetting it was her best friend’s wedding night. The clock on the wall struck midnight before Liam finally ended the call, the ghost of a smile still lingering on his lips. When his eyes finally found me, it felt like an afterthought, a courtesy. His gaze rested on my face for a few long seconds. For a moment, I thought he might ask why my makeup was streaked, why my eyes were red and swollen. But his next words shattered my last shred of pride. “Why didn’t you answer her? She was worried about you, you know?” I heard something inside me crack, a quiet, splintering sound. “What?” My voice was barely a whisper. A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, a stark contrast to the gentle man who had just been on the phone. “Robin was worried sick. You were just sitting here. Why wouldn’t you text her back? Do you get some kind of sick pleasure out of messing with people?” He was so considerate, so protective of Robin’s feelings, while mine were completely invisible to him. I just stared, seeing the same handsome face I’d loved for years, but feeling like I was looking at a complete stranger. Maybe it was the stunned look on my face, or maybe a sliver of sobriety cut through the alcoholic haze. Liam scrubbed a hand over his face, a wave of remorse washing over him. He moved closer and pulled me into an awkward hug. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into my hair. “I drank way too much tonight.” I fought back the tears stinging my eyes and gently pushed him away. I pointed a shaky finger at his chest. “Why is there a bird tattooed on you?” Liam went silent, his eyes clouding over as if lost in a memory. In that suffocating quiet, there was nothing left to misunderstand. I calmly wiped away the smudged mascara from under my eyes and stood up to leave the room. He caught my arm, pulling me back into his embrace. His voice was heavy with exhaustion. “Nothing ever happened between us, I swear. It was all one-sided, on my part. I don’t even like her anymore, not like that. As for the tattoo… I’d forgotten all about it. If you don’t like it, I’ll have it removed tomorrow, okay?” My body trembled as a thousand thoughts warred in my mind. My phone vibrated again. A text from my mother, checking in. She wasn’t well, but she was always thinking of me. Finally, in the suffocating silence of our new home, I gave a slow, deliberate nod. 2 When we went to bed, Liam still tried to hold me close, but I found myself inching away from him, creating as much distance as the mattress would allow. Just as I was drifting off, the phone on my nightstand vibrated, a single, sharp buzz in the dark. I had a feeling I knew who it was. I was right. A message from Robin. “Nina, Liam didn’t yell at you, did he? If he bullies you, you tell me. I’ll come over and punch him for you.” If she truly cared about me, she wouldn’t have spent an hour on the phone with my husband on my wedding night. I stared at the message for a long moment before a competitive, bitter spark ignited within me. I snapped a photo of Liam, fast asleep, his head resting on the pillow beside me, looking for all the world like a devoted husband. I sent it to her. “Nope, he was great! Thanks for checking in, though. We’re both exhausted, about to pass out. Big day tomorrow, after all. We’re going to get that tattoo removed.” For the first time all night, Robin, who usually replied in seconds, went silent. In the dead of night, after hours of suffocating pain, I finally felt a small, triumphant breath of relief. I met Robin when we were nine. Her life was hard. Her father had abandoned her and her mother, leaving them to fend for themselves. Money was always tight, and she never had the things other kids had. But she was so full of life. When I threw a tantrum because my sandcastle collapsed, she quietly came over and built me a new one, bigger and more beautiful than I could have imagined. That’s how we became friends. I saw how skinny she was and started sneaking her milk and snacks from our kitchen. Robin would always accept them with wide, shining eyes and a whispered, “Thank you.” Over time, it became a habit. She got used to my food, my clothes… and eventually, my man. In the long, dark night, memories sliced through me like a thousand tiny cuts. I stared at the ceiling, my eyes wide open as silent tears tracked paths down my temples into my hair. The next morning, Liam and I went to the tattoo parlor. He was back to his usual self, buying me coffee on the way, handing me his tablet so I could watch my shows while I waited. “This won’t take long,” he said, kissing my forehead. “Watch an episode and then we’ll go get some lunch.” He smiled and disappeared into the back room. I watched him go, a small bit of tension leaving my shoulders. But the relief was short-lived. A moment later, Liam burst out of the room, his face pale with panic. My heart skipped a beat. I jumped up and stood in his way. “What’s wrong?” “Robin was in a car accident.” My mind went blank. Instinct told me this was no coincidence. “I’ll go,” I said, blocking his path. “You stay and get the tat—” He cut me off before I could finish. “What do you mean, you’ll go? We’re both going. Now.” The old me would have been just as panicked as he was. But the new me didn’t move a muscle. I stared him straight in the eye, my voice dangerously steady. “She’s my best friend. Isn’t it enough that I’m going?” Time seemed to freeze. When Liam looked at me, his eyes were filled with an unmistakable disgust. “Are you even human? All this over a stupid tattoo? You want it gone so bad? Fine!” He stalked over to a counter, snatched a utility knife, and held it to his chest. “I’ll cut the whole damn piece of flesh off! Happy now?” “Go to her,” I said softly, just as the blade was inches from his skin. He froze for a second, then dropped the knife with a clatter and stormed out without another word. As I turned to leave, the tattoo artist looked at me with an awkward, pitying expression. I just gave her a polite nod and walked out. A few minutes later, the sky opened up. A sudden flash of lightning was followed by a torrential downpour. I had no umbrella and was soaked to the bone in seconds, forced to hail a cab. When I got home, I was sneezing, and a wave of nausea rolled in my stomach. Before I could even change out of my wet clothes, my phone buzzed with a series of notifications. It was Robin. She’d sent a picture of Liam asleep in a hospital chair next to a bed. The caption read: “Poor guy. He ran around doing everything for me. He’s totally exhausted.” Followed by another message: “Oh, by the way, I guess he didn’t have time to get that tattoo removed, huh?” In that moment, I couldn’t even describe what I was feeling. My reflection in the dark screen was a mask of cold indifference. In the game of our relationships, I had been made the fool. So what? At least now, I was free. I drew a hot bath and was soaking in the tub, drifting in and out of a daze, when a shrill ringtone cut through the quiet. I jolted awake, fumbling for the phone. It was Robin. 3 I answered, but before I could speak, I heard it. The unmistakable sounds of two people in bed. Then Robin’s voice, usually so gentle, now laced with a theatrical, breathy sob. “Liam… we can’t. This is so wrong… What about Nina?” “Just this once,” Liam’s voice pleaded, thick with desire. “She’ll never know. Please, Robin, I’m begging you.” My heart didn’t even flutter. The parrot we’d had for two years had suddenly learned to talk, and would often squawk, “Love my Birdie! Love my Birdie!” I’d always found it strange. Liam was a reserved man; he never said things like that to me. I thought the parrot had picked it up from the TV. Now I knew the truth. It was never my birdie. It was his. They had been together for far longer than I could have ever imagined. Through the phone, I could hear Robin’s broken moans, a mix of pleasure and feigned pain. I felt nothing. I calmly recorded a snippet of the call, hung up, and started looking up divorce lawyers. Later that night, hunger gnawed at me. I found half a sausage in the fridge. But after two bites, a violent wave of nausea surged up my throat. I barely made it to the toilet before I was retching uncontrollably. When I finally stood up, my legs shaking, an alarm bell went off in my head. With trembling hands, I took a pregnancy test. When the two pink lines appeared, the last of my defenses crumbled. I lay in bed in a stupor, finally falling asleep as the first hints of dawn colored the sky. When I woke up, Liam was home. He was moving quietly through the living room, tidying the mess I’d made, pulling a blanket over me where I’d fallen asleep on the sofa. Now he was in the kitchen, making breakfast. For years, this was how he’d taken care of me. We were childhood sweethearts, our families were close. Our love story wasn’t a whirlwind romance, but it had been steady, comfortable, and deep. Or so I had believed. I had no idea when he and Robin had started. Was it when I introduced them at my eighteenth birthday party? Or had it been even earlier? The only thing I knew for sure was that they had both conspired to keep me in the dark. As if sensing my gaze, Liam spoke without turning around. “You have everything, Nina. Robin’s had such a hard life. She always gives way to you. Why do you have to make things so difficult for her?” I froze, a glass of water halfway to my lips. The accusation in his voice was so heavy, painting me as some kind of villain who couldn’t stand to see anyone else happy. I said nothing. I just went to our bedroom and started quietly packing a bag. This house was paid for by both our parents; it would be split down the middle. My jewelry, the wedding gifts, I was taking all of it. And I had no intention of returning the money his family had contributed. I’d consider it compensation for his infidelity. As I mentally calculated my assets, Liam placed a plate of food in front of me. He started making coffee, chattering on as if nothing was wrong. “Nina, we’re not kids anymore. We were planning on trying for a baby this year. You need to be more mature.” At the mention of a baby, my eyes dropped to my stomach. I opened my mouth to tell him, but the doorbell rang. Liam and I exchanged a look. He paused, then said slowly, “Did you forget? It’s your birthday. Robin made a cake to celebrate.” He hurried to the door and opened it. Robin stood there, a sweet smile on her face. Her arm was scraped from yesterday’s “accident,” but she was clearly fine. Her eyes found me, and her voice was as soft as ever. “Happy birthday, Nina.” I didn’t understand how she could be so shameless, showing up here to torment me when she knew full well how I felt. But it was my birthday. Why should I have to accommodate her? It wasn’t fair. “I’m not happy,” I said, my voice flat and cold, “when you’re here.” Instantly, Robin’s eyes welled with tears. She looked down at her feet, the very picture of wounded innocence. Liam whirled on me, his voice sharp. “That’s enough. Stop making a scene.” For the past two years, whenever Robin was involved, that seemed to be his favorite phrase: Stop making a scene. I bit down hard on the tip of my tongue and let out a small, humorless laugh. It all felt so pointless. I turned and sat back down at the table. As Robin passed me, she shot me a tiny, triumphant smirk. It was fleeting, but it was there, mocking my powerlessness. Liam gave me a warning look, but when he cut the cake, he made a point of giving me the largest slice, just like he used to do when I was mad at him as a kid, trying to win me over with treats. I mechanically took a few bites before an intense itch started to crawl across my skin. My fork clattered onto the plate with a sharp crack. I looked straight at Robin. “Did you put chestnut flour in this?” Panic flickered in her eyes, the clumsy performance of a bad actress. “What’s wrong?” I’m deathly allergic to chestnuts. Robin knew that. Suddenly, all the little details I’d dismissed over the years flooded my mind. The dress strap that mysteriously broke at a party. The final exam paper she’d “accidentally” spilled ink on. The time she’d burned a chunk of my hair while “helping” me curl it. Every single incident had been a public humiliation. How could someone so meticulous be so clumsy at the most crucial moments? There was only one explanation. She wanted me to suffer. My mind flashed to the baby. A roar filled my ears. I pointed a shaking finger at the door. “Get out of my house.” Liam scraped his chair back from the table and stood up, his face a thunderous mask as he moved to stand in front of Robin. “This is my house too. You don’t have the right to kick anyone out!” My throat was starting to close up. My heart began to pound erratically in my chest. But Liam was still yelling, his words a meaningless drone. He saw the tears glistening in Robin’s eyes, but he couldn’t see me, right in front of him, starting to suffocate. I stumbled toward the medicine cabinet, desperately searching for my EpiPen. Liam grabbed my arm, yanking me back. The cabinet door flew open, and bottles of pills scattered across the floor. He held me fast, his eyes burning with condemnation. “Nina, apologize to her right now! You have gone too far!” My fingers scrabbled uselessly on the floor, trying to reach the life-saving injection. My face was turning a dusky red. Through his look of growing alarm, I summoned every last bit of strength I had and slapped him hard across the face. My voice was a strangled rasp. “I’m pregnant. And your little friend just tried to kill me.”

