The force of the yank against the back of my uniform shirt made the strap of my bra snap back against my skin, the sharp sting almost making me cry out. “Pink today, huh?” Jaxson Riley’s voice, thick with a lazy sort of amusement, drifted from the desk behind me. Trevor, his shadow, immediately chimed in. “Jax is really dedicated, man. Checking your bra color every day!” A wave of suppressed, snickering laughter washed over the nearby desks. I gripped the pen in my hand, my back ramrod straight. Suddenly, a torrent of text flashed across my vision: 【OMG Jax is so smooth! Bad Boy exterior but totally a softie!】 【What is this, a high school sweet romance trope?! He teases you because he loooves you~】 【Girl, turn around and look! I bet his ears are bright red!】 I closed my eyes. These bizarre “Comments,” this digital Overlay, had started appearing about a month ago, and only I could see them. They consistently packaged Jaxson’s petty cruelty as “awkward affection” and romanticized straight-up harassment as “flirty banter.” Sweetness my ass. 1 The dismissal bell rang. I whirled around. Jaxson was leaning back in his chair, watching me with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His ear tips, sure enough, were faintly flushed. The Overlay went ballistic: 【Red! Red! His ears are red! Told you!】 【Pure-hearted School Bully x Cold Academic Girl—I could ship this forever!】 【Stop being so cold, lead female! He likes you!】 “Jaxson Riley,” I said, my voice perfectly level. “Touch me again, and I’m reporting you to the Dean’s office for sexual harassment.” The classroom fell instantly silent. The smirk froze on Jaxson’s face. Trevor was the first to jump up. “Skylar Sloane, are you crazy? Jax was just messing with you, can’t you tell?” “‘Messing with me’ by yanking my underwear strap?” I stood up, looking down at Jaxson. “Why don’t you go home and yank your own father’s briefs off, and see if he can ‘joke around’ with you so calmly?” The Overlay exploded: 【OMG the female lead is savage… but I’m kinda into it?】 【Don’t be like that, Jax just doesn’t know how to express himself!】 【Isn’t this how all campus novels start? The male lead bullies the girl because he cares!】 Jaxson shoved his chair back and stood up. He was a head taller than me, and his shadow fell over me. “Skylar Sloane, say that again?” “I said,” I enunciated slowly, “that your behavior constitutes sexual harassment. Do you need me to pull up the penal code and give you a lesson?” The Geometry teacher hadn’t left yet and looked over at the commotion. “What’s all the noise? Jaxson, get back to your seat.” Jaxson glared at me, a vicious fire in his eyes, before storming out and slamming the door. As Trevor chased after him, he tossed a parting shot. “Skylar, you are seriously ungrateful.” The Comments were awash in regret: 【Oh no, the female lead is making her path too narrow.】 【Ugh, Jax finally showed special interest in someone.】 【Am I the only one who thinks the male lead’s actions were kind of over the line? Waiting for the ‘chasing the wife to the crematorium’ arc~】 I sat back down. Hannah, my desk mate, whispered, “Skylar, why provoke him? Jaxson’s family…” “His family is rich and powerful, so he gets to harass anyone he wants?” I finished her sentence. “Does that mean the law is just a suggestion?” Hannah didn’t reply, but her eyes held a pitying expression that screamed, You are so naive. I knew all about Jaxson’s background. His father was a prominent member of the Board of Trustees, and his mother was a well-known local entrepreneur. That’s why he swaggered through the halls. Teachers turned a blind eye; classmates either sucked up to him or hid. Except for me—the transfer student who didn’t understand the “rules.” 2 The final bell chimed, and I grabbed my backpack, hurrying downstairs. In the bike racks, my old, beat-up mountain bike was lying on its side. Both tires were slashed, and all the air was gone. A Post-it note was stuck to the handlebars. The handwriting was bold and arrogant: “Wear that white blouse tomorrow. I like it.” There was no signature, but I didn’t need one. That particular white blouse was slightly sheer—enough to vaguely outline the shape and color of my bra. I hadn’t worn it since the day Jaxson loudly discussed my lingerie with his friends. 【OMG Jax is so dominant! He definitely wants to see you in white!】 【The method is a bit extreme, but this is standard procedure for a school bully novel.】 【Female lead, don’t be mad. He just wants to get your attention~】 I pinched the Post-it note between my fingers and took a deep breath. Fine, Jaxson Riley. You want to play games? “Skylar, do you need help?” Liam, the class president, walked up, pushing his bike. He frowned when he saw mine. “This is…” “Obviously intentional.” I showed him the Post-it. “Evidence.” Liam’s face was grave. “That’s Jaxson’s handwriting. I’ll go with you to the Dean of Students.” “Don’t bother,” I tucked the note into my bag. “I’ll handle this myself.” Liam looked doubtful. “Skylar, you can’t just let this go—” “I don’t plan to let it go.” I smiled at him. “But I have my own way.” The Overlay devolved into argument: 【The second male lead has appeared! Gentle Class President x Cool Academic Girl is also ship-worthy!】 【No way, I’m still rooting for Jax. That clumsy affection is so much more real.】 【Real? This is harassment, people. Can the Comments please get a moral compass?】 The next day, I wore a black T-shirt. Jaxson’s mood was visibly foul from first period. During the mid-morning break, he cornered me at the stairwell landing. “I told you to wear the white blouse. Didn’t you see the note? Do I need to help you change?” His voice was low and laced with threat. “I told you to stop harassing me. Did you listen?” I countered. Jaxson let out a dry, irritated laugh. “Skylar Sloane, do you really think I wouldn’t dare do anything to you?” “You would dare,” I nodded. “Just like you dared to slash my tires, dared to grab my clothes in class, and dared to let your flunkies spread vile rumors about me. You dare to do everything, because you’re Jaxson Riley, the Board member’s son.” He hadn’t expected me to be so direct; he froze for a second. 【Female lead is so bossy! Love her!】 【Jax is stunned, LOL. No one’s ever talked to him like that.】 【She’s playing hard to get, right? It has to be.】 Jaxson took a step closer. I could smell a faint hint of tobacco smoke mixed with his cologne. “Since you know that, stop pissing me off. I’ve been patient enough with you.” “Your patience is a semester of harassment?” I laughed. “Jaxson, maybe you should see a therapist? Your perception is severely skewed.” His eyes turned instantly cold. Just then, the PA system crackled, signaling the start of the break. I sidestepped him and walked past, dropping my voice. “By the way, your custom motocross bike is in the back of the shed, right?” Jaxson grabbed my wrist, his fingers tightening. “You touched my bike?” To Jaxson, that bike was probably second only to his father. “Why would I dare?” I yanked my hand away. “Just reminding you that the campus surveillance system was recently upgraded. High-definition.” I genuinely wouldn’t dare—that custom bike was worth a small fortune. I couldn’t afford to replace it. It was just an empty threat. He stared at me for several seconds, then, slowly, a smile spread across his face. “Skylar Sloane, you’re more interesting than I thought.” 【Here it comes! ‘Woman, you have successfully attracted my attention!’】 【Classic line, late but delivered!】 【I bet five bucks, next chapter Jax starts the ‘True Love’ route.】 I walked onto the track without looking back. 3 Jaxson’s “pursuit” intensified. My homework assignments would frequently “disappear,” only to be found in his desk, covered in ridiculous doodles. At lunch, he and Trevor would bring their trays and sit directly across from me. Trevor would loudly announce, “Jax saved you a spot, aren’t you touched?” During Physics lab, he would “accidentally” knock over my equipment, then pretend to help me clean up, his fingers deliberately brushing the back of my hand. 【Jax is so childish, LOL. Like an elementary school kid who teases the one he likes.】 【The way he looks at the female lead is different—that focused intensity.】 【When is the female lead going to realize his feelings? I’m dying here!】 I noticed a pattern: the Comments only appeared when Jaxson was actively doing something to me. I never saw them otherwise. It was as if an invisible audience was watching this “Bad Boy Sweetheart Drama” through a screen, and I was the heroine who was supposed to follow the script. To hell with the script. Wednesday afternoon was school-wide cleanup. Hannah and I were wiping down the classroom windows; Jaxson’s group was responsible for the hallway. He passed by, carrying a bucket, and “accidentally” sloshed a wave of dirty water right onto me. My skirt instantly became soaked, clinging to my body. It wasn’t cold in October, but the sticky feeling, combined with the stares from everyone around me, made my whole body prickle with raw shame. Trevor let out a wolf whistle. 【Wet T-shirt play! Jax knows how to have fun!】 【Seriously though, isn’t that going too far…?】 【Don’t worry, there’ll be a jacket-over-the-shoulders scene! Waiting for Jax’s boyfriend moment!】 Jaxson did indeed take off his jacket and started walking toward me. I didn’t wait for him to get close. I grabbed the nearest bucket—one we had just filled with clean water—and hurled it at him and Trevor. WHOOSH! Both of them were instantly drenched. The entire class fell silent. The Overlay stalled for a beat, then erupted: 【HOLY CRAP THE FEMALE LEAD FIGHTS BACK!】 【Jax’s shocked face is making my year.】 【Wait, this isn’t right! She’s supposed to shyly accept the jacket and have a moment of emotional connection!】 【The female lead’s reaction is a bit much.】 【Where did the heroic rescue scene go?】 【What heroic rescue? The male lead threw the water!】 Jaxson wiped the water from his face, his eyes dangerous. “Skylar Sloane, are you looking for a fight?” “Self-defense,” I set the empty bucket down. “Jaxson, this is the last time. If you touch me again, it won’t be as simple as throwing water.” “What are you going to do?” He smiled, a cold, empty expression. “Tell the teachers? They can’t touch me.” “I won’t tell the teachers,” I smiled back. “I’ll call the police. Sexual harassment, criminal property damage, assault. That’s enough to file charges. Do you want to find out whether your dad’s connections are stronger, or if the police department’s paperwork is faster?” Hannah tugged at my sleeve. “Skylar, stop talking…” Jaxson stared at me, water dripping from his hair. His expression was complex: anger, shock, and something else I couldn’t read. Finally, he sneered. “Fine. You win.” He spun around and walked away. Trevor shot me a venomous look and followed. 【The female lead went too far. Jax is going to be seriously mad now.】 【To be honest, calling the police is a good move.】 【But this is a campus novel! Calling the cops ruins the fun!】 【To the previous poster: in real life, you call the police when you’re bullied, no matter the ‘genre’!】 That afternoon after school, my bike tire was flat again. But this time, a hundred-dollar bill was clipped to the handlebars, along with a note: “Repair money.” No apology, just a patronizing compensation. I donated the money to the stray cat rescue box by the school gate. Then, I posted the photo of the damaged bike, the note, and the previous vandalized note and bike on the school’s anonymous online forum, with the caption: “Is this how the school’s ‘untouchables’ bully regular people?” The post immediately caught fire. Though I hadn’t named names, everyone who saw it knew who I meant. The accusations were mostly anonymous: 「Ugh, but what can you do against that little tyrant?」 「I accidentally bumped into him last month and he kicked me. I was hospitalized for a week. They’re still targeting me. Are poor people just trash?」 「I got it worse. I just made eye contact with him in the hall, and one of his goons slapped me. Said I ‘contaminated the master’s gaze’！」 「My mom bought me new shoes, and they burned several holes in them with cigarettes!」 「I want to transfer, but my parents won’t let me. I’m miserable!」 … I recorded and saved all the comments. The post lasted less than an hour before it was deleted by an admin.