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Everyone thought I had married the perfect wife—gentle, capable, and a true catch. Little did they know, the moment she stepped into the kitchen, she became a walking disaster. Ask her to cook, and she’d mistake salt for sugar or dish soap for oil. Send her to the market, and she’d return with wilted, yellowed cabbage, unable to tell it was spoiled. No matter how much I taught her, every time she entered the kitchen, chaos followed. So, over our three years of marriage, the kitchen slowly became my territory alone. I often joked with friends, “If my wife ever left me, she’d probably live on takeout forever.” That changed when I went on a business trip. Worried she wasn’t eating well, I checked our smart home app. To my shock, the woman who couldn’t even light a stove was wearing my apron, expertly reducing sauce for braised pork and stir-frying with fluid, confident movements. Sitting on our sofa was a man I’d only seen in her phone album. My wife, Claire, arranged the dishes gracefully before him, handed him utensils carefully, and gazed at him with a tenderness I’d never seen. “David,” she said softly, “I promised these hands would cook only for you. All these years, I kept my word.” Staring motionless at the screen, a deep silence washed over me. She wasn’t a bad cook—she had simply saved every bit of her culinary warmth for someone else. 1 When I got back from my trip, my plan was to wait for Claire to get home and confront her about what I saw on the monitor. But when I opened the door, the first thing I saw was a few takeout containers artfully placed at the top of the trash bin. Then I looked at the stovetop, polished to a mirror shine. Even the pots and pans were arranged in the exact same way I’d left them. The fire of anger and betrayal inside me was suddenly extinguished, replaced by an icy dread. Two years of dating, three years of marriage. For five years, Claire had flawlessly played the part of a kitchen idiot. When we first got married, I had daydreams of us cooking together, a cozy, domestic scene. But every time Claire set foot in the kitchen, it was a catastrophe. A simple stir-fried vegetable dish? She’d use sugar instead of salt, serving up something sickeningly sweet. A pot of soup? She’d burn it to a black crisp, ruining an expensive enamel pot. She couldn’t light the stove, couldn’t tell one green leaf from another, couldn’t distinguish between spices. The kitchen was a war zone after she was done with it. Patiently, I would clean up the mess while trying to teach her. She would just stand aside and sigh helplessly. “I guess I just don’t have the talent for cooking. It’s a good thing I married such a capable husband, or I’d probably have blown up the kitchen by now.” I believed her. I thought she was genuinely, naturally unsuited for cooking, so I gladly took over all the meals. Only now did I realize the truth. Her skills were exquisite; it was just that her warmth, her fire, was reserved for another. While Claire was working late, I found the man from the video. To my shock, he was living in the old apartment Claire and I had shared before we bought our house. Claire had told me she’d rented it to a friend of a colleague. Apparently, that “friend” was the man from her photo album. David. Seeing him standing in front of me, I felt a strange sense of dislocation. When I first met Claire, I’d jokingly asked her what her ideal type was. She’d answered without hesitation, “Dark curly hair, pale skin, and two dimples when he smiles.” At the time, I dismissed it as a girlish fantasy. I had seen David’s photo once, but only for a fleeting second before Claire snatched the phone away and deleted it. It wasn’t until I saw his face today that I understood. Her ideal type was never a fantasy; it was a checklist based on a real person. I look nothing like David, but I never forgot what she said. Over the years, I’d started perming my hair and taking better care of my skin. Except for the dimples, at a quick glance, I suppose I did start to resemble him. And yet, my wife’s affection for the two of us was worlds apart. Claire and I met when we were 24 and married at 26. Now, approaching 30, I thought we were set for a lifetime of happiness. I always told myself, she just can’t cook. Nobody’s perfect. I can do a little more. For five years, she hadn’t lifted a finger in the kitchen. Even when I was bedridden with a fever, she never once made me a simple bowl of soup. But for David, she would tie on an apron and spend an entire afternoon at the stove, whispering promises that her hands were for him alone. I had given her five years of my heart, and I never even knew what her real cooking tasted like. All the questions I wanted to scream at him boiled down to one, pathetic curiosity. “David,” I asked, my voice hollow, “is Claire a good cook?” 2 David looked startled, as if he hadn’t expected that question. Not about his relationship with Claire, not about why he was living in our old place. But about her cooking. A look of pity crossed his face, followed by a smug, satisfied smile. “You didn’t know, did you?” he said, his voice laced with condescension. “Back in the day, I told her offhandedly that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Without a second thought, she went and got a professional culinary degree.” He leaned back. “I mentioned once that her braised pork was just okay, so she practiced it dozens of times. Now it’s her signature dish. After all these years abroad, I really missed her… braised pork.” I was floored. When I first met Claire, I wasn’t much of a cook either. But knowing she was a picky eater, I spent my days watching tutorials, learning to make new and different dishes for her. I knew she loved braised pork, so I practiced it endlessly. At first, I’d either burn the caramel or the meat would be bland. Claire would always frown and meticulously point out everything I’d done wrong. I kept at it until my hands were covered in burns from the hot oil. The day I finally perfected it, Claire took one bite and froze. She was silent for a long time, a strange, faraway look in her eyes. I didn’t know what memory she was savoring then. But I understood now. Watching my expression, David slowly stood up and took a pristine glass container from his fridge. He opened it with a deliberate slowness, as if unveiling a priceless treasure. “Claire made these this morning. Sweet and sour ribs. But you probably know she’s never liked sweet food.” “But I love it,” he continued, his eyes glinting. “She once consulted a Michelin-starred chef just for me, to get this recipe right. She said you have to tweak the sugar and vinegar ratio over and over to get that perfect balance. That’s why she was up before dawn today making them.” I stared at the ribs, a heavy weight pressing down on my chest. I love sweet and sour ribs. The year I was trying to win her over, I learned to make that exact dish, practicing until the flavor was perfect. But when I served it, her face fell. She threw down her utensils and accused me of not knowing her at all. I was completely baffled. It was only later that I learned she didn’t eat sweet dishes. I felt guilty for a long time and tried to make it up to her. I even fed the entire plate of ribs to a stray dog downstairs right in front of her to prove my remorse. From that day on, I never made another sweet dish. I was even careful about adding too much sugar to my stir-fries. My eyes stung, but I let out a bitter laugh. “Is there more?” David frowned, confused. “What are you, a masochist? You think hearing more will make you give her up to me?” I smiled faintly. “You never know.” His eyes lit up. He opened his laptop. His inbox was filled with hundreds of unread emails, all from Claire. The last one was sent three years ago, the night before our wedding. “David, I’m getting married tomorrow. I know you’re busy and rarely have time to reply, but I wanted to tell you this. You once said you wanted your own personal chef. I’ve never forgotten that. I’m a certified Master Chef now. I have so many dishes I’m great at. And even though my name will be on another man’s marriage certificate, I swear to you, these hands will never cook for anyone but you. This is my permanent promise to us.” I read every word, my vision blurring and clearing. I finally understood why Claire had always been so critical of my cooking. It was never about the technique or the flavor. It was about the person making the food. Since she had already promised her culinary skills and her heart to someone else, then I didn’t want this wife anymore. There are plenty of women in this world who know how to cook. 3 I drew up the divorce papers. It was late when I got home, but I knew Claire would be even later. After all, she had someone else to be with. I found the old wooden box that had been gathering dust for years. Claire had told me it contained confidential work documents and that I was never to touch it. But I knew what was really inside: her journals and her Master Chef certificate. I opened a journal. Page after page was filled with details of her five years with David, from high school through college. All the sweet nothings I’d never heard, all the romantic gestures I thought she was incapable of, had been given to another man long before she ever met me. Claire came home late that night, calling out habitually as she walked in. “Honey, is dinner ready?” She searched the kitchen and the fridge but found nothing. Usually, I’d greet her with a smile. Tonight, I didn’t even leave the bedroom. She came to find me, a frown on her face. “Why didn’t you cook? I came home starving, specifically to eat with you.” I kept scrolling on my phone, not looking up. “I’m tired. If you’re hungry, make something yourself.” Her face flushed with anger, her voice rising. “You know I can’t cook!” “Oh,” I said flatly. “Then I guess you’ll go hungry. I’m going to sleep.” Sensing my unusual coldness, her tone softened. She came and sat on the bed, trying to coax me. “How about you just make a bowl of noodles? Please? I worked late, and I’m so hungry. Don’t you feel bad for me?” With all emotion stripped away, I looked up at the face I had slept next to for three years and felt like I was looking at a stranger. I had just gotten back from a business trip myself. Had she shown an ounce of concern for me? A Master Chef who had pretended to be a kitchen klutz for five years. She had watched me toil day in and day out, getting up to cook for her whether I was sick or exhausted, all so she could keep a promise to the one that got away. I couldn’t take it anymore. My face hardened. “I said I’m tired. I’m not cooking. Get out and let me sleep.” Just then, her stomach growled loudly. That was the last straw for her. “What the hell is wrong with you tonight? Fine, don’t cook! I’ll go eat out!” She slammed the door on her way out. She didn’t come back that night. I no longer cared where she went or what she ate. I just had a good, long sleep. The next day, I met with my lawyer and settled the divorce arrangements. Then, I went to an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet by myself. For years, to accommodate Claire, I couldn’t eat seafood, cilantro, mangoes, or eggs. Everything she disliked had vanished from my life. But now I was discovering that satisfying my own stomach was far more important than pleasing a woman. Halfway through my meal, a message popped up on my phone. It was Claire. “It’s our anniversary today. Since you don’t feel like cooking, let’s go out to a nice restaurant.” In previous years, I was always the one who excitedly brought up our anniversary. I’d take a half-day off work and cook a huge feast, just to make it special. And she, the woman who never cooked, would always find something to criticize, all under the guise of “improving my skills” and “enhancing our marital happiness.” A second message followed immediately. “Did you go see David yesterday?” “He’s just a tenant. Please don’t bother him.” It clicked. So that’s why she suddenly remembered our anniversary. She was afraid I’d disturb her precious first love. I laughed out loud and typed back, “Don’t worry, I won’t bother him.” After all, I was about to leave her. After I finished eating, I called her. “Claire, let’s not go out tonight. Come home. I’ll cook.” This would be our last meal together. When I first pursued her, I won her over with a meal. Now, I would end it with one. A fitting end to a beginning.

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My salary is fifty thousand a month. Right now, I’m standing at the hospital payment counter, my face burning with embarrassment because of insufficient funds. I quickly text my husband. “Send me three hundred, fast. I can’t pay for my prescription.” A moment later, a document appears on my screen. “Honey, don’t forget to fill out the advance request form!” In that instant, I knew. We were done. I set the bill down, walked out of the hospital, and went straight to a law firm. “I need your help,” I told them. “I want a divorce.” 1 We’ve been married for three years. In that time, I put all of my personal assets into our joint account. It was Ryan’s idea. “Honey,” he’d said, “a marriage needs to be equal. Our incomes are so different, it could easily cause friction.” “So, let’s pool our money. I’ll manage it, handle all the expenses. It’ll help us cut down on unnecessary spending.” I agreed. And now, here I am, stomach cramping in pain, my health insurance tapped out, and still two hundred dollars short. The clerk at the counter is getting impatient. “Are you paying or not? There are other people in line.” I awkwardly push the bill back towards her. “Sorry, I’ll have to come back another time.” Ignoring her stunned look, I clutch my stomach and hobble out, each step a fresh wave of pain. Ryan’s texts keep coming. “Honey, why haven’t you filled it out yet? If you miss the approval window, you won’t get the money today!” I glance at the message and let out a bitter laugh. Right. According to his rules, I had to submit the form within ten minutes of receiving it, or I’d lose my “advance privileges” for the day. I’d have to wait until tomorrow to try again. I take a deep breath, open my phone again, and message my best friend. I ask for a thousand. She calls me immediately. “Vivi, what’s wrong? Is it an emergency?” I quickly explain. A moment later, a transfer notification pops up: fifty thousand dollars. “Let me know if you need more!” Staring at the number, a chill runs down my spine. The man I share a bed with makes me fill out a form for two hundred dollars. My best friend sends fifty thousand without a second thought. The difference between them is staggering. With the money, I get my prescription. The relief is almost immediate. On the way home, my resolve hardens. I walk in to find Ryan on the sofa, preening. “Check it out,” he says, showing off a new watch. “Just came out. I snagged it.” “Ten percent off, paid in full!” Seeing his smug face, my own darkens. “Ryan, from now on, I’m not giving you my money to manage.” He blinks. “Babe, what are you talking about? The way you spend? You make fifty grand a month, you think you could save even ten of it on your own?” “I know you’re mad,” he continues, his tone placating, “but don’t be. This watch is an investment.” I laugh internally. When I spend money, it’s reckless. When he does, it’s an investment. I’d truly underestimated his hypocrisy. I push past him into the bathroom and check our joint account. There’s only three hundred dollars in it. Ryan’s voice comes from the other room. “Honey, I know you’re upset. Tell you what, for this three hundred, you don’t have to fill out a form. I’ll just give it to you. See? Your husband takes care of you, right?” I don’t answer. I just text my lawyer and tell him to start the divorce proceedings. He advises me that first, we need to figure out exactly how much we have in assets. He warns me that splitting it evenly, let alone getting back the majority of what I rightfully earned, will be difficult. Since I’m the one filing for divorce, I might have to make some financial concessions. I clench my fists and start scrolling through Ryan’s social media. I see a post from his brother, showing off a new apartment. Prime location, best school district, paid in full. His brother is in his thirties with no steady job, and his wife is a stay-at-home mom. Where did they get that kind of money? It’s obvious. Ryan. He’s been funneling money from our joint account. He wants to keep bleeding me dry. Not a chance. My first instinct is to storm in and confront him, but my lawyer’s words echo in my mind. I need proof. If I blow up now, I’ll be the one who loses. I compose myself. Then, I go online and report all my bank cards as lost or stolen. 2 I do a quick calculation. Fifty thousand a month, plus bonuses, commission, and stock options. Over the past three years, that’s nearly three million dollars that I’ve handed over to him. Ryan himself makes eight thousand a month. That’s it. Yet he’s amassed a net worth in the millions, buying himself hundred-thousand-dollar watches and other luxury goods. And me? I have nothing. My own jewelry is locked away. If I want to wear it, I have to submit a request, explaining the occasion. In his words, my frequent client dinners and networking events are “unnecessary.” “Eating at home is healthier,” he’d say. And jewelry? “Simplicity is best.” Back then, I bought into his talk of “simple beauty.” I was busy, and simple accessories were easier to pair with my work wardrobe. Now, I see it for what it was. He’s been gaslighting me all along. I take another deep breath, pull myself together, and head for the safe. Ryan follows me. “Honey, what are you doing?” “I have a product launch in two days. I need to pick out some jewelry.” But when I enter the code, it’s incorrect. I turn to him. “You changed the password?” “I did. If you need something, just ask me. I’ve changed all the passwords in the house.” My temper flares. “On what authority? It’s my safe, my password, and my things inside it. What right do you have to change my code?” “From this day forward,” I declare, “you will not control another cent of my assets. You’re on your own.” He remains calm. “Sweetheart, you’re just tired. Has work been stressful lately? You’re the one who authorized me to do this. Why the change of heart? Has someone been talking to you?” He reaches out to pat my head. I slap his hand away. “Don’t touch me. I don’t even know who you are anymore.” He glances at the red mark on his hand, a warning in his eyes. “Be a good girl, honey, and we won’t have any problems. If you misbehave, I’ll have to punish you.” “Open the safe,” I demand. “I need my jewelry.” “No can do. Remember to submit a request!” I’m about to slap him, but he grabs my wrist. “Vivi, you’re being emotional. From now on, you shouldn’t handle our joint finances. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it for you. If you want money, just ask.” I’m so angry I could laugh. “You think I can’t do anything to you?” He just smiles. “You’re overthinking things. Get some sleep.” He’s so sure of himself. He probably thinks I’ll never go through with a divorce. And I don’t need to ask to know that the safe is empty. I can’t take it anymore. I turn and walk out. As I reach the lobby, my phone rings. It’s him. “Thinking of going to the apartment on the west side? Sorry, I sold that too.” I stop in my tracks and look up. He’s standing at the window of our penthouse, smiling down at me. “Come back up. It’s getting late.” My nails dig into my palms. I can’t believe he sold my apartment. “Ryan, forging a signature is illegal! You just wait.” I have my lawyer draft the divorce papers and send them to him, then get in my car and drive away without a second thought. His calls go unanswered. Time is of the essence. The gloves are off. 3 I call a friend who’s a computer whiz, transfer him four thousand dollars, and ask him to trace all of Ryan’s financial transactions, as well as the sources of his family’s income. At the same time, I submit an anonymous tip about his unexplained wealth. Ryan works for a state-owned enterprise. They’re cracking down on corruption right now. He just bought a thirty-thousand-dollar watch and drives a hundred-thousand-dollar car. Most people in his position are trying to fly under the radar, but not Ryan. He’s new money, and he flaunts it. He’s made a lot of enemies. He used to claim it was all my money. Now, let’s see what the authorities think of that. My friend works fast. Soon, he sends me the files. As I look through the transaction details, my heart sinks. For three years, under the guise of supporting his parents, he’s been sending them five thousand a month, with a minimum of fifty thousand on holidays. In total, he’s given them over two hundred thousand. He spent three hundred thousand on his brother’s new apartment. He’s also bought countless luxury goods in their names. His sister-in-law is constantly showing off new designer bags. And the whole time, he’s been telling his colleagues he’s buying these things for me. All my money, lavished on his family, while I have to beg for money to buy medicine. My friend who works at the bank calls me. Ryan’s work is investigating him, and they’ve requested his bank statements. “Hey, is Ryan in some kind of trouble?” “Yeah,” I say. “I reported him.” She’s stunned. When I tell her what he’s done with my money, she explodes. “Vivi, are you insane? You were never on equal footing. Marrying him was one thing, but giving him your money?” “I know. I regret it. That’s why I’m divorcing him.” She’s silent for a moment. “If you need anything, just ask.” She hangs up and immediately transfers me another ten thousand. A text follows: “I know you’re broke right now. A girl’s gotta have her sister’s back. Don’t worry about it.” I laugh, then I start to cry. I’m a mess, sitting on a park bench, scaring away the passersby. I wipe my tears and stand up. Ryan calls again. “Vivi, you’re trying to ruin me. It was you, wasn’t it?” “They brought me in for questioning. Guess what? I walked out of there clean. You can’t touch me.” I just laugh. “I have plenty of time to fight you.” “I sent you the divorce papers. You’re on your own.” He’s stunned. “What? You’re divorcing me? Over a piece of jewelry? You reported me, and now you want a divorce?!” “That’s right.” I hang up and immediately boost a post about him online. While his work is investigating, I’m going to make sure everyone knows what he’s done. I don’t use his name, but I provide enough details that it’s obvious. “My Husband, the State Employee, Thinks He’s a CEO. I Have to Submit a Request to Spend My Own Money!” The title alone is enough to get people talking. I post a copy of the advance request form, along with a few “highlights,” like a twelve-dollar cake and a nine-dollar pair of pantyhose. I even include his annotations. “Honey, you can get a birthday cake for four dollars if you use a coupon. It’s just a birthday, you have one every year. No need to be so extravagant.” “Your pantyhose always rip. Stop buying expensive ones. Just get them wholesale from Wish.” I hope you’re ready for this, Ryan. You’re about to go viral.