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The first time, my father-in-law, Walter, was sixty and needed a heart transplant. He was matched with my son’s heart. The entire family descended on me, pleading, cajoling me to have another child so Leo’s heart could be “spared.” I refused. And Leo, my son, was taken—snatched from the street right before his college entrance exam. I raced to the hospital like a lunatic, but I was too late. Leo’s heart was already gone. Walter, my father-in-law, got five more years because of it. I called the police, but my mother-in-law, Beatrice, swore my son had been a willing, dutiful boy who voluntarily donated his heart to his grandfather. My husband, Owen, spat at me, “How could I have married such a cold-hearted woman! A father’s debt is greater than the sky! You wanted me to watch my own father die!” Grief tore through me until, finally, my own heart gave out that summer. I died of cardiac arrest. I opened my eyes again and found myself back at the eve of Leo’s college entrance exam. The first thing I did was call my parents, the Petersons, to personally drive and stand guard over him during the test. But even this time, Walter got a new heart. 1 The second I knew Leo was safely at the testing center, my phone buzzed. It was Owen, his voice frantic with excitement. “Get to the hospital! Quick! Dad’s surgery was a success!” My heart lurched—a painful, sickening spasm. I rushed to the hospital and paused just outside the partially closed door of the private recovery suite, hearing Beatrice’s voice, sharp and triumphant. “A young boy’s heart is the best, you know. Just look at him—already bouncing back.” “Trading one child’s life for my old man’s, it was worth it!” Tessa, my sister-in-law, chimed in, her voice annoyingly saccharine. “Absolutely! The doctor said with a new heart, he’d get five more years, but honestly, I think he’ll live another twenty, easy.” Beatrice chuckled, a deep, satisfied sound that grated on my nerves. How? Leo was safe. He was taking his test. Where had Walter’s new heart come from this time? Grant, my brother-in-law, quickly jumped in, eager for praise. “It was hard, today being the SATs and all. I nearly didn’t catch the kid.” He paused, a strange note in his voice. “The kid… he seemed a little heavier than I remember Leo being.” My eyes darted to the room next door, the same room from the previous life, where a lifeless form lay covered with a white sheet. But whose child was under that sheet now? I slammed the door open, the sound echoing through the sterile hallway. “Whose heart did you take this time?” I roared. They all looked at me as if I were a madwoman, not a shred of guilt on their faces. Beatrice glared, her voice low and menacing. “What is all the noise for? Your father-in-law just had surgery! He cannot be stressed!” Owen stumbled toward me, his eyes red-rimmed. “Honey, don’t be so upset… At least Dad is better now. You should be happy.” I threw off his hand, a storm of pure, incandescent rage rising in my chest. “Happy? You traded a teenager’s life for an old man’s! Did you even ask the parents of that child?” I lunged forward, grabbing Grant by the collar of his scrubs. “Tell me who you kidnapped!” Grant’s face went white. “It was… it was…” “Enough!” Beatrice barked, stepping in. “Look at the disgrace of a wife you married, Owen! Filial piety comes first! She’s saying your father’s life isn’t worth one of these useless children!” Owen, stung by his mother’s words, turned his anger on me. “If you want to have a meltdown, go home! So what if it was Leo’s heart? He’s my son. I had him. I am his father’s son! What’s wrong with taking his heart for my father? If it wasn’t for my father, Leo wouldn’t exist!” I froze. A sudden, cold realization washed over me. They still believed the heart belonged to Leo. Tessa, always the ‘helpful’ one, offered a smarmy look of sympathy. “Olivia, Owen is right. A child can be replaced. Dad is the only one we have.” She leaned in, a malicious glint in her eye. “Besides, your Leo wasn’t a good student. He wasn’t going to amount to much anyway.” I lunged, grabbing a handful of her hair, making her yelp. “You’re a mother! How can you be so cruel?” I shook her head hard. “If you’re so devoted to family, why didn’t you offer your son’s heart? Huh? That child was barely a teen! He was about to take his college entrance exam! How could you do it?” Tessa roughly shoved me away, smoothing down her designer top, completely unfazed. “My Zach’s scores are in the top one hundred nationally. He’s going to an Ivy League school and will bring honor to the family. Your son is a nobody, barely scraping C’s.” “So, yes. Your son’s heart was far cheaper than mine.” I stared at her, my eyes wide with disbelief. In their eyes, a life—a vibrant, breathing, teenage boy—was a commodity to be valued based on a GPA. Was there any shred of humanity left in this family? Beatrice looked at me with open disgust. “Leo is lazy, and he has no manners. You, his mother, failed to raise him right. Now you have the nerve to attack your sister-in-law!” “A useless mother gives birth to a useless son. He deserved to have his heart taken for my husband!” Their words were like blades, tearing at my chest. The pain was so intense I could barely stand. This was how they saw me. This was how they saw my son. My chest constricted, my breath catching in shallow, painful gasps. Owen rushed over to steady me. “Just calm down, Olivia. Stop making a scene.” “Dad needs to rest after his surgery. If you keep causing a scene, how am I supposed to live in this family?” He lowered his voice. “I promise, I’ll find a way to make it up to you… what happened to Leo.” I looked up at him, tears blurring my vision, and asked the same devastating question I’d asked in my previous life. “Leo was your flesh and blood. Did you truly have the heart to let him die?” 2 Owen’s eyes were bloodshot, and a flicker of agony crossed his face. “Honey, of course, I didn’t want him to die. He’s our son.” “But this is my father,” he pleaded, his voice cracking. “I couldn’t let him die. I had no choice but to sacrifice our boy. Don’t blame me, Olivia. Filial duty is the highest virtue. I had to do it.” I laughed, a dry, bitter sound that held no humor. Despair had finally and completely set in. “No choice? You could have taken your own heart! What kind of sacrifice is that?” I screamed, the question ragged and desperate. Beatrice stepped up and slapped me across the face. “How dare you tell my son to die! A vicious woman like you—your son’s death is your own fault! Karma! He deserved it!” I trembled with a fury that consumed me. I looked at each of them. Not one showed a hint of remorse. They looked triumphant. I couldn’t understand, in this life or the last, how they could be so cold-blooded about a stolen life. My mind zeroed in on the unknown child, the innocent victim. I wheeled around and moved toward the closed door of the room next to Walter’s, desperate to see the boy and contact his parents. Before my hand could touch the doorknob, Owen grabbed me and yanked me backward. I crashed hard against the wall, a bruise blooming instantly on my arm. “Don’t stop me! I have to see that boy!” Owen clutched me, pulling me into his chest. “Honey, Leo is dead… Don’t disturb him. Just let him rest.” “It was just a child. We’re young, we can have another baby.” A searing, needle-sharp pain pierced my heart. A child of sixteen. The years of love, care, and sacrifice poured into him. Gone. And he could dismiss it with such a casual, callous phrase. I reached for my phone, ready to call the police. “You kidnapped a minor and forcibly took his heart! You are criminals! I will make sure you face the punishment you deserve!” Before I could dial, Owen ripped the phone from my hand and smashed it on the floor. “Are you finished, Olivia? Is this really necessary? It was a grandson donating a heart to his grandfather—a family matter. Do we really need to involve the police?” Grant looked terrified. He was the one who had physically brought the boy in. “Sister-in-law, we’re family. If you do this, how can we face each other at Thanksgiving, or Christmas? Besides, a woman should stay home and listen to her husband. Calling the police is a man’s job.” I sneered. Family. I gave their son a hundred dollars every Christmas, and in sixteen years, Leo had never received a single dollar from them. In their eyes, I was always an outsider, and my son was just a piece of property to be sacrificed at will. “Who wants to be your family? I’m calling the police!” 3 A flicker of fear crossed their faces, but it was fleeting. Beatrice was the first to regain her composure, pointing a furious finger at me. “Leo voluntarily donated his heart to his grandfather! The police can’t do anything!” She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a single, crumpled piece of paper—a handwritten consent form—and shoved it in my face. “Look! Leo wrote this himself! It’s signed!” I stared at Owen in disbelief. Leo’s earliest writing was taught by him. The signature was definitely Owen’s attempt to forge the boy’s childhood script. In my first life, I believed Owen had been as blindsided as I was, only learning after the fact. I never imagined he had conspired with them from the very beginning, hiding the entire monstrous plan from me. Leo trusted his father above all else. How could he? I took a deep breath, fighting the choking bitterness, and snatched the paper. I tore it into a dozen tiny pieces. Beatrice gasped and clutched her chest, her trembling finger pointing at me. “You… you wicked, treasonous woman! How did our family ever marry you!” Owen frantically supported his mother. “Mom, don’t worry. I’ll just write out another consent form later.” I gave a dry, cold laugh. “You haven’t spent ten minutes with your son in the last ten years, have you, Owen?” “Didn’t you notice his handwriting changed after he hit high school? That forgery is five years old.” Owen stared at me, his face shocked, his voice shaking. “W-what are you talking about?” Seizing the moment of confusion, I broke free and darted to the door of the other room. It was empty. They followed me immediately, Owen grabbing me from behind. “Olivia, stop! Let the boy go! Let him rest!” I wrenched myself free and screamed at them. “Where is the body? Where is the child?” It was then I noticed Tessa, who had been conspicuously absent for the last few minutes. I walked up to her and shoved her hard on the shoulder. “Tell me! Did you take him? Where is he?” Tessa rubbed her shoulder against the wall, tears welling up in her eyes. “I… I thought Leo deserved to finally rest. I just sent him to the crematory.” My mind went instantly blank, a ringing silence in my ears. Owen suddenly rushed to shield Tessa, his face etched with pure annoyance and impatience. “Stop it, Olivia! Why are you always so aggressive! Tessa is delicate! If you hurt her, we’d have to pay who knows how much in medical bills!” The word ‘pay’ lit up Grant’s eyes. He immediately exposed Tessa’s shoulder for all to see. “See, Sister-in-law! You’ve broken my wife’s shoulder!” “Ten thousand dollars! Pay us ten thousand, and we won’t press charges!” My eyes widened in shock. “Ten thousand? Are you serious? You can’t be! It wouldn’t cost ten thousand even if it were really broken!” Beatrice stepped forward, shielding her younger son as always. “You will pay the ten thousand today! Otherwise, I’ll tell my son to divorce you!” For decades, they had invented excuses to demand money from me. In my first life, I tolerated it all for the sake of peace. But I realized, too late, that no amount of kindness would save my son. My face was contorted with fury. I ground out the words between clenched teeth. “Absolutely not!” “You killed a child! I should be suing you! How dare you ask for money! Mark my words, there is karma! You will pay!” Suddenly, Walter, who had been resting with his eyes closed, began to cough violently, clutching his new heart. His hand trembled as he pointed a finger at me. “Get that bitch out of here now!” 4 Beatrice immediately started wailing, beating her thigh dramatically. “Oh, the misery! This unfilial daughter-in-law is trying to kill my old man!” Owen grabbed me and shoved me away. I stumbled, knocking over a glass vase on a nearby table. Shards of glass sliced into my palm, and blood gushed out. No one looked at the cut. They all clustered around Walter’s bed, anxiously watching his breathing. Beatrice, seeing Walter struggling, grabbed my collar and slapped me hard, four or five times in quick succession. “You wicked, rebellious tramp! If you’ve made my husband sick, I’ll tell my son to divorce you!” My cheek was swelling, but my eyes were colder than ice. Owen feigned concern, pulling his mother back a little. “Mom, stop. I won’t divorce Olivia.” I smiled inwardly. Right. He made five thousand a month. I made twenty thousand, and I owned the penthouse condo free and clear. He’d never leave. Grant gave Walter a few sips of water until his breathing calmed. Walter looked at me, his eyes full of malice. “The Reed family has treated you well, and you want to watch me die just for the sake of one child, do you? My son marrying you was a curse!” I smirked. He had been pretending to sleep the whole time. In the previous life, I was subservient until my son’s death ripped the veil from my eyes. This time, I would not only keep Leo alive but make them pay for every sin. I crossed my arms, my eyes icy. “What if the dead child… wasn’t Leo?” Grant shrieked. “What nonsense are you talking about? I was the one who brought the boy in! How could it not be Leo!” Beatrice suddenly looked panicked, a sheen of cold sweat on her forehead. She pulled Grant aside and whispered urgently, “If it’s not Leo, and his parents find out, we’ll all go to prison!” I heard every word. Grant’s mind raced, and he looked around frantically. “Quick! Gag the bitch! The kid is already cremated! As long as she doesn’t talk, no one will ever know!” Owen, without hesitation, helped Grant tie my hands and feet and shoved a dirty rag into my mouth. I stared at the three of them, a chill creeping up my spine. Beatrice stepped up, a triumphant smirk on her face. She raised her hand and delivered a powerful slap to my left cheek. My left ear rang violently, and a warm fluid trickled out. “Bitch! I knew you looked down on us the day you married in!” she hissed. “So what if your parents are teachers? What makes you so superior? With a daughter like you, your parents must be just as rotten!” My face turned purple. My parents! They had been honored as “Outstanding Educators” for a decade! I couldn’t allow this vile woman to slander them. Rage gave me strength. I lunged forward, slamming my head into Beatrice’s stomach and knocking her to the floor. Beatrice held her stomach and theatrically wailed. “Help! Daughter-in-law is attacking her mother-in-law! Is there no justice in this world?” Seeing their mother on the floor, Owen and Grant descended on me, kicking me repeatedly. I screamed, muffled by the rag. The incision from my tumor surgery last month burst open. The beating lasted half an hour until they were exhausted, collapsing into chairs, panting. I was on the brink of passing out, the last ember of warmth in my heart extinguished. Grant looked at my bruised, bleeding body and, still breathing heavily, said, “She’s still fighting. Maybe… we should just take her to the crematory too.” “She dies, no one knows about the heart, and all her money and that fancy house from her parents? All yours.” I looked at Owen. He looked back, his eyes hesitant, calculating. My heart hammered against my ribs, an ice pick of fear stabbing through me. Every cell in my body was screaming. Just as Owen opened his mouth, ready to agree—Ready to kill me for the house—a knock came at the door. They hid me quickly in a utility closet and hesitantly opened the door. Outside stood two men from the local funeral home. They were holding an urn and a file. “We have the remains and the official cremation report for you.” Grant took the report, flipped it open, and read the name. His face drained of color. He couldn’t speak.