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It was the fifth year of my marriage to the butcher when my young son, Leo, got into trouble with a nobleman from the Capital over a worn-out handkerchief. I pulled him behind me, kneeling on the cobblestones to plead for mercy. The carriage curtain remained perfectly still. From within, a young, cold voice sneered. “You’re begging for him? Who are you to him?” I lowered my head, my voice barely a whisper. “I am his mother.” A sudden, deathly silence fell inside the carriage, then erupted into a laugh that was sharp with rage. “You don’t even recognize your own flesh and blood, yet you’re so eager to play mother to some bastard…” The words were a blur. I could only press my forehead deeper against the cold ground. “My lord, you must understand. I have only one son in this life. His name is Leo.” As the words left my lips, the carriage door was thrown open with a crash. The nobleman leaped out. He stormed over to me, his voice thick and nasal with emotion. “Then look at me!” he demanded. “Look at me and tell me who I am!” I raised my head and met the blazing, red-rimmed eyes of Damian. And I suddenly remembered. This was also the fifth year since I had been cast aside by him and his father. 1 The winter wind tugged at the frayed, washed-pale hem of my tunic. I pressed my forehead back to the biting cold of the ground. “Greetings, Young Lord. I wish you well.” The childish innocence on Damian’s face hardened into a scowl. “Do you have to call me that? You know my name!” “I wouldn’t dare, my lord.” I held my prostrate position, my world reduced to the intricate, dark patterns on his expensive boots. Five years ago, it had been boots just like these, standing on the high steps of the manor. He had been clutching the princess’s skirt, watching with cold eyes as the guards dragged me away. The voice above me was silent for a beat, then let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Wouldn’t dare? So if I have him beaten to death right here, you’ll still just say you ‘wouldn’t dare’?” My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging so deep they drew blood, but I remained silent. Damian’s voice was laced with a furious, grinding anger. “Fine. Just fine! I’ll give you a chance. Why don’t you ask him yourself what he did to offend me.” Without looking up, my voice came out flat, devoid of any emotion. “My son is simple-minded, my lord. Whatever happened, it was surely his fault. The Young Lord… is never wrong.” I spoke the groveling words as if by instinct. My past had taught me that for a commoner to survive in the presence of nobility, bowing your head was the only way. But Leo didn’t understand that. He peeked out from behind me, his small voice full of defiance. “It wasn’t me! He tried to take the handkerchief Mama gave me!” He was talking about a simple white cotton square, with a small rabbit embroidered in the bottom corner, its eyes a startling green. For a moment, I was lost in a memory from years ago, a cherubic little boy nestled in my arms. He had pointed to the handkerchief, his voice milky sweet. “Mama, why are the bunny’s eyes green?” I’d kissed his forehead. “Because the little rabbit only has eyes for his favorite thing in the world, the green meadows.” “Just like Mama only has eyes for my Damian.” At Leo’s words, Damian’s voice shot up, raw with the anger of a secret being exposed. “I wasn’t taking it! I just… I thought it was…” He stopped short, his hand instinctively flying to his sleeve, as if to hide something. The street fell into an eerie quiet. After a long moment, that burning gaze returned to me. “You want to beg for his life? Fine. Give me fifty prostrations, and I’ll forgive him.” Leo’s cry was sharp with fear. “Mama, no!” The sound seemed to trigger something in Damian. “You shut up!” he roared. “You don’t get to speak!” I didn’t hesitate. I bent forward and brought my forehead down against the stone. One. Two. Three. Again and again, my head met the icy ground. I lost count. Warm blood began to trickle down from my brow. Suddenly, Damian’s voice exploded in a furious shout. “You… you’re just like Mother said! Worthless, pathetic, and ungrateful!” “Take your bastard and get out of my sight!” A wave of relief washed over me. I bowed my head one last time. “Thank you for your mercy, Young Lord.” The old injury in my knee screamed in protest as I struggled to my feet, pulling Leo up with me. But as my eyes met a figure standing at the corner of the street, my entire body went rigid. He was dressed in fine silks, his features a mature, hardened version of Damian’s. It was his father. The master of the Northridge Marquisate. And once, long ago… my husband. 2 The year I found Alistair, he was not yet the renowned Marquis of Northridge. He was just a man, half-dead in the snow, his body a canvas of blood and filth. The shackles on his wrists had worn his skin down to the bone. I dragged him back to the apothecary, but the old healer just shook his head, saying he was a lost cause. “Then it’s a desperate measure,” I’d said. “But I have to try.” I cut away his ruined clothes and cleaned his wounds over and over with strong spirits. He was unconscious for three days. When he finally woke, his first words were, “Why save me?” I told him the truth. “You were too handsome to die. It would have been a waste.” He stared, then let out a low chuckle that shook his body and made his wounds bleed anew. After that, he stayed, following me like a shadow. Six months later, during the Festival of Lights, he took me into town to see the lanterns. The streets were a river of people, and he gently took my hand. “Elara,” he said, his voice low and earnest. “I have nothing to my name but this heart. Will you have it?” Beneath a sky filled with a thousand floating lights, my own heart was lost. A year after we married, we had a son. We named him Damian. When Damian was two, the Northridge Marquisate was cleared of treason and its titles restored. It wasn’t until the royal envoys found our small village that I learned the man who shared my bed was the famous Marquis. Alistair had to return to the Capital immediately. Before he left, he held my hands, his words a solemn vow. “Elara, wait for me. Once I have settled things, I will return for you and Damian. I will bring you to my home as my true and honored wife.” He bit his own thumb and drew the first letter of his family name in blood on my palm. “Let this be my promise.” News traveled slowly to our remote village. With Damian, I waited. Day after day. The next I heard of him was six months later. A traveling merchant brought tales from the Capital. The Marquis of Northridge had not only reclaimed his title but had also married the Emperor’s most beloved princess. The villagers who once envied my luck now whispered that I was a fool, an abandoned woman who couldn’t hold on to her man. But then, just days later, the Marquis’s men arrived. From inside the magnificent carriage, Damian looked up at me with his wide, innocent eyes. “Mama, where are we going?” I tweaked his nose, my heart soaring with happiness. “The rumors were wrong, my sweet. We’re going to find Papa. We’re going to live a wonderful life.” But the “wonderful life” at the manor was nothing like I had imagined. There was no grand welcome, no bridal veil. I wasn’t even allowed through the main gates. A small, plain sedan chair carried me silently through a rear entrance. And my Damian… Alistair took him from my arms himself and delivered him to the princess’s residence. I knelt on the cold stone courtyard, begging him to give me back my son, my head hitting the ground again and again. I told him I would pretend none of it had ever happened, that I would take our son and disappear forever, never setting foot in the Capital again. But Alistair only looked down at me, his gaze as cold and distant as a star. “Elara, do not forget your station. If it weren’t for the fact that you once saved my life, you would not even have the privilege of kneeling here.” With that one sentence, I understood my place. And I understood the man he had become. He confined me to a small, isolated courtyard with orders never to leave. I couldn’t see my son, and my son couldn’t see me. I heard he cried day and night, screaming for me until his little voice was raw. There was a small, forgotten dog door at the base of the courtyard wall. One day, a tiny, dirt-streaked figure crawled through it. “Mama!” He threw himself into my arms, his sobs tearing through my heart. In that moment, holding him, I thought I would cry until I had no tears left. After that, the small hole in the wall became our secret. He would sneak over every day, and I would find ways to make him his favorite childhood treats. Until the day I offered him a piece of carefully dried apricot. He instinctively turned his head away. “Mother says,” he said, “that things like that are dirty. I can’t eat them.” My hand, holding the sweet, withered fruit, froze in midair.

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1 I had just returned to the country when I ran into my father and brother at the cemetery. It was the first time I’d seen them in ten years. They were there to visit the grave of my stepsister Melody’s dog. I was there to leave flowers for my mother, who had been dead for just as long. My father saw me, glanced behind me, and then sighed. “Here to visit your grandfather’s grave? Where’s your mother? It’s been ten years. Is she still angry?” The word ‘mother’ was a blade in my heart. My hands clenched into fists, and a hot sting filled my eyes. But I remembered what she’d told me before she died. I tilted my chin up, my voice flat. “No.” My brother, standing beside him, let out a cold snort. “Not angry? Then why haven’t you come home? Do you have any idea how much time and energy Dad and I have wasted looking for you all these years?” I glanced at the collection of pet toys and supplies in their hands. A sharp, familiar pain throbbed in my calf. “I’m sorry,” I said coolly, “I have things to do. I don’t have time for idle chat.” My brother’s temper flared. “That’s enough, Elara! When are you going to stop being so childish? Are you going to disown your own family now?” Family? The family they spoke of was something my mother and I had stopped needing a decade ago. … “Elara, what happened back then… it wasn’t what you think…” The color drained from my father’s face. He reached out as if to touch my hair, but I subtly stepped back. His hand hung awkwardly in the air. A strange emotion flickered in his eyes as he looked at me. Noticing my gaze on the pet supplies he was holding, he gave a strained smile. “You know how much Melody missed that dog. She was worried he wouldn’t be comfortable… on the other side. So I just…” My expression remained blank. I looked away, said nothing, and started limping past them up the cemetery path. My father’s body stiffened when he saw my leg, his eyes instantly reddening. “Your leg…” “It’s nothing.” I cut him off, unwilling to continue the conversation. But my cold, distant attitude infuriated my brother, Bobby. He moved to block my path, grabbing my arm. “I said, that’s enough, Elara! Don’t you know that because you and Mom left, the Thorne family became the laughingstock of our social circle?” “If it weren’t for Melody being so exceptional, we would have lost our place in Seacliff City’s high society years ago!” My father tugged on my brother’s sleeve. “Bobby, that’s enough,” he said, his voice firm. “This is your sister. Control your temper.” Bobby glared at me, his face dark with resentment. My father fell back into his old habit of making excuses. “Elara, your brother doesn’t mean any harm. He just misses you and your mother so much. Please, come home. We’re family, after all.” He nudged Bobby again. Bobby shot a look at me, then at our father, and finally turned his head away, his voice stubborn. “If you and Mom come back together, you’ll still be my sister. We can still be a family.” Family? A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Ten years ago, I might have yearned for that word. Now, it was just dust, buried along with my mother in the cold earth. “There’s no need. Please, let me pass.” I didn’t want to say more. I moved to walk around them again. Bobby’s enraged voice followed me. “Elara, stop right there! Do you have to be so petty?” “If you hadn’t been the one to get Melody’s dog killed, Dad and I wouldn’t have been in such a difficult position back then…” I froze. My feet didn’t move, but the deep, concave scar on my calf began to ache with a phantom pain. It was from ten years ago, from the teeth of the dog Melody owned. That year, the vicious animal had torn into my leg, leaving me bleeding profusely. My wonderful father and brother were only concerned with comforting a crying Melody. I was left lying in a pool of my own blood until a neighbor finally found me and took me to the hospital. When I woke up, a chunk of flesh was missing from my calf. I’ve walked with a limp ever since. Shaking off the memory, I looked down at my throbbing leg. The pain was nothing compared to what it had been a decade ago. Just as my desperate craving for their love was nothing now. It was all meaningless. Ignoring his outburst, I dragged myself forward. But he was relentless, chasing after me. “Elara, what is your problem? Dad and I are practically begging you. What more do you want?” Before I could answer, a figure stepped in front of me. I looked up. It was Clara, my senior from the academy. “Don’t you dare raise your voice at Elara! She has nothing to do with you anymore,” she snapped. “And for the record, the pet cemetery is over there. If you’re here to mourn your precious mutt, you’re in the wrong section. Stop your yapping here.” Her words hit Bobby like a slap. His face went pale with rage. “Who the hell are you? This is a conversation between me and my sister. Stay out of it.” Clara scoffed, her gaze shifting to my father, who had been silent in the background. Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Who am I? I’m the one telling you to get the hell away from her. I won’t say it again. Get lost.” She swung the tote bag she was carrying, and it hit the ground with a thud. Its contents spilled out—a pile of old letters, and a faded photograph. The moment I saw that photo, my eyes blurred with tears. It was a portrait of my mother. Even faded, you could still see the breathtaking beauty that had once captivated a city. Twenty years ago, she was Sophie St. Claire, the toast of Seacliff City’s high society, adored by all. But of all her suitors, she chose my father, a man with nothing to his name. To marry him, she cut ties with her own family, sold all her jewelry, and gave him her entire dowry to start his business. The shock and grief of her defiance sent my grandfather to an early grave, and my mother became an outcast in her own family. But her sacrifice paid off. My father’s business succeeded, launching him into the city’s elite. She became the woman everyone envied. After my brother and I were born, his career soared. I was his little princess, spoiled and adored. I thought that happiness would last forever. Until my tenth birthday. My father promised he’d be there, but he never showed up. The next day, he walked in with a mud-streaked woman named Sienna and her daughter, Melody. He said they were destitute, with nowhere to go, and that he’d hired Sienna as a housekeeper. My mother, with her soft heart, took them in and cared for them. But within a month, Sienna had crawled into my father’s bed. The day my mother caught them, there was a terrible fight. In a fit of rage, my father officially adopted Melody. My mother tried to leave with Bobby and me, but my brother pulled his hand away. “Mom, stop making a scene!” he yelled. “Aunt Sienna is Dad’s childhood sweetheart! If it wasn’t for you, they would have been together a long time ago. Can’t you just look the other way?” That was the first time we understood the truth about Sienna. From that day on, the smiles vanished from my mother’s face. Our home became a war zone. If there was ever a new toy or a fresh piece of fruit, it went straight to Melody. My father, who once spent a fortune on a sapphire just to see my mother smile, now abandoned important meetings to rent out an entire amusement park for Sienna and Melody. To help Melody fit in, my father enrolled her in my prestigious private school and made a massive donation. Instantly, she was surrounded by a crowd of admirers. She used the opportunity to spread rumors that I had stolen her rightful place as the Thorne family heiress, and that my mother was a homewrecker. Overnight, I went from being cherished to being cornered in the girls’ bathroom. Melody and a group of boys poured buckets of filthy water over my head and threw rotting garbage at me. “This is what a little bitch like you deserves, Elara!” she sneered, grinding her heel into my schoolbag. “Listen to me,” she spat. “Dad is mine. Bobby is mine. This house is mine! You and your shameless mother can get the hell out!” The cold, stinking water dripped through my hair, but the chill in my heart was far worse. My father, who once treasured me, now only had eyes for Melody. My brother, who once protected me, ignored my pain. My mother cried herself to sleep every night, the light in her eyes dimming day by day. I had fallen from the clouds into the mud, and it was all because of his betrayal. His cruelty, my brother’s blindness, and the venom of Sienna and Melody were knives twisting in my mother’s heart and mine. But the final blow was yet to come. On the day of the national ballet competition preliminaries—a competition I had fought tooth and nail to qualify for—my father pulled me into his study. He demanded I give my spot to Melody. Ballet was my dream. I had practiced relentlessly for eight years. I refused. His face contorted with anger. “Elara, you’re the older sister! Why can’t you just let Melody have it?” The blood froze in my veins. “Let her have it?” I cried, tears streaming down my face. “How much more do I have to give up? You know what this competition means to me! Why do you always choose her?” He faltered, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “Elara…” He started to reach for me, but Melody burst into the room. She was wearing the beautiful, custom-made tutu my mother had spent a week sewing for me. Something inside me snapped. I lunged at her, trying to rip the dress off, but my father pulled her behind him and slapped me across the face. “I’m sorry, sister, I didn’t mean to…” Melody whimpered. “I was just so envious… I know I don’t deserve it. I’ll take it off right now…” My father wrapped his arms around her, cooing softly, his eyes burning with fury as he looked back at me. “What has gotten into you, Elara? You are a Thorne. Don’t act like a hysterical shrew, just like your mother!” A shrew. The kind, gentle father I once knew had become a monster. The home I had so desperately tried to hold together was crumbling. I stood there, a numb, broken puppet, until my mother appeared. “My sweet Elara,” she whispered, her voice pulling me back from the edge. “You’ve been hurt…” She held me, her body trembling with a mixture of sorrow and rage. She helped me to my room, and once I had calmed down, she marched back downstairs. I heard the loudest, most painful argument of their lives. Each shout was laced with heart-wrenching despair. That night, my mother came back with red-rimmed eyes, packed our bags, and took me to a hotel. When I woke up the next morning, she was lying on the floor. A river of blood flowed from her wrist, staining the carpet a deep, terrifying crimson. Her face was as white as a sheet. “Mom! Mom!” I screamed, grabbing her icy arm. “Please, Mom, don’t scare me!” I scrambled out of the room, shrieking into the hallway. “Help! Somebody help my mom!” They got her to the hospital in time, but I had no money. Trembling, I called my father. The moment he answered, I begged him through my tears. “Dad, please, you have to save Mom! She’s… she’s dying…” I could hear soft, intimate sounds on his end, and then Sienna’s syrupy laugh. Fighting back nausea, I pleaded again. “Dad, please, she’s really not going to make it…” The line went dead. Desperate, I called my brother. The first thing I heard was Melody’s sobbing, followed by Bobby’s roar of fury. “That’s it, Elara! You bully Melody behind our backs all the time, but today you took it too far! I haven’t even dealt with you for that, and now you’re calling me with more of your pathetic lies?” “Aunt Sienna was right. You and Mom are just spoiled tyrants. If I ever see you hurting Melody again, don’t blame me for disowning you as my sister!” “Bobby, please, Mom is…” The dial tone pierced my ear. I collapsed onto a bench in the hospital corridor, a profound cold seeping into my bones. To save my mother, I did the only thing I could think of. I knelt in the emergency room and begged the doctors, slamming my forehead against the cold floor over and over until it was swollen and bleeding. Finally, they agreed to help. Later, a doctor pulled me aside. “Young lady, your mother’s health is failing. Years of exhaustion and emotional distress… she doesn’t have much time.” It was then I learned that when my father started his business, my mother had worked day and night at odd jobs to support us, destroying her own health in the process. But I was too young to understand what “not much time” meant. Until the day she collapsed again. She held my hand, her voice a feather-light whisper. “Elara, don’t hate your father and brother. Just live a happy life. Dance your ballet.” Her breath hitched. “Burn everything of mine. The photos, the clothes… all of it. So you can live on, with nothing tying you down.” Then, her hand went limp. But I still believed I could save her. In the middle of a torrential downpour, I ran back to the Thorne villa. I rang the bell for what felt like an eternity before the door finally opened. It was Melody. She was wearing my favorite Elsa dress. “Look what the storm dragged in,” she sneered. “This look suits you. Perfect. A new toy for my dog.” She snapped her fingers. A massive dog lunged at me, its teeth sinking deep into my calf. I screamed as blood poured down my leg, mixing with the rain. But all I could think about was my mother waiting for me. I bit down on the dog’s neck with all my might. It yelped and collapsed. Just then, my father and brother returned. Melody’s face instantly crumpled into tears as she ran to our father. “Daddy! Bobby! Elara is terrifying! She just killed our dog!” My father’s eyes were filled with disgust. “You wretched girl! You dare come back here and cause more trouble?” “Throw her out,” Bobby said coldly. “And don’t ever let her set foot in this house again.” They didn’t ask about the blood soaking my clothes or the gash in my leg. They were my mother’s last hope. I crawled toward them, my hand outstretched, about to grab my father’s pant leg. “Aah! Don’t come near me!” Melody shrieked. “She’s a monster!” Instantly, they shielded her, and Bobby ordered the staff to throw me out. I looked at them protecting her, then at my bleeding leg, and the last flicker of hope died. As the servants dragged me away, the great doors of the villa slammed shut, severing the final tie between me and that house. From that day forward, the Thorne family and I were finished. “Give me that picture! You don’t deserve to touch it!” Clara’s shout pulled me back to the present. I looked up just in time to see Bobby wrestling with her over my mother’s faded portrait. With a sickening rip, the photo tore in two. As Bobby lunged again, his foot kicked the pile of letters on the ground. He bent down, picked one up, and tore it open. As he read, his expression froze. “Dad! Look at this!” He thrust the letter at our father. My father glanced at it dismissively, but as his eyes scanned the page, his face went deathly pale.

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At the parent-teacher conference, the teacher asked kids to grade their parents and explain. My son’s note reached me, with two lines in childish handwriting: “Dad, 100 points. Aunty, 100 points.” “Mom, 2 points. I hate you. You rooined my family.” Still too young to spell “ruined” right, he already knew how to blame his mother. After the meeting, I was the only parent kept behind. When I finally left at sunset, my son was gone. As I searched, a familiar voice cut through the dusk. “You should never have fought for Dylan, Avery. You can’t make him happy.” I looked up. My ex-husband, Grant, held our son, his face tense. “Unless you beg me to take you back—” Before he finished, Sienna stepped in softly, smiling. “Avery, you still haven’t paid Dylan’s tuition, have you? I’d gladly take care of him.” I stayed silent, looking at the son I’d raised for nine years. He hid behind Sienna, staring at me as if I’d ruin his “family” again. Years of weariness finally crested. The last of my stubbornness dissolved. I nodded, my voice eerily calm. “Fine.” 1 “You can have custody. We’ll sign the papers in the next couple of days. The sooner, the better.” The autumn wind in the north was biting. A stray leaf spun and landed at a stunned Grant’s feet. I pulled my coat tighter, my gaze lowered. “Let Sienna be his mother from now on. It’s what Dylan wants.” Dylan jumped up, a whoop of joy on his lips, but a single dark look from his father silenced him. That’s strange, he must have thought. Dad and Aunty Sienna get along so well. Why isn’t he happy? “Why?” Grant took a step forward, a furious, unreadable emotion simmering in his voice. “You would rather give up our son than ask me for help, just once?” I didn’t answer. I walked toward the Maybach parked at the curb. “Let’s go. I’ll pack up his things.” I reached for the passenger door out of habit, then stopped myself. I took a step back and got into the back seat. Grant’s eyes went cold. Sienna slid into the passenger seat with an apologetic smile. “So sorry, Avery, dear. I hope you don’t mind sitting in the back. It’s just, I’m so particular, and Grant has the seat adjusted just right for me.” She shot a meaningful glance at Grant. “Honestly, Avery, if you wanted to come back to the family, you didn’t have to use your son as an excuse. Why go through all this trouble?” “You gave him back this time,” she purred. “Next time… will you be giving yourself back?” The familiar digs, the veiled insults. I turned to look out the window. It was getting dark. The car pulled into a run-down neighborhood. I got out, went up the stairs, and unlocked my door. Before I could even step inside, Sienna gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Avery, darling… you live here?” Grant’s eyes scanned the tiny apartment, his expression a mixture of emotions that quickly hardened into disapproval. “I send our son to a private academy, and you have him living in a place like this?” In just six short years, I had gone from being the youngest head surgeon at the city’s top hospital, to a home-care aide for the elderly, to a woman so disgraced that no private clinic would even look at my resume. The meager salary I earned from my part-time job at a convenience store was just enough to cover the rent on this two-hundred-dollar-a-month room. But that was all about to end. Dylan had a lot of things, but there were very few he actually liked. I sorted through his belongings, packing only a small box. I told him to eat well, to go to bed on time, to listen to his father. I held the box out to Grant. He didn’t take it. Sienna did, and was about to say something when— SLAM. Grant shut the door, leaving her and Dylan in the hallway. He stared at me for a long time. Then, a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Is this really necessary, Avery?” he asked, his voice low and amused. He stepped closer, twisting a strand of my hair around his finger. “I get it. You can’t live without your son, but you’re too proud to beg. So you came up with this little scheme, this feigned surrender, to give me an opening…” He produced a document from somewhere. “Here. I’ve had the marriage certificate ready for a while now. All you have to do is swallow that pride of yours, sign on the dotted line, and we can go back to how things were.” 2 The way things were. In Grant’s memory, it was always perfect. That year, I had just returned from a fellowship abroad and started at the city’s main hospital. On my first day, a patient’s family member took a doctor hostage with a knife, claiming malpractice. The room went silent. The patient’s case was complex, the surgery incredibly high-risk. No one dared to step forward. I did. “I’ll do it,” I said. Afterward, Grant asked to see me. He was the young heir to a medical tech empire, newly in charge, and this was his first major crisis. He looked me over with a smile. “Dr. Caldwell, you’re very brave.” “It’s not about bravery,” I replied calmly. “As long as there is a sliver of hope, I will never give up on a life.” I paused. “And I was confident I could do it.” A light sparked in Grant’s eyes. He stared at me for a long moment, then smiled. The next day, when 9,999 roses were delivered to my office, I understood what that smile had meant. His pursuit was relentless. When he realized I wasn’t impressed by grand romantic gestures, he changed his strategy. He brought a state-of-the-art medical research project to our hospital, complete with a three-million-dollar suite of equipment for my exclusive use. After my late-night surgeries, he would always be there with a warm bowl of soup. He patiently listened to my mother’s stories, fixed her broken appliances, and found specialists to treat her old ailments. He was direct about his intentions. He told me he would marry no one else. But he did it in a way that showed my mother his sincerity. Finally, she sighed. “You’re not getting any younger, Avery. It’s time to settle down.” “Grant is a good man. He’s practical, and he knows how to care for someone. I think he’s the one who can give you a home.” So I said yes. Our marriage was a transaction. He needed a wife with a spotless reputation to help him clean up his playboy image. I needed a boost for my career, and… a little bit of warmth. On our first anniversary, Grant had a little too much to drink. He pinned me to the bed, a hint of annoyance in his eyes. “All that stuff about my past… you knew, didn’t you?” “I did,” I said. For a moment, I found him endearing. He buried his face in my neck and bit me, hard. “Then why weren’t you angry? Why weren’t you jealous?” I don’t remember exactly what I said, something about how his future was all that mattered to me. What I do remember is the look on his face when I showed him the positive pregnancy test. He was so happy he looked ridiculous. This proud, arrogant man just held me and kept repeating, “Thank you… thank you…” No one knows better than a doctor the irreversible damage childbirth does to a woman’s body. But I wanted to have a child with him. And Grant was truly grateful. So grateful that the very next day, he slept with his new assistant. When I caught them, he was still half-asleep, a frown on his face. “You’re pregnant. How am I supposed to take care of my needs?” 3 For the three years after our divorce, every time I saw Dylan, Grant would ask if I wanted to get back together. My answer was always the same. Eventually, he lost his patience. He used his connections to blacklist me from every medical facility in the city, trying to force my hand. This time, I nodded. Grant froze, a look of disbelief on his face. “You… you agree?” He cleared his throat, regaining his composure. “So you were just playing hard to get. Fine. I’ll pick you up tomorrow. We’ll go to the city hall.” I shook my head and stated my condition. “The day Dylan calls me ‘Mom’ again is the day I marry you.” Grant wasn’t angry. He chuckled. “Still hung up on that? Fine. Let him live with me. I guarantee he’ll be calling you Mom within three days.” His lawyer sent over the custody transfer agreement. The moment my digital signature was on the document, Grant smiled, grabbed my chin, and kissed me, hard. “You’re most agreeable when you’re obedient, Avery.” “City hall. Three days. Don’t be late.” I watched his car speed away, then wiped my lips until they were pale. He didn’t know that I had only ever lied twice in my life. Once, today. And once, when I forgave him for cheating. That year, when I went to the hospital for an abortion, Grant stopped me. He was frantic, as if he never imagined I would be so resolute. “Avery, I was drunk. It was a mistake. Please, just forgive me this once. I swear, it will never happen again!” I had heard the rumors before we were married. Grant was a notorious womanizer. But after our wedding, he had been a model husband. He knelt in front of everyone and begged me, tears in his eyes. In that moment, my resolve wavered. “Fine,” I heard myself lie. “I forgive you.” The assistant was fired. We never heard from her again. When Dylan was born, Grant acted like he had been given the greatest treasure in the world. He bought out every firework vendor in the city and set them off for two weeks straight. With our son as a bond, we had a few years of peaceful, happy life. Until it was time for Dylan to start preschool. Grant said my work schedule was too demanding and that we should hire a private tutor. The tutor he brought home was Sienna. The moment she spoke, I knew. She was the assistant he had fired. The rage was so overwhelming I thought I would be sick. I slapped Grant across the face and screamed at him to get out. After I had smashed half the furniture in our house, I grabbed a crying Dylan and tried to leave. Grant watched, his face a cold mask. He ordered the staff to restrain me. Then, inch by inch, he pried my fingers from our son’s arm and placed him in Sienna’s embrace. He looked at me with a cruel smile. “When will you understand, Avery? People in our class don’t have just one person.” “I always thought you were smart enough to figure that out. I guess I was wrong. You’ve been a real disappointment.” From that day on, I was forbidden to see Dylan. Grant wanted me to apologize, to be like the other society wives and accept my husband’s infidelities. I refused. At the height of our war, I leaked their explicit photos and stabbed him in the arm with a scalpel. Grant, who had never known a day of real pain, looked so panicked at the sight of his own blood. I felt a grim satisfaction. I think I hated him then. Hated him for not being able to love only me. 4 After packing, I terminated my lease, quit my job, and collected my final paycheck. By the time I was done, it was the third day. I bought a ticket for an international flight leaving that night. When I opened my door to leave, Sienna was standing there. Her outfit was simple, but on closer inspection, even her belt was a limited edition piece from the latest collection. She had done well for herself. “I’d give up on the idea of remarrying him if I were you, Avery.” Sienna’s lips curved into a sneer. “You really think using your son as a bargaining chip will get you back into the family? Dylan only thinks of me as his mother now. And as for Grant…” “He might feel a little guilty, but men get bored so easily. Do you really think he’s still interested in a washed-up ex-wife?” She leaned in, her voice a low hiss. “Don’t forget, you have nothing now. And I have a thousand ways to make sure you stay out of this family for good.” A dull ache spread through my chest. I remembered the day I left the Thorne family home for good. To break my spirit, Grant had me transferred from surgery to the geriatric ward, where I cared for dementia patients. As I was cleaning a bedpan, Sienna cornered me. She looked down at the filth on my hands, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “So this is what you’ve been reduced to.” “Tell me, if you couldn’t perform surgery anymore… would you be stuck here cleaning up after old people for the rest of your life?” She shoved me, and her stiletto heel came down hard on my right hand. The heel ground into my flesh. The pain was so intense I thought I heard the bones snap. But that wasn’t the worst of it. My mother was in a car accident. Her life was hanging by a thread. I ran into the ER, begging them to operate, but no one would touch her. Grant stood at the end of the hall, watching with cold indifference. “Just admit you were wrong,” he said, his voice calm, yet cruel. “And I’ll get the best doctors for her.” I was too stubborn to give in. I went into the operating room myself. But my mother’s blood was too warm, my hands were shaking too violently. I was too slow… I couldn’t save her. In that moment, a part of me died with her. The hate was gone. It was really gone. For the next six months, I fought Grant for custody of our son. I gave up everything I had for a child who had already grown distant from me. Every time Dylan cried and said he wanted to leave, I thought this tragedy was my fault, a result of my own stubbornness. It was only after countless sleepless nights that I understood. It was the cruelty in Grant’s love that had brought our marriage to this point. He loved me, so he kept coming back. But his love was selfish, laced with a need for control and a deep-seated contempt. It was all over now. I looked at Sienna, and for the first time, I felt nothing but a quiet pity. I offered her my sincere blessing. “I hope your novelty lasts a little longer for him this time.” Her face darkened, and she started spewing insults. I didn’t say another word. I called a cab and went straight to the airport. On the way, a familiar voice called, as gentle as ever. “What time does your flight land? I’ll pick you up.” “You’re not going to change your mind again, are you?” “No,” I said, my voice firm. “Not this time.” I had nothing left. There was nothing left to keep me here. On the other side of the city, Grant didn’t sleep a wink. When his alarm went off at 7:30, he shot out of bed and drove to my apartment building. He started to go up, then thought better of it. He didn’t want to seem too eager. He went back to his car and tapped his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. The city hall opens in an hour, he thought. Almost there.