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I was the slow one. The one who never quite caught up. The day my sister came to pick me up from school, she was dragged into an alley, brutalized, and murdered. I was the only witness. Mom and Dad gripped my neck, their eyes red and blazing. “Tell us! You saw him, didn’t you? Say it out loud!” I opened my mouth, but the sound was trapped behind my teeth. In a fit of rage, they threw me out of the house. Unable to care for myself, I ended up on the streets—begging, scavenging for garbage, sleeping under the city bridges. Until the day a man in a black suit found me. He said he was my sister’s fiancé. Dean. He crouched down, looking straight into my eyes, his voice barely a whisper: “I can take you to a place where we can replay the moment you saw that day.” “But the cost is your life.” My grimy hand clenched the stained fabric of my sleeve. I nodded hard. “I’ll do it.” What was there to fear about death? I was afraid of forgetting… forgetting whose face my sister saw last. 1 The light of the high-powered broadcast lamps was blinding, aimed directly at my face as I lay on the Memory Retrieval Stand. The auditorium below was packed. Cameras, like dull black eyes, stared at me. They said this entire process was being live-streamed to the world. Dean, the man who called himself my sister’s love, stood beside me, his expression unreadable. “It’s not too late to back out.” I shook my head. Just then, a commotion erupted at the entrance. I looked up and saw Mom and Dad rushing in. The moment Mom saw me, tears streamed down her face, but the words that followed were like shards of glass: “You heartless thing! Your sister was so good to you, buying you candy, picking you up from school… and she died such a horrific death…” “You clearly saw the killer, so why didn’t you speak up?!” Dad’s eyes were bloodshot, his voice hoarse: “We raised you for this long. Even if you were slow, we never once resented you!” “But you? Is this how you repay your sister?” A wave of hushed chatter swept through the audience. The cameras swiveled toward my parents. Mom was crying so hard she could barely stand: “You were always jealous of your sister, weren’t you?” “Jealous because she was smart, because she was beautiful, because everyone loved her…” “But did you know, she never once looked down on you, her slow little sister!” “She didn’t even have to pick you up that day! She did it because she worried about you, worried the other kids would pick on you…” Mom’s voice rose to a shriek: “She died because of you! Do you even realize that?!” I stared blankly at their hysterical faces, and my eyes slowly filled with tears. So… they really did hate me that much. In everyone’s eyes, I was the reason Soph died. Dean’s hand pressed lightly on my shoulder. He murmured, “Your sister… she wouldn’t blame you.” I turned my head and looked at him, asking softly, “If I go through with the Memory Retrieval, the person who hurt my sister will be caught, won’t they?” Dean was silent for a moment, then nodded: “Yes. Live, globally broadcast evidence. Everyone will see the truth of that day.” “Then let’s start.” Dean looked at me again. “But it’s going to hurt a lot.” He gestured to the center of the stand, where a long, thick silver probe stood upright. “See that needle? It’s going to pierce your skull and enter your cerebral cortex to read your memory.” “The deeper the memory, the deeper it goes.” “You need to pull the very deepest layers—the scene of the crime. So… it will go very, very deep.” I froze for two seconds, then my gaze drifted back to my parents, still crying and cursing below the stage. Then I smiled faintly. “I’m not afraid of pain.” Dean’s brow furrowed. “If catching the killer is the only way to help my sister,” “And if it means Mom and Dad can forgive me… I don’t care how much it hurts.” Dean was silent for a long time. Finally, he looked at the doctor in the white coat and nodded: “Proceed.” The doctor stepped forward, his eyes sweeping over me before turning to Dean: “Mr. Dean, once the Memory Retrieval process begins, it cannot be stopped.” “The neural extraction is irreversible. Upon completion, the patient will suffer catastrophic brain damage resulting in brain death.” He paused. “Should we inform the patient’s family of the risks beforehand?” I spoke immediately: “No! Don’t!” My voice was quiet, yet firm and absolute. Everyone looked at me. I met Dean’s gaze, my eyes unwavering: “Please don’t tell them yet… okay?” Below the stage, Mom was still weeping; Dad’s face was dark with anger, staring up at the platform. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobbed once. “…All right.” Two nurses approached, helping me lie down on the cold metal stand. My body was secured with restraints—at the wrists, ankles, and across the chest and abdomen. Finally, a metal halo was clamped around my forehead. A nurse approached with a syringe, injecting a cold liquid into my vein. The world began to blur. Above me, the long silver probe slowly descended, its needle-tip perfectly aligned with the center of my forehead. The next moment, Mom’s horrified voice suddenly cut through the air: “Stop, hold on!” 2 My eyes snapped open, a flicker of hope igniting in my chest. Mom, was she worried about me? The very next second, her cold voice returned: “Doctor, please make absolutely certain that you retrieve the events of that day.” “If it means getting the truth, you don’t need to worry about her body.” Dad chimed in: “That’s right, money is no object. We’ll pay extra if you guarantee you can catch the killer who murdered Soph!” A sharp, stabbing pain twisted in my heart, and tears spilled out, uncontrollable. After hearing their words, Dean’s gaze darkened, a flash of pity crossing his eyes. The retrieval continued. The silver probe pierced my forehead and entered my skull. The drilling pain was excruciating; my entire body convulsed. I bit down hard on my teeth. I could feel warm blood trickling out, seeping into my ears, matting my hair. The first memory appeared on the main screen. The image shook violently, like a scene viewed through tears. A gray sky, black funeral streamers, and Soph’s portrait displayed in the center of the wake. I was kneeling on the floor. The room was full of people, everyone dressed in black. Mom was draped over Soph’s casket, her sobs tearing through the air. Dad stood beside her, his eyes swollen, his body shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly, Mom spun around and rushed towards me, clutching my shoulders until her fingers dug deep into my flesh: “Lucy, tell me! What happened that day?” “You saw it, didn’t you? Tell Mommy, who killed your sister…” Her fingernails nearly punctured my skin. Her voice was sharp and grating: “Say it! Just tell us!” I looked up, tears streaming down my face. “I’m sorry… I really can’t remember…” Mom’s voice spiked: “How can you not remember?! Your sister died right in front of you!” She suddenly grabbed my hair and slammed my head down onto the floor. “Thud!” My forehead hit the tile hard. “Bow to your sister! Apologize to her!” Another blow. “We’ve been so good to you, how can you do this to your sister?!” “Thud!” A spot of bright red blood stained the tile. “How could you forget? How could you forget!” In the image, my forehead was a bloody mess, my eyes wide, the pupils reflecting my sister’s funeral photo. Blood flowed down my temples, mixing with tears, dripping onto the floor. I didn’t struggle. I just let Mom force my head down, bowing it to the ground, over and over. Everyone in the room watched. No one stepped in to stop her. I knelt at my sister’s wake for an entire day and night. The day after Soph’s burial, Mom tossed a large, bundled sack at my feet. “Lucy,” she pointed toward the door, “Get out!” “When you remember what happened that day, then you can come back.” “If you never remember, never come home.” “I don’t have a daughter like you.” I froze, staring numbly at the sack, then looking up at Mom. “Mom…” “Don’t call me Mom!” she screamed, “I don’t have a daughter like you!” Dad walked over, silently grabbed my arm, and dragged me toward the exit. I finally registered what was happening and cried out, latching onto Mom’s leg: “Mom, I’m sorry… I’ll try to remember…” “Please don’t send me away… Mom…” “I’m scared…” Dad pried my fingers off her leg, one by one. He was so strong; my fingers ached with the force. The front door opened. I was shoved outside. The sack landed at my feet. “Slam—” The heavy door shut in my face. I knelt on the ground, pounding hard on the wood: “Mom… Dad…” “I’m sorry… I’m really sorry…” There was no response from inside. After a very long time, exhausted from crying, I picked up the sack. Dragging my bleeding forehead, I stumbled down the stairs, one step at a time. As I walked out of the apartment building, I looked back at the fourth-floor window. The curtains were tightly drawn. The screen went dark. The auditorium was utterly silent. Suddenly, Dad’s furious voice exploded: “What is this?! This is not what we came here to see!!” Mom shrieked as well: “We need the truth about Soph’s murder!! What happened in that alley?!” “Continue! Keep going deeper!” A murmur of discussion arose in the audience. Dean looked at the screen, then at me, lying pale and still on the stand, his lips moving wordlessly. The doctor sighed, his voice echoing over the microphone: “First layer of memory extraction complete. As the memory deepens, the pain the patient experiences will continually escalate.” “The nervous system is undergoing extreme stress, which may lead to extraction interruption or…” His sentence was cut short by Dad: “Continue. Any price is acceptable as long as the killer is caught.” Mom covered her face, weeping: “We just want the truth!” 3 The doctor looked at Dean. Dean stood silent for a long time, his knuckles white where he gripped the railing. “…Continue.” The doctor operated the control panel. The silver probe, once again, began to drill slowly toward the deeper layers. “Agh—!!!” I couldn’t stop the scream that ripped from my throat. My mind felt like a red-hot iron rod was being plunged in and twisted. My whole body began to convulse violently. Sweat instantly soaked my thin clothes; veins bulged on my forehead. The screen lit up again. This time, the image showed me cornered by a group of boys. “Look, it’s Lucy the slowpoke!” “Hey, little dummy, playing in the dirt again?” As they spoke, they picked up small pebbles and trash from the ground and tossed them at me. I looked up, staring at them blankly. “Look at her, she can’t even cry! Definitely a dummy!” “Let’s bury her in the sand pit?” “Yeah!” Amidst the jeering, a dirty hand suddenly grabbed my arm and yanked hard. I lost my balance and tumbled into the deep sandbox. “Bury her!” “Yeah! Bury the dummy!” Several pairs of hands held me down amidst the excited shouts. Heavy sand began to pour onto my head and body. It was heavy, pressing the air out of my lungs. The sand rose past my waist, moving up toward my chest. I was going to be buried alive. I couldn’t move, and I couldn’t scream. Just as the sand was about to cover my shoulders— “What are you doing?! Get away from my sister!!” A clear voice rang out. It was Soph! Soph, with her high ponytail, stood by the edge of the pit, hands on her hips. The sunlight hit her just right; she seemed to glow. “You’re bullying my sister?” Soph’s voice was fierce. “Want me to tell the principal?” The boys hesitated for a moment and let go of me. “Sophia, your sister is a dummy anyway…” “Say that again?” Soph took a step forward, her eyes wide and round. “My sister is not a dummy! She just… she just processes things a little slower!” “She’s kinder than all of you put together!” Intimidated by her presence, the boys mumbled excuses and ran away. Soph rushed over, clawed the sand away, and pulled me up. Her eyes were full of worry: “Luce, are you okay? Are you hurt?” I shook my head, but tears started to fall anyway. “Don’t cry, don’t cry.” Soph pulled me into a hug, gently patting my back. “It’s okay, Luce, Soph is here.” “If anyone bullies you again, you tell me right away.” “I’ll protect you, okay?” In the memory, I buried my head in Soph’s shoulder, sobbing softly. Soph smelled like clean soap. Her hands were so warm. Below the stage. Mom was slumped in her chair, weeping. “Soph… my Soph was always so good…” “She was kind to everyone… especially her slow little sister…” Dad’s eyes were also red, his voice choked with emotion: “Soph was responsible from a young age, always looking out for her sister…” Dean stared at the screen, his eyes fixed, filled with a deep, aching remembrance of his fiancée. The next second, Mom suddenly turned, glaring at me on the platform, her voice cracking: “Lucy! Look! Look how good your sister was to you!” “How could you… how could you forget how she died?!” Dad pointed at me, his face ravaged with grief and anger: “Lucy, what happened that day? Your sister loved you so much, why won’t you just say it?!” “Did you really see something… that you’re refusing to tell us?” I lay on the Retrieval Stand, listening to their demands. Tears slid down my temples. I want to say it, too. Mom and Dad. I want to know what happened that day. I want to know who killed Soph. But I… I really can’t remember. Deep inside my brain, a sharp, sudden pain erupted. The silver probe began to release electrical currents. “Mmph…” I arched violently, and a mouthful of blood sprayed from my throat. 4 “Blood pressure plummeting! Massive neural shock!” The doctor’s alarmed cries were drowned out by my parents’ increasingly frantic screams: “Don’t worry about that! The picture! We need the scene from the alley! Continue! Go on!” Dean suddenly lunged forward, slamming his fist onto the edge of the control console: “I want the truth just as much as you, but can’t you see she’s dying?!” “I don’t care!” Mom’s eyes were scarlet. “She owes this to Soph! Her life’s only purpose now is this moment!” The red haze in my vision intensified, but the pain made my hearing unnaturally sharp. Amidst the chaos, the probe in my brain twisted violently again. “Agh—!” A new wave of agonizing pain exploded. The screen flickered violently, then lit up with a blinding white flash. This time, the scene was from the days after my parents threw me out. I was cornered in an abandoned construction site by a few trashy young men. There were broken bricks on the ground, and the air was thick with dust. “Hey, little dummy, heard your folks ditched you?” The leader, a skinny guy with yellow hair, poked my shoulder with a stick. “Guess if we rough you up, nobody cares, huh?” I pressed myself against the damp wall, shaking, but clutching a sharp piece of broken brick in my hand. “Got a nasty glare, don’t you?” Another one stepped up and slapped me across the face. The sting was immediate and searing. But clearer than the pain were the fragments of my parents’ whispered words echoing in my mind— “She needs to suffer a little, then she’ll be afraid, then she’ll try harder to remember…” “Soph can’t have died in vain… this is to force her…” The memory clips flashed back. Mom secretly slipping cash to the thugs in the alley; Dad whispering into the phone, “Give her a good scare, make her taste a little hardship.” So, the people who had stolen my food, slammed me to the ground, and even tried to tear my clothes off… They had all been arranged by Mom and Dad. My heart shattered completely at that moment. “Agh—!” I suddenly let out a scream, clutching the jagged brick, and lunged wildly at the men. They seemed stunned by my unexpected resistance. They wrestled me to the ground and started smashing rocks onto my head. The screen image shook violently, mixed with crude curses and the sounds of impacts. Not until I was covered in blood, lying motionless on the ground, did the thugs curse and walk away. My vision slowly blurred. A pair of polished leather shoes stopped right in front of my sight line. It was Dean. He looked down at me, his eyes complex and hard to read. “Lucy, do you want revenge for your sister?” I opened my mouth, but only bloody foam came out. “I know a way to pull the images you saw that day… out of your mind.” He paused. “But the process is incredibly painful. And, you will…” Before Dean could finish, the screen image switched again. Finally, it was the scene in the alley that day. I had my backpack on. Soph was standing across the street, waving and smiling at me. She was wearing a new dress today; she looked beautiful. My eyes lit up, and I started to run across. Just as I stepped onto the crosswalk and reached my sister’s side— A tall figure, wearing a black mask and a baseball cap, lunged out of the side alley like a phantom. He clapped a hand over Soph’s mouth and brutally dragged her into the dark, narrow side street. Soph’s startled cry was muffled. Her eyes were wide with terror as she desperately kicked her legs. I was stunned, instinctively rushing forward, trying to grab her hand. The attacker didn’t even look back. He just swung his leg and delivered a vicious kick to my stomach. “Thwack!” I flew backward, my head slamming hard against the sidewalk. A blinding pain and vertigo instantly overwhelmed me, and warm liquid began to spread from the back of my skull. My vision began to swim and blur. No sound could escape my throat. But I fought to keep my eyes wide open, staring into the depths of the alley. In the dim light, Soph was pinned to the ground. She struggled wildly, her fingers grasping uselessly at the air. The attacker seemed enraged by her resistance. He suddenly raised his hand— In that fraction of a second, Soph lunged upward and grabbed— “Rrrrip—” The black mask was ripped clean off his face! The faint light from the alley streetlamp illuminated the face that was suddenly exposed.

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I flew to Metropolis for Owen’s birthday. I wanted to surprise him. Pushing the apartment door open, I stepped into a noisy, chaotic, takeout-fueled party. The awkward silence that followed my arrival was deafening. Everyone left shortly after, the good cheer evaporated. We started fighting. He accused me of making a scene in front of his friends, of deliberately embarrassing him. I was defensive, trying to explain the sheer exhaustion of flying back and forth every other weekend. He cut me off, cold and impatient: “You didn’t have to come. No one forced you to make it so hard on yourself.” Later, he got his wish. But then he panicked: “Willow, why aren’t you coming to see me anymore?” 1 The day before Owen’s birthday, I called him. My voice was filled with manufactured regret as I told him I had continuous rehearsals for the upcoming winter gala and wouldn’t be able to make it to Metropolis. He was gentle, saying he understood. The next afternoon, the moment our department’s main rehearsal wrapped, I rushed to the airport. Of course I had lied. Since elementary school, I had been by Owen’s side for every single one of his birthdays. How could I skip this year? I was just trying to tease him a little, to make the surprise even better. An hour and a half later, I landed in Metropolis, then took a nearly two-hour taxi ride to the apartment he rented near the university. I took out my key, slipped it into the lock, and quietly opened the door. The vision I had of Owen sitting alone, maybe having a simple dinner, vanished. Instead, the tiny living room was packed. Ten or so people were crammed around the coffee table, a feast of takeout containers and beer bottles spread out before them. The air was thick with loud chatter and sudden, dead silence the moment I appeared. Everyone turned, staring at me with a look of collective surprise. Owen was the first to react. “What are you doing here?” He didn’t even stand up to greet me. His expression was a strange mix of shock, confusion, and a flicker of unmistakable annoyance. But there was absolutely zero joy. I saw it clear as day. Mindful that his friends were watching, I forced myself to maintain a semblance of composure. I smiled brightly and held up the cake box in my hand. “Happy Birthday! I came to celebrate with you.” “You told me you were tied up with rehearsal,” he said, his tone flat. I was barely holding the fake smile in place, swallowing back a sudden surge of tears. “Could you please take this? And my bag?” A look of self-reproach crossed his face, and he finally scrambled to his feet, taking the cake and my small carry-on bag. Someone laughed, trying to cut the tension. “Owen, is this the famous girlfriend? No wonder you’ve been hiding her—she’s a knockout! If I had a girlfriend like that, I’d keep her secret too!” Next to the speaker, a girl’s face noticeably darkened. A moment later, she recovered, offering me a wide, bright smile. “He’s right, Owen. It’s a shame your girlfriend is an artist and doesn’t exactly speak our language, but we’re not scary, Willow. Next time, feel free to join us!” The tone was patronizing, dripping with superiority. I looked at the girl, who was clearly not my friend. She wore rimless glasses and was conventionally pretty, possessing an intense, scholarly air. Her eyes held a kind of intellectual arrogance that seemed ill-suited to her age. The spot right next to her was empty. It was where Owen had been sitting. Ten people around one small coffee table meant they had been practically pressed together. I could easily picture the scene just before I walked in. Suddenly, my eyes were drawn to her feet. Unlike everyone else, who wore house slippers—some even the disposable hotel kind—this girl was in thick wool socks. Her socked feet were resting on a square, crocheted trivet. It had a red and green geometric pattern, the stitching tight and perfectly even. It was the one I had made. 2 I usually kept that trivet tucked away, only bringing it out when I was staging food photos for my social media. Noticing me staring at her feet, the girl nervously shifted on the mat. “Oh, I mentioned my feet were a little cold just on the rug, so Owen grabbed this for me to put down,” the girl said, her voice sounding a little too careful. “Is this yours? I’m sorry, I used it without permission.” I walked straight up to her and held out my hand. “Give it to me.” “Huh?” Her face went blank. “The mat. Hand it over.” “Oh.” She pulled the trivet from under her feet and handed it to me. I took the small piece of handiwork and walked over to the garbage can, dropping it in. “It’s not for wiping your feet on,” I stated coolly. Her expression immediately crumbled into one of wounded innocence. She pursed her lips, looking wronged and yet determined to be the bigger person. Owen walked over and grabbed my arm, pulling me back slightly. “Willow. You crossed a line.” “I crossed a line?” I yanked my arm away. “Owen, are you out of your mind?” Seeing that we were about to have a full-blown row, the others quickly got up. “Right, well, since the girlfriend is here, we’ll take off. Happy birthday, Owen!” They made their quick, silent exit, putting on their shoes and closing the door behind them. The girl, Serena, shot a final, tearful look at Owen on her way out. When we were finally alone in the apartment, Owen turned on me, his eyes cold. “Satisfied? You drove everyone off.” “You’re mad that I crashed your party? That your girlfriend showed up on your birthday?” Owen pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead—his tell for maximum frustration. “I didn’t say you shouldn’t come, I just—” He took a deep breath. “Willow, those are my lab colleagues. You showed up and gave everyone the cold shoulder. You made me look like an absolute fool.” “How am I supposed to face them tomorrow?” I laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Is it them, or is it her you’re worried about facing?” A flash of raw anger crossed his features. “What are you talking about? Serena is just a colleague.” “Serena?” I was genuinely surprised. “That’s Serena?” The Serena. The one whose name had been popping up in every phone call, every casual conversation with Owen for months? “There’s a new girl in the lab, Serena.” “I got paired with Serena today. Hope she doesn’t tank my project.” “Serena is pretty useless, but she owns up to her mistakes so quickly, it’s hard to stay mad at her.” “Serena brought me a coffee this morning. Does she think I’m that easily bribed?” “Serena said she wanted to take me out for lunch—” 3 At first, I hadn’t thought anything of it. But when the “Serena content” in his conversations exceeded any normal threshold, I started to get wary. “Are you developing a crush on that Serena?” I’d asked him once over the phone. He’d laughed, open and easy. “Me? Like Serena? Are you kidding?” “Willow, I have you. The perfect girlfriend. Why would I even look at anyone else?” That had calmed my fears, somewhat. But my gut still hadn’t relaxed. After that conversation, Owen stopped mentioning her name entirely. I assumed their project had ended, their paths had diverged. I slowly started to forget about Serena. But I was wrong. It wasn’t that their paths had diverged; it was that they were no longer intersecting in front of me. Who knew how far things had progressed behind my back? Owen, oblivious to my mounting fury, grew more aggressive. He pointed to the trash can. “You threw that mat in front of Serena. You publicly shamed her, practically called her beneath you. Don’t you think that’s incredibly venomous?” Venomous. I never thought Owen would use that word against me. Especially not to defend another woman. He was heartbroken that I had made Serena uncomfortable. I’m not a naturally expressive person, and in moments of extreme rage, I tend to become dangerously calm. “Owen, I spent countless late nights crocheting that trivet. It was a painstaking project, used to prop up dishes for food photos. And you handed it to another woman to wipe her feet on.” “I—” He sputtered, on shaky ground. “I didn’t know it was that important.” “You didn’t know? I staged photos with that mat right in front of you a dozen times! I told you the whole story about learning to crochet, about how I messed up a stitch and had to unravel the entire thing and start over. I told you all of that!” My voice finally cracked, emotions spilling out. Owen slumped into his familiar pose of weary frustration. “My head is full of experimental data every day! I don’t have the mental space to catalog your arts and crafts projects!” “Yes, you’re busy!” I snapped, cutting him off. “Your experiments are paramount, and my life is just a quaint little footnote! Maybe we shouldn’t talk at all anymore. Since anything I say just goes in one ear and out the other.” “Willow, don’t be dramatic!” I laughed, a hollow sound. “I’m dramatic? Owen, do you think you’re the only person in the world who’s busy? That what you do is intellectually superior? You’re a brilliant grad student at a prestigious university, and I’m just a dancer. So I’m inferior to you, is that it?” “I never said that.” He denied it instantly. “You didn’t use the words, but your actions screamed it. You stopped bringing me to your group events because I don’t share your esoteric conversations.” Guilt flickered in Owen’s eyes, but he still wouldn’t admit it. “You’re overthinking everything.” “Then why did you stop? When we first started dating, you were so excited to introduce me to your roommates. We ate dinner together, went out, did things. Then it was less and less. And then never at all. You started keeping your plans secret!” Owen sighed, attempting patience. “They like to play those intense escape rooms and murder mystery games. You always complained that you couldn’t follow along.” “I was pretending to complain! You made me feel like an idiot! You think I’m not smart enough. I don’t care what your friends thought; I only wanted you to pay attention to me. You were my boyfriend! But you were embarrassed, weren’t you? You decided your girlfriend was a liability.” “I was not!” “You were! Why else did you stop bringing me around? Why did you give up the easy path of staying at Riverwood for grad school just to move a thousand miles away to Metropolis U?” “Metropolis U is objectively better than Riverwood U! Is it wrong for me to pursue the best academic path? And why are you digging up old history? Let’s stick to the issue at hand!” 4 “Fine. Let’s stick to the issue at hand. Today is your birthday. I’ve been rehearsing until midnight for the last two weeks, just so I could clear my schedule and fly here to be with you. You are not the only one who is exhausted. I’ve been running from one rehearsal to the next, preparing for my graduation showcase. Even bathroom breaks are a sprint.” “You moved to Metropolis six months ago, and I, out of respect for your workload, have flown out here every two weeks to see you. Do you think this constant travel is easy for me? Don’t you think your girlfriend is working hard, too?” “You have never once shown an ounce of gratitude or empathy for how much effort this takes.” I laid out the simple, crushing facts of my life. “You didn’t have to come. No one forced you to make it so hard on yourself.” His voice was flat, empty of feeling. “Excuse me?” I stared at him in disbelief. “I told you months ago you don’t have to constantly fly here. We’ll be reunited when you move to a dance company in Metropolis. You wouldn’t listen, you insisted on coming this often.” He was radiating impatience. The world went silent. In that moment, I understood the meaning of a cold heart. Before every trip, I’d rearrange my classes and my life. An hour on the subway to the airport, a ninety-minute flight, another long taxi. Was it tiring? Yes. But the sheer joy of seeing him always eclipsed the fatigue. After two short days, I would repeat the exhausting journey in reverse. I had foolishly believed he, if not grateful for my sacrifice, at least looked forward to our time together. I was wrong. He didn’t share my anticipation. In fact, our monthly meetings were a burden, an irritation that chipped away at his patience. If I had known this, why would I have put myself through all of that? “Okay.” After a long stretch of silence, I finally spoke. “What?” He looked confused, not following. I clarified: “I won’t be coming anymore.” A look of visible relief washed over him. “I’ve been telling you, we’ll be together in six months. This constant travel is unnecessary.” I managed a dry laugh and nodded. When I picked up my suitcase, he frowned. “Where are you going?” “Back to Riverwood.” “It’s the middle of the night. Leave tomorrow morning.” He offered a grudging kindness. “I have rehearsal tomorrow morning. I took time off, but now I realize I don’t need the extra day. There’s a late-night train; I can still catch it.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me into a tight hug, his voice dropping into a husky, familiar purr near my ear. “Why don’t you just stay the night? I’ll drive you to the airport in the morning?” I pushed him away, my face expressionless. “No, thank you.” Perhaps my rejection wounded his pride. On the way to the train station, Owen didn’t say a word to me. He sat stiffly, head bowed, furiously tapping on his phone. Who he was texting, I could only imagine. When we arrived, he silently pulled my suitcase from the trunk. I took it, and as I turned to walk away, he called out. “Serena and I are completely innocent, but she’s worried this misunderstanding will affect our working relationship. She insists on explaining herself. I just sent you her contact. Add her.” 5 Sitting on the high-speed train, I accepted the new contact request. It was nearly two in the morning, but she replied instantly. “Hi Willow, this is Serena. I’m so sorry about the mat today, Owen just handed it to me and put it down under my feet, I honestly didn’t realize it wasn’t meant for that.” “Please don’t be mad at him. Boys can be so clumsy and thoughtless about things like that.” “But while he might be thoughtless in life, he’s truly brilliant in his studies, and he’s been such a mentor to me.” “Once I messed up some key data, and he took the blame entirely, taking the full force of the professor’s frustration.” “Overall, Owen is talented and responsible—a rare and wonderful boyfriend. It would be a crime if I were the reason you two had a misunderstanding.” I didn’t reply, letting her stream of passive-aggressive apologies wash over me. But the next message wiped the look of mild amusement off my face. It was a photo of a box of Artisan Salted Caramel Tartlets. Immediately following, there was a money transfer. “These are a specialty from your area, right? I tried one at Owen’s place a while ago and loved them, so I asked him if he could bring me some sometime. I had no idea he was getting me a fresh box every week! He refused to take any money. Please, transfer this to him for me. I hate feeling like I’m taking advantage.” The memory flashed into my mind. Three months ago, Owen had called me, his voice a rare mix of longing and a hint of a plea. “I didn’t realize it when I lived in Riverwood, but I’ve developed an obsession with those Salted Caramel Tartlets.” “Tartlets?” I’d been confused. “Didn’t I bring you two boxes last time I visited?” “I shared them all with the lab,” he’d said, a sheepish laugh in the receiver. “I miss them now. I even dream of them at night.” “Should I ship some?” “Thanks, Willow. You’re the best.” From then on, he had asked me to send them regularly. Worried they wouldn’t be fresh if I shipped too many at once, I’d made a habit of stopping by the bakery every week to send him a fresh box. It turned out I wasn’t buying them for him at all. They were gifts for Serena. I felt like a complete fool. Without a second thought, I tapped the screen and accepted the money transfer. I bought the tartlets, and I spent the money. I had no reason to feel embarrassed. Serena, probably not expecting me to actually take the cash, fell silent. After a long pause, I blocked her number. Back at school, I went straight to my department head the next morning. She had always encouraged me to join the local Riverwood Dance Company, a suggestion I had previously dismissed because of Owen. “Professor, I’ve decided I want to audition for the Riverwood Dance Company. Could I ask you for some guidance?” Her face lit up with surprise. “You finally came to your senses!” 6 I’ve always been a homebody. Even in college, which was still in the state, I’d run home whenever possible. Metropolis held no special allure for me. The only reason I had grit my teeth and resolved to follow Owen—auditioning for a dance company there after graduation—was that he was going to grad school there and planning to apply for research work after. Now, I realized my efforts and sacrifices were meaningless. My presence, my future, meant nothing to him. If he didn’t anticipate our meetings, and he didn’t look forward to our future, why was I bending over backward? I might not be an academic star like Owen, but I was successful in my own right. I’d been dancing since childhood, praised for both my talent and work ethic. I’d been accepted to the Riverwood Dance Conservatory with the top score in my class. I was my professor’s favorite. She strongly recommended the Riverwood Dance Company, where she had spent ten years of her career. She said the opportunities were abundant, the network was strong, and the potential for growth was huge. I was incredibly tempted. With my professor’s guidance and my talent, joining the RDC meant a bright, secure future. Crucially, it meant being close to home. I could see my parents every week, have dinner with them, and drink my dad’s special soup. I didn’t have grand ambitions; this was my vision of a good life. But for Owen, I had been willing to give it all up. When we first started college, Owen had planned to stay at Riverwood for grad school. But in our final year, he’d changed his mind, suddenly obsessed with Metropolis U. We fought about it. Owen had lashed out, accusing me of holding him back. He claimed that he could have gone to a better college in Metropolis years ago, but he’d stayed at Riverwood for me. “My professors and friends say I’m underachieving here. Willow, are you going to hold me back a second time?” His voice had been sharp with accusation. I was shocked into submission. Simple and naive, I took his accusation to heart, believing I really had damaged his future. I apologized and gave him my full support. He was a year ahead of me, and I promised him: “I’ll graduate next year and follow you to Metropolis. I’ll audition for a company there, and we’ll settle down.” Looking back, I was laughably stupid. In high school, Owen had talked constantly about Riverwood University. It was his parents’ alma mater; he’d called it his dream. When he got his acceptance letter, he said his dream had come true. How had that history been rewritten into, “I only stayed for you”? After meeting with my professor to discuss the RDC requirements, I stepped out of her office just as my phone rang. It was Owen. He started right in with his grievance. “You took her money?” “Yes, I did.” I didn’t back down.