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1 The night before my wedding, I found my fiancé tangled in the sheets with his savior’s sister. She was wrapped in our scarlet silk duvet, the flush of passion still on her cheeks. I slapped the positive pregnancy test onto his bare chest. “Do you still want this baby?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. He chain-smoked until dawn, then crushed the last cigarette. “It’s a responsibility with her,” he said, his voice raspy. “But it’s you I love.” For that single phrase, I put on the white dress. I decided to give him one last chance. Instead of my groom, I got a message: “I’m so sorry, Ms. Vance. Mr. Lockwood says the wedding is off. Miss Reed had a heart attack, she’s in critical condition.” The bouquet slipped from my fingers, shattering on the marble floor along with my dignity. I ran outside just in time to see his car disappearing down the street, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust and humiliation. I called him, my voice cracking on the edge of a scream. “Tim Lockwood! If you go to her today, I swear I’ll go to the hospital tomorrow and make sure the Lockwood line ends with you!” A moment of dead silence, and then he hung up. … The dial tone buzzed in my ear. I stood at the hotel entrance, a bride without a groom, the gown a cruel joke. Guests whispered behind their hands, their pity like a thousand tiny needles. The officiant stood awkwardly on the stage, microphone in hand, at a complete loss for words. Tim’s mother, Catherine, hurried over, grabbing my hand. “Stella, come inside. Don’t give them a spectacle.” I looked at her, my voice barely a whisper. “Catherine, the wedding is off.” “Nonsense!” she hissed, her voice low and urgent. “Tim is just confused. Lily’s condition is critical, he can’t just ignore her.” “So he can take care of her, but not me?” “You’re the woman he’s marrying. You need to be the bigger person.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I pulled my hand from her grasp. “Then I won’t be Mrs. Lockwood.” I turned, gathered the ridiculous skirt of my dress, and walked towards the back rooms. Catherine’s voice followed me, sharp and threatening. “Stella Vance! If you walk out that door today, you will never set foot in our family’s home again!” I didn’t look back. In the dressing room, I tore off the wedding gown and changed into my own clothes. The makeup artist carefully removed the pins and jewels from my hair. “Miss Vance, your makeup…” “Leave it.” I picked up my purse and walked out. Outside, the sky was a bruised, unforgiving grey. I hailed a cab. “Mercy General Hospital, please.” My phone buzzed in my purse. I pulled it out. It was Tim’s assistant, Mark. I ignored the call. I already knew the script by heart. Mr. Lockwood is handling an emergency. Mr. Lockwood didn’t mean for this to happen. Mr. Lockwood will explain everything later. After ten years, I was tired of their lines. Lily Reed was Tim’s responsibility. Because her brother, Liam, had died five years ago saving Tim’s life. It was a debt that had shadowed Tim for five long years. I used to think it was right for him to look after her. I used to believe in his honor. It was only today that I understood. Some debts have boundaries, and he had crossed them long ago. The taxi pulled up to the hospital. I paid the driver and walked into the emergency building. Tim was sitting on a bench outside the ICU, his head in his hands, fingers tangled in his hair. His suit jacket was tossed carelessly beside him. He heard my heels click on the linoleum and looked up. He scrambled to his feet when he saw me. His eyes were shot with red. “Stella, what are you doing here? I’m so sorry, today…” “How is she?” I cut him off, my gaze fixed on the closed doors of the ICU. “The doctors said it was acute heart failure. They’re still working on her. It doesn’t look good.” “I see.” I nodded. I turned to leave. Tim grabbed my arm. “Stella, don’t be like this. Liam died for me. I can’t abandon Lily. She has no one else in the world.” I shook his hand off. “I’m not being ‘like this,’ Tim. I just find it interesting that our wedding wasn’t as important as a woman you’ve known for five years.” “That’s not it! Stella, you’re the most important thing in my life! But she’s dying!” “The doctors haven’t said she’s going to die,” I stated, my voice flat and even. Tim’s lips parted, but no words came out. Just then, the ICU doors swung open and a doctor emerged. “Who’s with Lily Reed?” Tim rushed forward. “I am.” “The patient had a panic attack that caused her heart rate to spike. We’ve stabilized her. She’s not in any mortal danger. We’ll move her to a regular room for a couple of days of observation.” A wave of relief washed over Tim’s face. He turned to look at me, and his expression held a hint of reprimand. “See? The poor girl is all alone. Can’t you have a little compassion?” I said nothing. They wheeled the gurney out. Lily lay on it, her face pale, her eyes closed. As she passed me, her eyelashes trembled, her eyes cracking open just enough to meet mine. Tears instantly welled up, spilling down her temples. Tim was by her side in a second, taking her hand. “Lily, don’t be afraid. I’m here.” I turned and walked out of the hospital. The cold wind hit my face, and only then did I realize how hard my own heart was pounding. 2 Tim didn’t come home the next day. The wedding suite was cloaked in a dead silence. I called a real estate agent and put the apartment on the market. “Yes, an urgent sale.” He came back that afternoon, his face etched with exhaustion. “Stella, I’m apologizing on Lily’s behalf. She didn’t mean for what happened yesterday.” “Can’t she apologize for herself?” Tim hesitated. “She’s still very weak.” “Tim, let’s not talk about her. Let’s talk about us. What about the wedding? What do we tell our friends and family?” He was quiet for a long moment. “We’ll wait for things to blow over. Then we’ll have another ceremony.” “Another ceremony?” I stared at him. “You think this is something you can just ‘re-do’?” “Then what do you want me to do? It already happened! Stella, I know you’re hurting, but Lily just survived a near-death experience. Can we please just show a little understanding?” There was that word again. Understanding. I stood up, walked into the bedroom, and pulled out a suitcase. I began to pack. Tim frowned. “What are you doing?” “I’ve listed the apartment.” His face hardened. “Stella, are you done with this tantrum?” “I’m not throwing a tantrum.” I folded a shirt neatly into the suitcase. “I just don’t want to live here anymore.” He strode over and grabbed my wrist. “You are not selling this place! This is our home!” “It stopped being our home the moment you abandoned it for another woman.” The anger in his eyes flared. “You’re being completely irrational!” His phone rang, shattering the tense silence. He answered it, and his tone shifted instantly. “What’s wrong? Another nightmare? Don’t be scared, I’ll be right there.” He hung up and let go of me, his face a mask of impatience. “Stella, stop this. Lily isn’t stable yet. I have to go check on her. We’ll talk when I get back.” He expected me to yield, just like all the other times. “If you walk out that door today,” I said, my voice cold as ice, “don’t bother coming back.” He froze mid-step. He turned to look at me, his gaze glacial. “Stella, my patience has its limits.” And then, he left. I listened to the sound of the door closing. I placed the last item in my suitcase and zipped it shut. 3 I moved back into my studio, a small loft space with my design workshop downstairs and living quarters upstairs. Tim didn’t call. And I didn’t call him. A week later, his mother, Catherine, asked to meet. At the café, she slid a check across the table. “Ten million dollars. Leave my son.” I stared at the long line of zeros. “Catherine, this isn’t about money.” “I know,” she said, lifting her coffee cup. “You two have a decade of history. But you need to understand, Stella, the Lockwood family needs a wife who is gracious, who can support Tim, not a liability who only causes trouble.” “And Lily is gracious?” “Lily is simple and kind. And her brother saved Tim’s life. It’s only right that Tim protects her. As his fiancée, you should be supporting him, not fighting him.” I finally understood. In their eyes, all my pain, all my humiliation, was just me “causing trouble.” I pushed the check back to her. “I don’t want the money. And I don’t want Tim anymore, either.” I stood up. “I wish him and Lily a lifetime of happiness.” I walked out of the café and blocked every number associated with the Lockwood family. The world finally went quiet. I threw myself into preparing for the Milan Jewelry Design Competition, three months away. It was the highest aspiration I held as a designer. Life was full, and peaceful. Until an unwelcome guest showed up at my studio one day. Lily. She wore a simple white dress, no makeup, the very picture of fragile innocence. “Stella, I came to apologize.” She sat down across from me, her eyes already red-rimmed. “On the wedding day… it was my fault. I shouldn’t have…” “Get to the point,” I said without looking up from my sketch. She faltered. “Tim… he’s been in a really bad way these past few days. Drinking all the time. I know it’s because of me.” She took a credit card out of her purse. “This is the card Tim gave me. I saved up everything he gave me, I never spent it. I’m giving it back to you. Please, just don’t be angry with him anymore, okay?” I finally put down my pen and looked at her. “Lily, do you enjoy this?” The rehearsed expression on her face froze. “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about…” “Every time you get sick, every time you have an ‘incident,’ it’s always right at a crucial moment for him and me. You time this, don’t you, Lily?” Her face went pale. “No, I would never…” “Take your card and get the hell out of my studio.” She bit her lip, and tears began to fall. “Stella, I know you hate me. But… but if the person who died five years ago had been Tim instead of my brother, what would you do?” I stared at her, silent. She stood up and placed the card on my desk. “Believe me or not, I never wanted to destroy what you had.” “I’m just… so lonely.” She turned and left. I threw the card in the trash. That night, Tim came. He was drunk, reeking of whiskey as he kicked open the door to my studio. “Stella! What did you do to Lily?” He stormed towards me, grabbing my shoulders. “She went home and slit her wrists! If the housekeeper hadn’t found her, she’d be dead! Are you satisfied now?” My heart sank into a cold, dark pit. The same old trick. “I didn’t do anything.” “Still lying! She’s a kind soul, she came to give you her savings, and you had to provoke her?” His grip was crushing, my shoulders ached. “Tim, who do you believe? Her, or me?” He stopped. I stared into his eyes, watching the storm of emotions warring within them. Finally, he shoved me away. “I’m taking you to the hospital. You’re going to apologize to her!” “I’m not going.” “It’s not up to you!” He grabbed me, trying to drag me out the door. I fought back, struggling against his hold. “Tim, you’re insane!” “You’re the one who’s insane!” he roared, his eyes wild. “You never used to be like this! When did you become so vicious, so unreasonable?” He was right. I never used to be like this. The old me would have believed every word he said, understood his every dilemma. I would have shouldered his responsibilities as if they were my own. When did it all change? It probably started when he began choosing another woman over me, time and time again. He dragged me down the stairs, his car parked right outside. He wrenched the passenger door open and tried to shove me inside. With a final surge of strength, I broke free. “Tim,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “We’re over.” He froze, as if he couldn’t process what he’d just heard. “What did you say?” “I said, we’re breaking up. From now on, you and your precious Lily have nothing to do with me.” His face turned to stone. “Stella, don’t you dare say something you’ll regret.” “My biggest regret is spending ten years pulling you from the gutter, only for you to spend the next ten pushing me back into it.” I turned, walked back upstairs, and slammed the door, locking it behind me. I leaned against it, listening to him pound on the wood. Again and again. Then, the sound of an engine roaring to life. He was gone. I slid to the floor, hugging my knees. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through my abdomen. I looked down. Blood was trickling down my legs.