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The day I finally agreed to start treatment, Rhys’s sister told me the truth. Paige hadn’t been assaulted by my brother, Dean, the way they claimed. It had all been a calculated stage play, orchestrated with Daphne, Rhys’s childhood sweetheart. “Daphne is my best friend. She’s been in love with my brother forever, and she begged me to help her drive you away.” “That’s why I did it. I’m sorry.” I clenched my hands so hard my nails dug crescent moons into my palms. A game? Because of this “game,” my only family, my brother Dean, was forcibly institutionalized. And the very next day, he was reported as having “fallen accidentally” to his death. And for three years, Rhys had subjected me to a slow, brutal torture, a path that led me to this room, where I had just been diagnosed with terminal gastric cancer. I stared at the messages on my phone, a tear sliding down my face that was already curved into a strange, hollow smile. “Doctor, I apologize. I’ve decided not to go through with the chemotherapy.” Dean was the only soul I had left in the world, and he died because of me. Now that the lie had shattered, it was time to join him… 1 Paige, Rhys’s sister, had tracked me down at the clinic. She found me on the day I finally agreed to continue treatment. She confessed that no, she had not been assaulted by Dean. It was a scheme she and Rhys’s lifelong obsession, Daphne, had cooked up together. “Daphne’s been obsessed with my brother for years. She was terrified you’d stay in the ‘wife’ position forever, so she begged me to help her.” Paige’s voice was soft, but the words sliced into me like shards of glass. “I only wanted to help my friend. I never thought it would go this far. I’m so sorry.” I squeezed my hands tight, the sharp edges of my nails biting into the flesh. A game. But my brother had been dragged away to a psychiatric ward by Rhys. The day after, the news came: he had “accidentally fallen” to his death. And I? Rhys had kept me by his side for three years, a leash around my neck, torturing me until my body broke down and developed incurable gastric cancer. I laughed, the sound catching in my throat, and the tears finally began to fall. “Doctor, I apologize, but I’m not going to do the chemo.” Dean was all I had. And he died because I existed. Now that the truth was exposed, there was nothing left to anchor me here. It was time to go. The doctor rushed out of the exam room after me, his voice sharp with urgency. “Your condition isn’t hopeless! Stick with the chemotherapy and you have a fifty percent chance of recovery. Don’t give up!” I shook my head and kept walking. Fifty percent. What did it matter? I hadn’t wanted to live for a long time. After Dean’s death, the only thing that kept me breathing was the twisted impulse to “atone” for the crime I thought we’d committed. Now I knew there was no crime. For three years, everyone had whispered that I was nothing more than Rhys’s dog. Every night, he forced me to kneel for two full hours before I was allowed to rest. My knees were a landscape of scarred, raw, then healed, then raw again flesh. Rhys never left me alone. He dragged me everywhere to pour drinks for his clients, allowing those greasy, powerful men—men like Mr. Price—to grope me, to touch me however they wished. I’d always been allergic to alcohol. One glass, and my skin would erupt in hives, my breathing strained. He was never moved. Time and again, I was rushed to the emergency room to have my stomach pumped. I’d barely recover before he’d drag me out by the throat. “It hurts, doesn’t it? That’s the pain your brother inflicted on my sister. You need to pay it back tenfold!” …He would take me forcibly, too. Over and over, tearing away my last shreds of dignity when I was most broken, most resistant. In three years of marriage, I had been pregnant nine times. But as soon as the test confirmed the pregnancy, he would drag me to the hospital for an immediate termination. The ninth time, the doctor looked at my deathly pale face and sighed. “My dear, if you keep this up, forget about having children. You’ll be lucky to live past thirty.” Rhys had been standing right there, a cold sneer on his face. “Whether she lives or dies is up to me.” My body was a wreck now, a fragile thing that a gust of wind could shatter. So, when the gastric cancer diagnosis came, all I felt was a profound sense of relief. Just then, Rhys’s name flashed on my screen. “Get to the hotel, now. A big deal is on the line…” I hung up before he could finish the sentence. I flagged down a cab and headed straight to Dean’s gravesite. On the ride, memories of Rhys flooded my mind. When we first met, he had been good to me. He told me he had been raised by only his sister, so he felt a natural pull to look out for me. In the winter, he’d tuck my freezing hands into the warmth of his pocket. He drove across half the city just to buy a small snack I’d mentioned offhandedly. I was moved, and naturally, I accepted his confession. But after we got together, I learned how wealthy his family was. At the time, I felt shame. I wasn’t just an orphan raised only by my brother; Dean had developed a mental illness, severe and unpredictable, after years of being tormented by local bullies while trying to protect me. I didn’t want to be a burden on Rhys. After discussing it with Dean, I made the heartbreaking decision to break up with him. But that night, Rhys knelt outside my dorm building. He stayed there, soaking wet, all night. He texted me: Rowan, I will only ever love you. If you leave me, I honestly won’t survive. In the end, I gave in. I ignored Dean’s frantic warnings and stayed with him. Now, all that was left was regret. At the cemetery, I knelt, gently tracing the outline of Dean’s face on the photo affixed to the tombstone. The tears welled up again. “Dean, I came to see you.” “Were you missing me? Don’t worry. A week from now, I’ll be here to stay.” I sniffled, my voice thick with emotion. “You were right, Dean. Rhys wasn’t the one for me. I should have listened and stayed away. Then you wouldn’t have…” A fierce cough cut off my words. A coppery sweetness welled up in my throat. I raised a hand to wipe my mouth. There was bright red blood on my palm. “See, Dean? I’m fading fast now, too. We’ll be reunited soon.” “And then, we’ll never be separated again, okay?” I sat beside the tombstone, murmuring stories to him. I cried for a long time until I had no tears left. The sky suddenly darkened, and a heavy rain began to fall. I didn’t move. I leaned against Dean’s grave, closed my eyes, and let the rainwater wash over me. My consciousness began to blur, and a searing cramp twisted my stomach. I curled into a ball on the ground, shaking uncontrollably. Just as I was about to pass out, I heard footsteps. It was Rhys. He stood over me, holding a black umbrella. His brows were tightly furrowed, and a flicker of distress—barely perceptible—crossed his eyes. It was immediately replaced by revulsion. “You think hiding here will stop me from finding you?” His voice was ice-cold. “Rowan, who are you putting on this pathetic show for?” He reached down and yanked me up. “Get up and come with me! If we miss this deal, can you afford the loss?” My face remained blank. “I told you, I won’t listen to you anymore, Rhys.” “Your sister confessed. She was never harmed by my bro—” “Shut up!” My words were cut off by his furious roar. His eyes turned vicious. “You have the audacity to mention my sister? You and your brother owe her a debt you can never repay!” “Until you’re dead, you will stay right here, by my side, being my dog and paying for your sin!” A mocking smile stretched across my lips. “Rhys, you hate me that much?” Hate me enough to wish for my death… Don’t worry. I’m dying. You won’t have to wait long. The pain in my stomach intensified violently. My vision went black, and I completely lost consciousness. When I opened my eyes, I was lying on a hotel bed. Rhys saw I was awake and sneered. “Finally awake. I thought you were planning to keep faking it.” He thought I was faking my collapse. I closed my eyes, too weak to respond. But Rhys stood up, came to the bedside, and pinched my jaw. “Don’t play dead. Mr. Price is waiting next door. Get going.” I shook my head, about to refuse. He grabbed my arm and dragged me up, forcing me step by step toward the adjoining suite. Mr. Price sat at the head of the table. His eyes lit up when he saw me. “Rhys, you finally brought her in.” He immediately reached out, wrapped an arm around my waist, and let his hand wander across my back. “Mrs. Blackwood, you didn’t get enough to drink last time, did you?” He grabbed a bottle of liquor and poured a full glass. “Come on, drink this with your ‘buddy’ Price, and the project is a sure thing.” The pungent smell of the alcohol shot into my nostrils. My stomach heaved, and I retched violently. “What’s this? The wife isn’t giving me face?” Mr. Price’s face darkened. Rhys stood nearby, his eyes cold as steel. “Drink it.” I had no choice. I took the glass and tilted my head back, forcing the liquor down. The alcohol burned, making me tremble. Mr. Price roared with laughter and poured another. “Good girl. That’s the spirit! Another one!” Glass after glass. The pain in my stomach was agonizing; I could barely sit upright. Suddenly, Rhys frowned and strode over, snatching the glass from Mr. Price’s hand. “That’s enough, Mr. Price. We’ll call it a night.” Mr. Price was stunned, then laughed. “Oh? Is Rhys getting protective?” Rhys didn’t reply. After seeing Mr. Price out, his gaze dropped to my ashen face. A flicker of something—a panic I couldn’t place—crossed his eyes. “What is wrong with you?” He finally thought I wasn’t faking. Just then, the door to the suite burst open again. “Rhys, I’ve been looking all over for you.” Daphne walked in and headed straight for the couch, sitting down beside me. When she thought no one was looking, she viciously pinched my arm. The sharp, sudden pain cleared my head slightly. “Rowan, honey, what’s wrong?” Daphne asked, feigning concern. “You looked so ill a moment ago, but now you’re better? Were you trying to get out of drinking?” Rhys’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t push me further. Daphne, not missing a beat, linked her arm through Rhys’s. “Rhys, didn’t you promise to take me dress shopping today? For the wedding?” I froze. My mind went blank. Daphne turned to me, her eyes glittering with triumph. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. Rhys and I are getting married.” “We were always meant for an alliance, you know. You’re not mad, are you?” I said nothing. After a moment, a thin smile touched my lips. “Congratulations. I wish you both a happy marriage.” My voice was perfectly calm. Rhys’s face immediately fell. “Rowan, I don’t need your hollow well-wishes.” “Don’t think that once I divorce you, you’ll be free. You will stay by our side for the rest of your life. You will continue to atone.” Daphne gave a light laugh, then took my hand, her tone falsely intimate. “Rowan, you have been married once; you have experience.” “Why don’t you come wedding dress shopping with me right now? Help me pick one out?” This time, I didn’t refuse. At the bridal boutique, Daphne excitedly tried on gown after gown. When she emerged in a stunning mermaid silhouette, a flash of pure wonder crossed Rhys’s eyes. He walked over and embraced her from behind. “You’re beautiful.” They were sickeningly intimate, yet I felt no ripple of emotion. Daphne turned to me, smiling as she waved me closer. “Rowan, come over here and take a few pictures for us.” She handed me a camera. “Take lots, for memories.” I took the camera and mechanically pressed the shutter button, my face devoid of emotion. I was a robot. My utter lack of reaction seemed to infuriate Rhys. He frowned, his lips tightening. “Come here.” “Kneel down. Help Daphne put on the wedding shoes.” I remained standing. I didn’t move. “Did you not hear me?” His eyes instantly hardened. He reached out and shoved me. I stumbled and fell hard to the floor. Before I could catch my breath, Daphne laughed and tossed a pair of scarlet red heels in front of me. “Rowan, come on. See if they fit, will you?” I was completely drained of strength, lying on the floor, unable to speak. Daphne saw my state, then simply lifted her foot and placed it firmly on my back. The sharp pain forced a moan from my lips. “Rowan, why aren’t you moving?” Her voice was laced with malice. “Do you need me to beg?” I couldn’t take it anymore. I tried to push her away, to scramble to my feet. But Rhys was faster. He kicked me hard in the chest. Thud. I crashed back onto the ground. A sharp, searing pain exploded in my ribcage. I struggled to breathe. “Stay put,” Rhys warned, his voice low. “Don’t embarrass me here.” Daphne then bent down, picked up the heels, and tried them on herself. “It’s okay, Rhys. I’ll do it myself. Rowan must be exhausted.” Rhys glanced at me, then said nothing else. I don’t know how much time passed. They finally finished selecting the dress and shoes. Rhys looked down at me. “Get up. Come back with us.” I slowly picked myself up, swaying slightly. I followed them out of the boutique. We returned to the Blackwood estate. It used to be the home Rhys and I shared as husband and wife. Now, it was his and Daphne’s home. Daphne was spoiled like a princess and never had to lift a finger. I, however, had become their servant. I had to personally cook every meal. And I had to kneel while serving them dinner. Daphne seemed to relish the feeling. She constantly kissed and held Rhys in front of me. I, meanwhile, remained utterly impassive, clearing their plates. Soon, their wedding day arrived. Rhys dragged me out of bed early and took me to the hotel. The venue was magnificent. Rhys led me to the entrance of the grand ballroom, his eyes colder than ever. “When Daphne walks down the aisle later, you’ll lie on the floor.” “She will step over you on her way in.” I snapped my head up, staring at him, utterly incredulous. “What? You won’t do it?” Rhys scoffed. “Rowan, don’t you forget, you and your brother owe the Blackwood family a debt that lasts forever.” “Serving as a human stepping stone is getting off easy.” He turned and left to meet his bride. I walked to the backstage waiting area, my body numb. The pain in my stomach was a grinding, constant agony. My head began to swim. I don’t know how long I waited. I heard the strains of the wedding march begin. I knew they were starting the final rehearsal. Suddenly, the room spun. I felt myself slipping away. Without thinking, I grabbed my phone and dialed Rhys’s number. I couldn’t explain why I did it. Maybe a final, desperate thread of hope remained. But when the call connected, it wasn’t Rhys’s voice that answered. It was Daphne’s. “What? Still trying to win Rhys’s sympathy?” “I suggest you behave. My wedding with Rhys is about to officially begin. Don’t ruin this for me.” My world tilted, and I blacked out completely. At the same moment, at the ballroom entrance rehearsal, Rhys was holding Daphne’s hand, ready to walk in. He instinctively glanced at the designated spot ahead. It was empty. Where is that woman? He frowned, a sudden, inexplicable feeling of dread rising in his chest. He called his assistant over. “Where is Rowan? Go get her.” The assistant ran off, searching frantically. He returned moments later, his face white as a sheet. “Mr. Blackwood, sir, something is wrong!” “Ms. Cross collapsed backstage. There’s blood everywhere. She… she has no vital signs.”