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My relatives said I’d won the second-wife lottery in New York. Joey Sterling married me in a headline wedding after his first wife left the country and his son drowned. A year later, we had a son, and life seemed blissful. Then Chloe, his ex-wife, returned—with convenient amnesia. She called during our nights, stormed our anniversary dinner, and kissed Joey in front of me. In a crowded store, she screamed that I was a homewrecker and ripped out a chunk of my hair. Joey would beg me, “Mia, she’s sick. She doesn’t mean it… Once she’s better, she’ll leave us alone.” I believed him. But on our son’s birthday, Chloe took him. After five frantic hours, I found him barely breathing in a Central Park pond. I was trembling too hard to lift him. When I turned for help, I saw Joey and Chloe standing close, foreheads touching. “My love,” he said, voice breaking, “I don’t know when you’ll remember… right here, I proposed to you ten times.” A cold calm washed over me. I took out my phone and called 911. I was done swallowing this half-baked life, this second-best marriage. … Black water was pouring from my son’s mouth and nose; he could barely choke out the word “Mama.” My heart was a frantic drum as I performed CPR, my arms aching with exhaustion. All the while, Joey was gently pulling Chloe into his arms, whispering about the romance of his long-ago proposals. It wasn’t until the piercing wail of sirens sliced through the air that Joey seemed to wake from his trance, his gaze finally shifting to his wife and dying son. “Mia.” I looked up, my eyes burning. For a fleeting moment, I thought he was finally going to show some concern for our son, whose little face was already stiff with cold. But reality hit me like a physical blow. “Why did you call the police! Don’t you know Chloe’s condition can’t handle any stress?” My head buzzed. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that excuse. Because Chloe couldn’t be “stressed,” I had spent the last six months living like a mistress in my own home. My son was forced to pretend he was his dead half-brother, thrown into a freezing river in the middle of winter for “swimming lessons,” and ended up with pneumonia. If my son and I didn’t play along, we were the unkind ones. But I had had enough. I pushed myself up from the frozen ground and started walking toward the police officers. I didn’t get two steps before Chloe shoved me hard from behind. “I’ll teach you to call the police!” After six hours of adrenaline and physical exertion, my world went black. I crumpled to my knees. The last thing I heard was Joey’s voice, distant but firm, determined to protect Chloe. “It was a misunderstanding with our nanny. The boy’s mother was just out playing with our son.” “Yes, I’m his legal guardian. I’m not pressing charges…” When I opened my eyes again, I shot up in bed. “Where’s my son?” Joey calmly placed a warm towel on my forehead, a hint of amusement in his voice. “What’s the rush? Noah just went for a little swim. He went home with the housekeeper hours ago.” He sighed. “And you, calling the police over such a small thing. You made Chloe sit through a thirty-minute questioning…” His every word was an accusation, painting me as the one who had overreacted. Our son nearly drowned, and that was a “small thing”? I slapped his hand away, my voice hard for the first time in our marriage. “Let’s get a divorce.” A dead silence fell over the room. As Joey stared at me in stunned disbelief, Chloe pushed the door open. A flicker of triumph flashed in her eyes before her expression crumbled into anguish. “Mia, please, don’t do this! I remember everything now, my son… my Ethan is dead,” she sobbed. “I just want to treat Noah like my own son, to love him. Isn’t it better for him to have one more person who loves him?” In the past, words like these would have sent me into a blind rage. This time, I just smiled. “Why raise another woman’s child? Here, I’ll make room for you. You and Joey can have another one of your own.” Surprise flickered across Chloe’s face, quickly replaced by a look of profound humiliation as her eyes welled up. “I’m not trying to break up this family! How could you say that to me? It’s just… compared to my Ethan, Noah is so weak! I was just trying to help you toughen him up, and you turn on me like this!” Tears streamed down her face, her body trembling as if she were about to collapse. Joey, completely flustered, shoved me aside and rushed to her. The force sent me stumbling backward, and my head slammed against the sharp corner of the bedframe. Blood streamed down my face. But Joey didn’t even look back. His voice was filled with reproach. “Mia, Chloe is a patient! Do you have to provoke her, force her to remember how Ethan drowned? Is that what makes you happy? How did you become so cruel?” The accusation was laughable. Chloe was the one who had brought up Ethan. But Joey was just getting started, turning his anger on our son. “The boy is spoiled because of you! A little swim sends him into a panic. A soft mother makes for a weak son! And now you want a divorce? Just stop it! There is no way I’m letting you raise him!” A groan of pain escaped my lips. As Joey instinctively turned his head, Chloe suddenly clutched hers, crying out in pain. Without a second of hesitation, Joey swept her up into his arms and bolted from the room. As he carried her out, Chloe looked over his shoulder and shot me a smirk of pure mockery. I watched them go, my expression blank. Joey was certain that with our son as my weakness, I would always give in. But he didn’t know. He didn’t know that when he was drowning in depression after his wife and son were gone, it was his own mother who had begged me to marry him. And the document I signed wasn’t just a marriage certificate; it was also a pre-nuptial agreement with a clause stating that in the event of a divorce, Joey Sterling waived all rights to custody. I could walk away whenever I wanted. Joey didn’t come home. It seemed he had forgotten it was our son’s birthday. But I hadn’t. When I opened the door to Noah’s room, I found his small figure staring blankly at his birthday cake. His eyes lit up when he saw me, like a little bird waiting to be fed. He instinctively glanced behind me. Seeing no one, he stretched his lips into an even bigger smile. My heart ached. At five years old, my son was already an expert at hiding his disappointment. But it was Noah who burst into tears first. “Mommy, what happened to your head? Is it because I’m not as good a swimmer as my brother? Did Daddy get mad at you again? It’s all my fault…” A five-year-old should be showered with praise on his birthday, told how wonderful and amazing he is. He shouldn’t be anxiously wondering what he did wrong this time. But for as long as he could remember, he had been compared to a half-brother he had never met. On his fourth birthday, Noah won second place in a competition. “Well,” Joey had sighed, “he still doesn’t have Ethan’s natural talent.” That one sigh extinguished all the boy’s joy. The mood that evening was heavy, the adults murmuring about “if only Ethan were here…” The celebration fizzled out. Joey left early, shutting himself in Ethan’s old room, staring at a wall covered in trophies until the middle of the night. I hugged my son tightly, my voice choked but firm. “No, sweetie, it’s not your fault. You are perfect. It’s Daddy who’s wrong. Mommy is going to take you away from here, and you’ll never have to be compared to anyone ever again.” “What nonsense are you spouting!” A low, furious growl came from the doorway. Joey stood there, his face a thundercloud, and strode towards us. His eyes fell on the gauze on my forehead, his brows knitting together. “When did you hit your head? Did you damage your brain? Is that why you’re filling our son’s head with this poison?” He reached out to check my wound. Seeing this, a flash of jealousy crossed Chloe’s face, and she immediately adopted her fragile persona. “Mia, how can you teach a child that? To run away from the slightest difficulty? That’s not love, you’re harming him! No wonder he…” As she spoke, she casually rolled up her sleeve, revealing a red mark on her arm. She glanced at Noah, her sentence trailing off meaningfully. Joey’s eyes narrowed. He whipped around to face our son. Noah, clearly baffled, just shook his head helplessly. “Daddy, I didn’t…” “And now you’re learning to lie!” The frustrations of the entire evening erupted. Joey grabbed Noah and shoved him in front of Chloe. “Apologize to Aunt Chloe!” The rough grip hurt Noah, and tears welled in his eyes. “It wasn’t me! It really wasn’t! Daddy, don’t you remember my birthday wish?” But Chloe grabbed Noah’s hand, pressed it against her supposed injury, and cried out. “Ow! That hurts! Noah, stop it…” CRACK! Joey backhanded our son, sending him stumbling to the floor. Noah sat there, clutching his face, looking up at his father in stunned silence. The tears stopped. My own eyes filled. I knew what that meant. My son had finally lost all hope in his father. But Joey was oblivious, his voice a harsh command. “Charles! Take Noah to his room and lock the door! Let him think about what he’s done!” Seeing my son’s trembling body, my heart felt like it was being shredded. I lunged forward to get him back. Joey seized my wrist, his voice filled with resentment. “Mia, what is wrong with you? Haven’t you caused enough trouble?” “That’s right, Mia,” Chloe chimed in, pointing at the cake, now a trampled mess on the floor. “Joey came here to celebrate Noah’s birthday, and you’ve ruined everything. I’m sure Noah will resent you for this.” They had ruined everything! Rage exploded in my chest. Without thinking, I slapped Joey across the face. “Divorce! We’re doing it now! And don’t you worry about our son! Whether he turns out good or bad, he is my responsibility from now on!” I had hit him with all my strength. His head snapped to the side. When he turned back, his eyes were red with disbelief. “Haven’t I been good to you? How can you say such a thing?” Perhaps he had. There were gifts on holidays, yearly vacations, small surprises after work. But when Chloe had once looked at a wall of those gifts with a knowing, dismissive smirk, I realized he was just repeating the same routines he’d had with her. And when I was being publicly assaulted, when my son was being ostracized by his classmates, Joey’s silence had been louder and more painful than any slap. “You forgot Ethan—saying these things in front of the child! Do you have any idea how much psychological damage that will do to him!” I didn’t care about my son? I laughed, my body shaking. “Yesterday, at the pond, do you know our son almost drowned? If I had been one minute later, he would be gone!” “He was thrown into a freezing river at four years old to ‘practice,’ and he never once cried, even when the cold made his muscles cramp! But the night I was attacked and called a homewrecker, do you know our son cried himself to sleep under his blankets?” I pointed at Chloe, who was hiding behind Joey, trying to smother a smile. Tears mixed with my screams. “Joey, tell me! Did you marry me because you loved me, or because you just wanted to replace Ethan? But Ethan is dead! My son doesn’t have to be him, and he never will be!” As the words left my mouth, the wound on my forehead split open again, and warm blood trickled down my face. A dazed look crossed Joey’s face, and a bitter regret slowly filled his eyes. “Mia, I didn’t know. I really didn’t know.” He took a step forward, reaching out to pull me into his arms. But at that moment, a shriek came from behind him. “How could my Ethan be gone! You must have killed him!” Chloe had “lost her memory” again, lunging at me like a madwoman. I didn’t back down. I raised my hand and slapped her twice, hard. “Chloe, did Ethan really kill himself because his parents got divorced?” She, who was so used to having the upper hand, was incensed. Her eyes darted around, and she snatched a pair of scissors, aiming them at her own body. “I’d rather die than be bullied by a homewrecker like you!” “Chloe!” Joey’s face went white. He lunged, wrestled the scissors from her grasp, and yelled for the staff. “Get the car! We’re going to the hospital!” Before leaving, he rushed back to me, his hands gripping mine, his tone almost pleading. “Thank god, thank god she didn’t hurt you. Please, let the doctor re-bandage your head, okay? I promise… this is the last time.” My head was splitting. I wanted to speak, but no words would come out. The story was that Chloe had run off to another country with Ethan’s swim coach, taking a large sum of money with her. Shortly after, the devastating news came: Ethan, missing his father, had drowned himself in a lake. Joey had been on the verge of a complete breakdown, and Chloe was unreachable. It was only when the money ran out that she had crawled back. The first time she broke into our home, she tore our wedding photos to shreds. But she claimed amnesia, and Joey forgave everything. Then she threw boiling water at me, cut my hair, slipped sleeping pills into my son’s food… Every time, it was the “last time.” A never-ending cycle. But I wasn’t willing to wait anymore. Seeing that I didn’t argue, Joey assumed I had agreed. Still, a sense of panic gripped him. He gritted his teeth and made a final vow. “If this doesn’t work, if she’s not cured this time, I’ll have her committed. I will never let her hurt you again.” He leaned down, pressed a quick kiss on my cheek, and hurried away. I leaned against the wall and slowly slid to the floor, missing the venomous glare Chloe shot me as she was led away. When I opened my eyes, the sun was bright. The housekeeper sat by my bed, her eyes red. “Ma’am, you’re finally awake! The young master has been locked in the basement all night!” I ran barefoot to the basement and scooped up my son, who was burning with fever and delirious. My phone buzzed. A message from my lawyer: The divorce has been finalized. Without hesitation, I grabbed our suitcases, picked up my son, and walked out. But just as I stepped out the front door, a slap sent me sprawling to the ground. “So it was you! How could you enable him like this? He steals something, and you help him run away!” I hit the ground hard, shielding my son, my face contorted in pain. “What are you talking about?” Joey dragged us roughly back upstairs and threw us down at Chloe’s feet. She was sobbing over an empty box. “Ethan’s gold medal is gone! Noah, I know you’re jealous of your brother, but you can’t steal his honor and make it yours!” “I tried to raise you like my own son! Please, just give me back Ethan’s things…” My son, delirious with fever, still instinctively stood up for himself. “No, I didn’t…” Joey snatched him from my arms and kicked him twice, hard. “Still lying! You worthless little thing! You were so jealous you tore all his awards off the wall!” My son’s screams broke me. I grabbed a crystal trophy and pointed it at Joey. “Give me back my son! If you touch him again, I swear I’ll kill you!” “The awards were hung high on the wall. How could a five-year-old reach them?” Joey froze. Chloe suddenly dropped to her knees, slapping herself across the face. “It’s my fault! I shouldn’t have sent Ethan abroad for his swimming career! He wouldn’t have gotten so depressed and killed himself because he missed his father! Please, take it out on me! Ethan was so young when he died, and now we can’t even protect his memory! We failed him as parents!” Her hysterical cries ignited the long-suppressed guilt in Joey. He grabbed a whip and brought it crashing down on our son.

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