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Driving out to check on the new condo, a woman with too much makeup and a tight dress suddenly darted into the street, slamming her hands on the hood of our Range Rover. She kicked the metal—a harsh, gut-churning thud—and screamed for me to get out. I was reaching for my phone, ready to call 911, but Rhys was faster. He fumbled with his seatbelt, threw his door open, and practically lunged out, stripping off his expensive suit jacket to drape over her shoulders. “Honey, it’s freezing out here. Why would you run out dressed like that?” I tried to push my door open, desperate to understand what was happening, but Rhys’s hand shot out, pressing hard against the frame. “Don’t come out! You’ll freak her out, she’s sensitive!” The woman, nestled into his chest, pointed a crimson nail at my face. “Listen up, old baggage! Rhys promised this loft to me! Who are you to tell us what to do? Get lost. His money and his heart? They’ve been mine for ages!” At that, I couldn’t help but smile. His money? What an amusing mistress. Let the games begin. 1 Rhys Harrington was rubbing her back, trying to calm her down, when he twisted his head to look at me. “Lilah, honey, just drive the car away. I’ll come back later and explain everything.” I sat in the passenger seat, staring at the man who had once sworn to love me forever, now shielding his mistress with a panicked, protective care. My heart felt like a massive, icy hand had just squeezed it, stopping the breath in my chest. Three years ago, I almost died giving birth to his child—a difficult delivery that resulted in a major hemorrhage and left me paralyzed. I spent three grueling years in Europe undergoing intensive nerve therapy. The moment I could stand unassisted, I came home. I hadn’t been back long, and this was the homecoming gift Rhys had prepared. I didn’t drive away. I pushed the door open and stepped out. Rhys was clearly surprised, freezing mid-motion. The woman, Tiffany Price, didn’t flinch when I approached. She pulled away from Rhys and strutted toward me, chin held high. Up close, she was impossibly young, her face plump with unearned collagen, but her eyes were pinpricks of pure greed. “What are you looking at? Three years of paralysis and you still couldn’t kick the bucket. You’ve got nerve.” She sneered, running her eyes up and down my body. “Look at you. You can walk, sure, but I can smell the hospital and the medication from two feet away. Rhys has to act like he still wants you every day. I feel sorry for him.” My hand shot out before my brain could stop it. CRACK! The sound was sharp and clean. The world went silent. Rhys froze. Tiffany froze. “You… you hit me?” Tiffany’s hands flew to her cheek, her eyes wide with disbelief. “I did.” I shook my hand out, my voice flat. “Dirty mouth. Consider it an education your parents failed to provide.” “Rhys! She hit me! Look what she did!” Tiffany’s composure shattered. She wailed, throwing herself back into Rhys’s arms like she’d been mortally wounded. Rhys’s eyes were filled with instant, gut-wrenching pity. He gripped her tight and spun around, glaring at me. “Lilah Shaw! Have you lost your mind? Tiffany is just a kid! How dare you lay a hand on her?” “A kid?” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “A kid who crawls into a married man’s bed? Rhys, your taste is truly unique.” Tiffany shrieked and tried to lunge at me, but Rhys took one look at my cold, mocking face, sighed, and bent down, scooping her up in his arms. “She’s not stable right now. I’m taking her away. I will come home and explain everything to you later!” With that, he carried Tiffany to a waiting cab and sped off, never looking back. He left me standing on the side of the road, next to the car with the dented hood, as strangers gathered, pointing and filming. I took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing back the sting behind my eyes. That’s when my phone rang. I looked at the unfamiliar number and answered. “Hello, old baggage.” Tiffany’s voice, now triumphant, crackled through the speaker. “You saw it, didn’t you? Rhys cares about me. You’re smart enough to disappear and be a silent partner, or I swear, I will find ways to make your life a living hell!” I hung up without a word. I called a tow truck, sent the Range Rover to the dealership, and took a cab back to the Harrington estate. My in-laws were watching TV in the sprawling living room. They barely reacted when I walked in. “Dad. Mom,” I said. My mother-in-law didn’t even look up. “You’re back? Where’s Rhys? Didn’t he come with you?” “He went to comfort Tiffany Price,” I stated plainly. The air in the room became instant crystal. My father-in-law lowered his newspaper. My mother-in-law finally turned her head to face me. There was no shock on their faces—only a mild, detached annoyance. “Oh, that girl,” my mother-in-law said, casually flicking a speck of dust off her manicured nail. “Rhys mentioned her. She’s a lively young thing.” My heart didn’t just sink; it shattered. They knew. The entire family knew, and I had been the only fool. “Mom, Rhys is cheating. You’ve known this?” I asked. She frowned, clearly offended by my choice of words. “Cheating? Don’t be so dramatic, Lilah. Men have needs; it’s just part of doing business. Besides, you were away for three years. Do you know how hard it was for Rhys to hold this family together alone? What’s wrong with having a companion who offers a bit of comfort?” “As long as he keeps her out of the house and doesn’t touch your position as his wife, you need to turn a blind eye. This marriage is an alliance between two powerful families, dear. Business is always the priority.” My father-in-law chimed in, “She’s right, Lilah. Be the bigger person. Don’t cause trouble over something so trivial.” Trivial? The bigger person? Looking at their two cold, judgmental faces, I felt a wave of nausea. I didn’t want to waste another word. “Understood,” I replied. I turned and left them in their opulent silence. If they wanted to talk about business, then we would talk about business. I immediately sent a text to Dean: Dean, I need you to run a deep dive on Rhys Harrington’s asset transfers and the full background of a woman named Tiffany Price. Yesterday. Dean Foster was my late mother’s most trusted lawyer, and the only person in the world I could rely on completely. Rhys finally walked in around ten that night. He opened the bedroom door, saw me sitting on the edge of the bed, and paused. He walked over, collapsing onto the velvet armchair opposite me. The tension in the room was thick and suffocating. He hunched over, rubbing his face with his hands, the picture of guilt and remorse. “Lilah, I’m sorry.” It was the first thing he said. I looked at him, and flashed back to him at eighteen, clean-cut and earnest, declaring his love for me on the university quad. The man across from me was a stranger. “Sorry for what?” I asked. “I’m sorry to you,” his voice was raspy. “The last three years, it’s been exhausting. Tiffany… she gives me something different. She’s not so, well, strong like you. She needs me, Lilah. She makes me feel like a man again.” Strong? I nearly burst out laughing. I had given up my post-graduate studies and devoted myself to his career, content to be the woman behind the man. I almost died having his child. And in his eyes, I had become too strong. “And that’s your justification for cheating?” Rhys lifted his head, his eyes red-rimmed. “I couldn’t help it! I don’t want to hurt you, and I don’t want to hurt Tiffany. I love you both; I can’t let either of you go.” “I’ve thought this through. I’ll make it up to you, double everything you’ve suffered. Tiffany doesn’t want the title; she just wants to be near me. I swear I will balance things out and make sure you are never disrespected.” Listen to the sheer poetry of it. He wanted his cake and his mistress too. He was dreaming. “Rhys, we need to divorce,” I said, my voice steady. “If you can’t choose, I’ll choose for you.” Rhys shot up from the armchair, his face a mask of horror. “Divorce? Absolutely not! I will never divorce you!” “I married you, and I will be responsible for you for life! Besides, you were paralyzed because you were having my child! If I divorce you, I’ll be crucified in the media!” “And don’t forget, our partnership with the Sterling Group is at a critical stage! If we divorce now, the stock will tank! Can’t you be reasonable?” Watching his desperate, cornered reaction, I felt nothing but mockery. He didn’t care about my heart; he cared about his reputation and his stock portfolio. “So what’s the plan? Keep the official flag flying at home while keeping the side show running?” “If you just stop making a scene, we can make this work!” Rhys pleaded, rushing to convince me. “Tiffany is simple; she won’t threaten your status. You just have to pretend she doesn’t exist…” Suddenly, his phone buzzed. Rhys glanced at the screen, and his face instantly changed. He didn’t even acknowledge me as he answered and bolted for the door. “Hello, babe? What is it? You had a nightmare? Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’m on my way right now…” The door slammed shut with a final, echoing thud. I walked to the window and watched Rhys’s car speed away from the mansion. He would drop everything, at any time, for her. Perfect. Rhys Harrington, since you broke the contract of our marriage, you can’t blame me for breaking the contract of our business. I was getting divorced. But before that, I was going to make him and that “simple” Tiffany pay the price. The next morning, I went to Harrington Industries. Although I hadn’t stepped foot in the building in three years, I still held twenty percent of the company’s shares and maintained a seat on the board. The receptionist nearly fainted when she saw me, immediately calling the CEO’s office. I ignored the curious stares and went straight to the finance department. My first order of business: an audit. The Chief Financial Officer stammered out that no one was allowed to view the books without Mr. Harrington’s explicit signature. Expected. Rhys had been treating me like a thief for months. I didn’t argue. I left the building and went to the nearest high-end shopping center. If I couldn’t audit his books, I’d start by bleeding his wallet. In the jewelry store, I picked out a new emerald necklace, priced at two hundred and ninety thousand dollars. Normally, I would have considered it too expensive, but today, it felt too cheap. “I’ll take it,” I told the sales associate, handing her my black card. It was an unlimited-spending titanium card Rhys had given me on our fifth anniversary. The associate’s smile was professional and wide as she took the card. A few seconds later, the smile froze. “Ma’am… I’m terribly sorry, the card was declined.” “What?” I stared at her. “It says ‘Insufficient Funds,’” she whispered, handing it back with trembling hands. Insufficient funds? An unlimited card? The only explanation was that Rhys had either capped the main account or, more likely, canceled my access to the secondary card. Rhys Harrington! He had actually cut me off! As I stood there, stunned, the click of expensive heels echoed across the marble floor. “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the former Mrs. Harrington. What’s the matter, can’t afford it?” Tiffany, carrying a brand-new Hermès bag, sashayed over. She was dripping in new custom-made clothes and jewelry, looking impeccably styled. Next to her, my slightly dated trench coat suddenly felt shabby. “Kevin, bag that necklace up for me, and those rings over there, and the diamond bracelet.” Tiffany waved her hand dismissively, not even looking at the price tags. The sales associate immediately ditched me and ran to her new high-roller. “Miss Price, you have excellent taste! Those are all new arrivals! The total is five hundred and eighty-eight thousand dollars.” Tiffany didn’t blink. She pulled a black card out of her Hermès bag and handed it over. It was exactly the same card as mine. “Run it,” she commanded, lifting her chin to look at me, her eyes glinting with malice. “A man’s heart follows his money, honey. Some people walk around waving a canceled credit card and pretending to be a wealthy wife. So sad.” I scoffed, pulled out my own phone, and dialed 911. “Hello, Police? I’d like to report a major theft. Someone is using my husband’s stolen card to fraudulently purchase millions of dollars in jewelry.” “The address is the ground floor jewelry store at the Starling Mall. The thief is still on the premises. Please hurry.” I hung up and looked Tiffany dead in the eye. Tiffany paused for a moment, then burst into a cackle of laughter. “You called the police? You actually called the police on me? Mrs. Harrington, have you finally lost your mind? Rhys gave me this card! I’m spending my man’s money; it’s perfectly legal! What are the cops going to do?” She wasn’t scared. She was even more arrogant. She called Rhys. “Honey! Your old hag has gone crazy! She called the cops on me! She’s saying I stole your card! Get over here right now! I want you to slap her face yourself! If I don’t see you in twenty minutes, I’m done with you!” The police arrived quickly. Two officers walked in, looking serious. “Who called 911?” “I did,” I stepped forward. “Officers, this woman is currently using my husband’s card without my permission.” Tiffany, still admiring a pair of earrings, rolled her eyes at the police. “Officers, don’t listen to this crazy woman. My boyfriend gave me this card.” The officer looked at me. “What is your relationship to the cardholder?” I pulled up my electronic marriage license. “I am Rhys Harrington’s legal wife. The cardholder, Rhys Harrington, and I are still legally married. I have never authorized this woman to use our joint marital assets.” The two officers exchanged a look; their expressions turned complex. “Ma’am, we need you to present identification and accompany us to the station for questioning,” the officer told Tiffany. “I’m not going! You can’t arrest me!” Tiffany slammed the card onto the counter. “You’ll see when my boyfriend gets here! He’s going to call your Chief of Police!” Just then, Rhys burst through the door, out of breath. He didn’t even glance at me, rushing straight to Tiffany and pulling her into his arms. “Tiff, are you okay? They didn’t touch you, did they?” With her rock behind her, Tiffany’s confidence soared. “Rhys! Finally! This witch brought the police to arrest me! She says I stole your card and wants me to go to jail! You better tell them who I am!” Rhys’s face darkened with rage. He spun around, glaring at me. “Lilah Shaw! Have you made enough of a scene? I told you I would handle this! Did you have to blow it up like this? Aren’t you embarrassed?” “Embarrassed?” I gave a cold laugh. “Rhys, who should be embarrassed? You used our marital funds to support a mistress, then canceled my card so she could charge six figures. Do you have any shame?” More and more onlookers had gathered, pointing and gossiping. Rhys, clearly humiliated, hissed at me under his breath, “What marital funds! That’s my money! I’ll spend it on who I want! Now shut your mouth!” He turned back to the police, forcing a smile. “Officers, this is all a misunderstanding. I did give my girlfriend this card. It’s not theft. It’s just a domestic dispute; we can handle it ourselves.” “Girlfriend?” the officer frowned at him. “This woman says you are legally married.” Rhys’s face froze. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “We’re… we’re filing for divorce. It’s in progress.” “You’re still married until the papers are signed,” the officer said sternly. “Since the cardholder is claiming it was willingly given, it’s not technically theft. However, Mr. Harrington, since you are not divorced, large transfers of marital assets can be challenged. I suggest you deal with this through your lawyers.” Hearing this, Tiffany shot out from behind Rhys and lunged at me, trying to scratch my face. “You b*tch! You called the police on me! I’ll scratch that smug look off your face!” I was ready, dodging her initial attack and aiming a retaliatory slap. But I forgot Rhys was there. The moment my arm swung out, Rhys grabbed my wrist, his fingers digging in hard. “Lilah Shaw! You’re going to hit her again? Who do you think you are?” He shoved me hard. Wearing heels, I lost my balance and crashed backward into a glass jewelry display. A sharp, searing pain shot through my lower back. I bit back a cry. Seeing her chance, Tiffany rushed forward, long nails raking across my face. “I’ll ruin your face! Then no man will ever look at you again!” Tear— My cheek burned. Rhys didn’t stop her. He held me pinned against the counter, allowing Tiffany to vent her rage. “That’s enough, Tiff. Don’t hurt your hand.” In that moment, the last flicker of hope in my heart was extinguished forever. The police finally intervened, pulling them apart. “That’s enough! Fighting in front of police officers! You’re all coming with us!” At the station, Tiffany immediately played the victim, claiming I filed a false police report and that I was the aggressor. She demanded to press charges for assault and battery. Her face didn’t even have a red mark, but my cheek was bleeding from three deep scratches. Rhys, however, stood with her. He pointed at me and told the police, “Officers, it’s true, my wife initiated the physical contact. You saw it. If I hadn’t stopped her, she probably would have given Tiffany a concussion.” I looked at him, utterly disgusted. “Rhys Harrington, you’ll sell your own soul to protect a cheap mistress.” Rhys avoided my gaze, lowering his voice. “Lilah, stop. If Tiffany has a record, it will ruin her life. You go in for a few days, cool off, and we’ll drop the whole thing.” The police officers looked like they wanted to argue on my behalf, but I shook my head at them. Then, I looked straight at Rhys. “Rhys Harrington, I hope you never regret this.” Based on Rhys’s testimony and my refusal to defend myself, I was charged with disturbing the peace and held for seven days of administrative detention. As they led me away, I watched Rhys. He was cradling Tiffany’s hand—the one she’d used to scratch me—and gently blowing on her fingers. In my heart, I started a silent countdown. Rhys. Your perfect life is about to end.

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I scrolled past a TikTok discussing common-law marriage and how in some states, five years of cohabitation counts as a domestic partnership. Grinning, I turned to Dean Kinsley, the man I’d lived with for exactly five years, and asked, “So, if we ever break up, are we going to split all the assets?” Dean, who usually couldn’t stand the mention of a breakup, looked at me with chilling composure. “Strictly speaking, what I’m spending on you right now is marital property belonging to me and your best friend. If we’re going to talk division, you’ll walk away with nothing and probably owe me.” Seeing my stunned silence, he pulled out a marriage certificate and sighed, a gesture of weary patience. “The truth is, Serena and I signed the papers two days ago. You know about her extreme phobia—the one where she’s averse to men? She’s only immune to me. Her family is pushing her hard to get married. We’re doing the wedding tomorrow, and then I’ll file for divorce immediately. You are the one I want to be my wife.” “It’s just a piece of paper, Sum. For the sake of your best friend, you won’t make a big deal out of this, right?” I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply nodded. And then I quietly booked an appointment for a termination the next morning. Five years of love wasn’t worth a single request for help. This love was over. 1 “I swear to you, I’m only helping her out. You are the person I love the most, the person I want to marry!” “I know I shouldn’t have kept it from you. But her parents are literally threatening to cut her off. I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.” His words slammed into me like a thunderclap. He married my best friend to help her out. Then what was the point of all the times I’d brought up marriage, only to have him deflect, joke, or sidestep the issue? Last year, when my mother was in the ICU, her dying wish was to see me married. I begged him, and he told me he wasn’t ready, that he didn’t want to rush such a lifelong commitment, and he wanted our wedding to be perfect, not tainted by urgency or sadness. Three months ago, a relative saw me leaving my OB-GYN and gossiped to my father that I was going for “checkups” before marriage—shameful, indecent. My dad beat me so badly I spat up blood and told me he’d disown me if I didn’t get married. Dean told me marriage was too important to be rushed by external pressures. He swore he would be my family forever, even if my father abandoned me. Even last week, when I felt sick, the doctor told me I was at risk for a miscarriage and needed to rest. I joked that we needed to get married before I passed my prime childbearing years. He replied that not having children was fine, too; he didn’t want me to risk my health. I genuinely believed he was looking out for me. But two days ago, I was doubled over in pain, about to tell him I was pregnant. That’s when Serena called. She just casually complained that her parents were going to kill her if she didn’t get married soon. Dean didn’t hesitate. He threw on his jacket, told me curtly to go to the emergency room if I felt worse, and rushed out to marry her. I stared at the marriage certificate on the coffee table—the certificate I’d begged for for a year—now bearing his and someone else’s smiling faces. Tears I couldn’t control streamed down my face. Guilt flashed in his eyes. He reached for a tissue to wipe my tears, just as my phone rang. It was Serena. My hands were shaking. I couldn’t process any of it. I moved to hang up, but Dean snatched the phone, a frown creasing his brow. “Don’t hang up. She’ll overthink it, and I don’t want her to feel guilty or burdened over something this small.” He quickly answered the call and pressed the phone back into my hand. I was stunned. In the past, his philosophy was that my feelings were paramount. If I was even slightly unhappy, he’d sit with me—no matter what I did—just so I wouldn’t bottle up my emotions. “Sum, you… why aren’t you saying anything? Are you still mad at me? I’m so sorry, I know I shouldn’t be so selfish, but you’re my best friend…” Dean abruptly pushed my arm and took the phone back. His voice was instantly warm and gentle. “No, she’s just a little surprised. Don’t worry, I’m taking her to try on bridesmaid dresses in a minute.” He hung up and began rubbing my stiff, numb hands. “There. Whole charade. I know you’re upset, but after tomorrow, I promise everything goes back to normal, okay?” He grabbed my wrist and dragged my lifeless body to a high-end bridal boutique, a place you needed to book at least a year in advance. Serena stood before us, wearing the wedding dress Dean had designed for me two years ago. 2 “You finally came! I thought you were angry and wouldn’t show up. Quick, tell me, don’t I look beautiful?” My heart clenched, again and again. That dress—the style, the fabric, the meaning behind it—was everything I had ever wanted. I had maintained my weight and figure to fit into it perfectly. Dean had told me he would only pick up his pen again to design a gown for the woman he loved the most. I had dreamed of the moment I would wear it and walk toward him. I had even told Serena how much this dress meant to me. Yet, here she was, wearing it right in front of me. Before I could speak, Dean’s gaze swept over her, full of admiration. “Stunning! The alterations are perfect. It fits you like a glove.” A sudden, sharp pain flared in my chest. I fought back tears and looked at him. He offered a helpless shrug. “She really loves this one. It’s just a dress. You two are practically sisters; don’t be petty about it. We’ll have it altered back afterward.” Serena gave me a pained, apologetic look. “Sum, if you mind, it’s fine. I don’t need it. I already asked you…” Dean placed a firm hand on her shoulder. “My bride, my call.” Serena smiled playfully and looped her arm through his. “Will you help me choose the accessories? Sum won’t mind, will she?” Watching their easy intimacy, all the minor, nagging details I had suppressed over the years surfaced, like shards of glass. At a party, he’d casually cover for her, saying, “She’s on her period,” and drank her share of cocktails. While shopping, a single, embarrassed glance from her was enough for him to pull a maxi pad out of his pocket. I’d always told myself he was trying to make a good impression on my best friend. Now I knew he wasn’t just showing ‘friends-of-my-love’ affection. His heart had simply drifted off course. A torrent of hurt, fury, and betrayal welled up, and tears began to fall. I didn’t want to make a scene here. I took a deep breath and started to leave. Just as I turned, I heard Serena call out. “Oh, Sum! That heirloom jade bangle of yours would go perfectly with this dress. Can I borrow it?” My hand instinctively tightened around the cool, smooth stone on my wrist. This was the bracelet my mother had placed on my hand just before she died last year. She said I had to wear it on my wedding day so it would feel like she was walking beside me. I looked down at the soft glow of the jade. My voice was raspy. “I can’t lend this. My mother gave it to me. They have plenty of suitable accessories here.” Serena sighed, visibly deflated. “Oh, well. That’s a real shame.” As she spoke, a vice-like grip clamped down on my hand. Dean leaned down and awkwardly tried to yank the bracelet off my wrist. “It’s just a bracelet. Your aunt didn’t just leave you one thing, did she?” “Besides, if Serena hadn’t pulled you out of that situation with that predator three years ago, would you even be here today? Aunt Clara saw her as a daughter—it’s just a bracelet. She deserves it. Don’t you dare forget who saved you, Sum. Ungrateful people tend to repeat their mistakes!” The jade ground against my bone, agonizingly painful. But his flippant words tore my heart open. The man I loved most was peeling back the scar tissue and stabbing a deeper wound into the original injury. He used to endlessly regret not being there to protect me that night. Now, he was wishing I’d repeat my mistakes. Slap! He froze, clutching his cheek, looking at me. My eyes were blazing red. “Do you know what you’re saying? You know exactly why that happened—because you ditched me to go drinking! I called you a dozen times, and you answered none of them! That’s why it happened!” “And you know this bracelet was put on my wrist by my mother. Now, because of her little sigh, you want to strip me of the most important thing I have left?” The anger in his eyes was replaced by a look of crushing guilt. He looked at my wrist, rubbed raw by the jade, his face contorted in a mix of pain and conflict. Serena rushed over, gazing at Dean with feigned distress. “Sum, it’s my fault. Please, don’t fight because of me. You shouldn’t have grabbed her hand like that.” Her words were like a constant, needling jab, suggesting my value in Dean’s eyes was rapidly diminishing. I swallowed the lump in my throat and readjusted the bangle on my wrist. “You two go ahead and try things on. I don’t feel well. I’m leaving.” 3 With that, I turned to walk away. But before I could take a step, a searing smack across the face sent my head spinning. “You little tramp! Who gave you permission to bully my nephew-in-law?” “You keep crossing the line just because my niece is your friend. You like being the side piece, don’t you?” A large woman I didn’t recognize grabbed my collar. Before I could react, her hand swung back and struck my face again. “Speak up! My niece and nephew-in-law tolerate you, but I won’t!” Dean stepped forward to intervene, but she shoved him away. “What are you doing? Your wife is standing right here! Why are you defending this little tramp?” I watched him take a staggering step back, his guilty eyes sweeping over me. My heart hit the floor. Clutching my stinging cheek, I glared at him. “Dean Kinsley! Are you just going to stand there and watch me get hit?” He hesitated, about to speak. The next moment, Serena lightly wrapped her hand around his arm, leaving him completely helpless. “Sum… I’m getting married tomorrow. You need to keep your distance and manage your expectations.” His dry, flat words cemented my identity as the other woman. Tears burned as they streamed down my throbbing cheek. The woman raised her hand again. I shoved her away, pulled out my phone, and opened my photo gallery. “Look closely! These are pictures of us! We are…” Smash. The phone was knocked out of my hand and shattered on the floor, the screen instantly black. Dean was agitated and furious, glaring at me. He swung his hand without hesitation. “Enough! If you’re not here to give your sincere blessing, then get out! Don’t ruin things before our wedding! If it weren’t for Serena, I wouldn’t even give you the time of day! Stop now!” I stumbled backward, my lower abdomen slamming into the door handle, the spot where the bangle sat hitting the metal. The weight on my wrist instantly vanished. I stared at the shattered pieces of jade on the ground. A cold, empty feeling washed over me, as if my last tangible connection to my mother had been severed. “No… Mom, don’t… don’t leave me.” A flicker of distress crossed Dean’s face. He started to bend down to pick up the pieces, but Serena clutched her leg and cried out in pain. A trickle of blood began to seep between her fingers. Dean panicked. He swept her up in his arms and sprinted for the door. His urgent steps knocked me over. The shattered jade cut into my palm. And it sliced my heart in two. He paused for only a split second before leaving without a backward glance. The older woman sneered and kicked the scattered shards of jade across the floor. “The little bastard thinks she can steal my niece’s man! Pfft!” Under the scornful gaze of everyone present, I was shoved out the door. In the freezing snow, I endured the sharp, stabbing pain in my lower abdomen. I clawed through the icy dirt and slush, eventually retrieving the last fragmented piece of the bangle. Clutching the remnants, I disappeared into the night, step by agonizing step. The warm, viscous liquid pooling on my inner thigh turned icy cold. I felt the life that shouldn’t have been—the life Dean had indirectly stolen—slip away. And with it, five years of my life with Dean. I woke up in a hospital room. The acrid smell of disinfectant stung my nose. A nurse beside me gasped. “She’s awake! She’s awake!” “Where is your family? Your pregnancy was unstable—why were you running around in this weather?” “And your phone was broken! We were so worried!” I touched my flat, empty stomach. My voice was a raw whisper. “The baby? Is it gone?” She sighed. “You’re young, and your health is good. You can try again later.” She handed me a small box and a blurred ultrasound image, then quietly turned and left. Staring at the tiny, blurry bud of life resting in the cold container, I felt as though my core had been hollowed out. Why did everything I cherished, everything I carefully protected, have to be taken from me? The doctor checked on me periodically. Seeing my quiet sobs, she stressed the need for rest. I borrowed her phone and ordered a new one. After transferring my old SIM card and paying her back, the constant ping of new notifications began. Most were from Dean. [I told you to wait it out. It would all be over tomorrow. Why did you have to make a scene?] [It would’ve been better if you just gave her the bracelet; then it wouldn’t have shattered.] [Whatever. We can get it repaired later.] [Oh, and make sure you have a wedding gift ready tomorrow as an apology.] 4 [If Serena and I hadn’t smoothed things over, her family would have plastered your mistress status all over social media. Pick something expensive, apologize, and don’t cause any more drama!] [Does your face still hurt? Learn a lesson from this. Don’t be so impulsive in the future!] [I’m not coming back tonight. Pack your things up in the apartment. Her family needs to see the place tomorrow, and we can’t have any slip-ups.] I let out a hollow laugh, staring at the frigid, heartless words. He was the one who promised me a home. Now he was ordering me out of it. He was the one who cried over a tiny burn I got while cooking. Now he slapped me and told me I deserved it, that I needed to “learn a lesson.” I laughed until the tears started again. They dripped onto the screen. The phone lit up. This time, it wasn’t Dean; it was Serena. [You can see he cares about me. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have married me in a day when you couldn’t get him to commit in five years.] [It’s awful to say this, and I know it’s unfair to you after five years, but that’s just how love is. People get bored.] [A person’s value is in their self-awareness. Some mistakes don’t need correcting. If you really love him, then let him be happy.] [Consider it repaying my life-saving kindness to you.] Tears blurred my vision. Seeing their new profile pictures—a matching couple’s set—left a taste of bitter acid in my mouth. I clicked on social media, where videos celebrating Dean’s wedding were already circulating. I sighed deeply. Maybe this was just fate. If that night three years ago hadn’t happened, perhaps none of this would have unfolded. I slowly made my way home to pack. When the elevator stopped on the surgery floor, two familiar-looking girls stepped in. “Oh my god, I can’t believe she actually pulled it off. Three years, lying in wait next to that poor girl, just to steal her boyfriend. That’s next level.” “Seriously! You have no idea how twisted she is. She staked out their party, hired some guys to pull the boyfriend away, and then got thugs to corner the girl in the alley. When the timing was perfect, she pretended to just ‘stumble upon’ the scene and rescue her. Became her best friend naturally! She’s been eating food she’s supposedly allergic to for three years to fake that men-aversion thing, just to chip away at them.” “Holy hell! That’s insane! That other girl is seriously unlucky!” “Shh! Quiet down. We don’t want anyone hearing.” Ding. The elevator reached the first floor. Watching their backs disappear, a wave of cold nausea washed over me. I shakily unlocked my phone and looked at the picture Serena had posted just moments ago, showing friends visiting her in the hospital. In the picture, besides Dean’s attentive figure, two girls were wearing the exact same outfits as the ones who had just left the elevator. My entire rescue, my salvation, had been her calculated scheme. I wiped my tears and went to the surveillance office. Citing a lost item, I reviewed the elevator footage and recorded the audio and video. Next, I filed a police report for intentional harm. I would give them a wedding gift they would never forget. The next day, at the wedding. A subtle feeling of dread lingered in Dean Kinsley’s heart. Especially when he saw Serena Meyer’s radiant, smiling face. For a fleeting second, he regretted everything. This day was supposed to be his and Summer’s. “Do you, the groom, take this beautiful woman to be your wife?” He hesitated. Serena’s eyes, full of gentle supplication, were fixed on him. Whatever, he thought. Just a bad dream. He parted his lips. The word “I” hadn’t even left his throat. CRASH. The doors to the ballroom burst open. It wasn’t the figure he secretly yearned for. The crowd buzzed, but no one dared stop the commotion. Under the watchful eyes of two uniformed officers, a delivery man handed a small box to Dean. “This is a wedding gift from Ms. Summer Weston.” Serena looked panicked, urging him to open it after the ceremony. But the dread in Dean’s heart had finally found its anchor. He trembled as he lifted the lid. Inside were two items. An ultrasound image of a five-week-old fetus. And a medical diagnostic report bearing Serena Meyer’s name, which read: [Diagnosis: Patient exhibits no symptoms of androgen-related phobia or aversion to the male hormone.]

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Twenty years ago, on my wedding day, I discovered my fiancé was having an affair with my maid of honor. I canceled the wedding on the spot. In an act of monstrous collusion, our families—our own flesh and blood—had me committed to a psychiatric facility. “She’s raving mad!” they declared. “She’s slandering her fiancé and her own sister!” In that place, I was subjected to electroshocks, force-fed medication, and often strapped down and beaten. I endured that life for two decades. Twenty years later, I finally walked free. But my hair was completely white. My teeth were mostly gone. I looked utterly broken, like a woman easily seventy years old. I hid myself away in a small regional assisted living center, working as a patient aide under an assumed name. I genuinely believed I would never have to see any of them again. Until one day, my former fiancé arrived. He was with a little girl—the daughter he’d had with my sister. They were there to visit his mother. When he saw me, his entire body froze. His eyes immediately welled up. “Eliza?! God, is that you? I thought you were gone…” I kept my head down, scrubbing the floor. I said nothing. I didn’t want to acknowledge his existence. The doctor had just told me I had late-stage Alzheimer’s disease. At most, I had three months of coherent memory left. After those three months, all the hatred would be gone. The twenty years they stole from me would be wiped clean. 1 I gripped the washcloth, my hand trembling violently. Hot water splashed out, scalding the back of my hand, but I felt nothing. Patty, the head aide, snatched the cloth away, slamming it into the basin. Water splattered across my face. Her voice was sharp and cruel. “Ruth, you move like a zombie! You’re useless!” “If you can’t manage this, what good are you?” I kept my head down, silent. “Hurry up! Next patient!” Mechanically, I picked up a mop and headed toward the next bed. Just then, a commotion erupted at the doorway. A man in a bespoke suit walked in, leading a little girl dressed in an expensive party dress. The man was handsome and towering; the girl was beautiful and perfectly adorable. They were glaringly out of place in this room saturated with the smell of disinfectant and old age. I instinctively shrank back, trying to melt into the shadows. But the man saw me. He stared, riveted, for a full fifteen seconds. Then, his eyes turned instantly red, and his voice cracked as he spoke my name. “Eliza? Is it really you?” The blood in my veins solidified. I recognized that voice. It was Liam Maxwell. The man who had personally signed the papers that delivered me to hell twenty years ago. I lowered my head and scrubbed the floor with all my strength. My voice came out coarse and grating. “You have the wrong person. My name is Ruth Miller.” He strode over quickly and grabbed my wrist. His grip was strong, squeezing my bones until they ached. “Eliza, I know it’s you! Don’t try to hide!” I struggled to pull away, and the mop handle clattered onto the linoleum. The little girl beside him immediately shrieked. “Dad! That old lady is gross! She touched me!” Liam flinched as if burned, releasing my wrist instantly. He turned to console his daughter, his voice melting with tenderness. “It’s okay, Calla-girl, it’s not dirty. Daddy will take you to wash your hands right now.” Patty rushed over like a whirlwind. She didn’t spare me a glance, instead bowing profusely toward Liam. “Mr. Maxwell, please don’t be angry. This old woman has no manners.” Then, she whirled around and slapped me across the face. The smack echoed in the hallway, and my cheek instantly began to swell. “How dare you serve a distinguished guest like this?! That’s three days’ pay, gone!” Liam frowned, holding up a hand to stop Patty before she could strike again. “It’s fine. Don’t hit her.” He looked at me, a flicker of guilt in his eyes. “Eliza, I know it’s you. We need to talk, later.” I ignored him, bent down, picked up the mop, and limped toward the supply closet. Behind me, I heard his determined voice. “I will come back every day until you agree to speak with me.” I closed the supply closet door, shutting out his voice. Leaning against the cold wall, my entire body was shaking. That night, I retrieved a worn, rusty tin box from beneath my cot. Inside, there was only one sheet of paper. My diagnosis. The flashlight beam focused on the words, stinging my eyes. Alzheimer’s Disease, Late Stage. The doctor said I had three months of memory left, at best. Three months until I forgot everything. Forgot the twenty years of electroshocks, force-feeding, and restraints. Forgot every ugly face. Forgot the blood debt they owed me. With a trembling hand, I wrote the first line on the back of the diagnostic report. “Let every single one of them pay the price!”

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When Savannah, my fiancée, lost a bet to her “man-bestie,” Dane, and canceled our wedding for the ninth time, I knew I had to draw a line. I told her, seriously, that if she called it off again, I would go home and marry someone from an approved family, someone who could deliver on a commitment. She just laughed, completely unconcerned. “Rhys, you transplanted your bone marrow for me. How could you possibly marry anyone else?” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Besides, who else would take on a bitter old bachelor like you?” On the morning of our tenth wedding attempt, Dane sent her a photo: a key card to a secluded Springs Resort suite. His accompanying challenge was simple: if she could find him there in three hours, he’d agree to be my groomsman. Savannah’s face instantly changed. She tore off her veil and sprinted out of the ballroom. Three hours later, Dane posted a photo to his feed: the two of them, half-submerged in a steaming outdoor spa, watching fireworks explode over the mountains. The caption read: The people who truly care will always find a way to get to you, no matter where you are. I silently stripped off my tuxedo. Then, I pulled out a number I hadn’t dialed in years. “Eleanor Vaughn,” I said, my voice steadying. “That promise you made to marry me, is it still good?” A choked, excited gasp came from the other end of the line. “Of course, it’s good, Rhys. For you, that promise is good for a lifetime.” 1 A wave of embarrassed silence washed over the high-society guests in the ballroom. Even among this cynical crowd, the awkwardness was palpable. Someone muttered, “Mr. Harding has wasted seven years on Ms. Sinclair. This is beyond reckless. How can she ditch him every time for a glorified platonic friend?” “Seriously. He gave her so much. Bone marrow, for God’s sake. He was even disowned by his grandfather because of her.” They looked at me with pity. Even strangers knew Savannah had gone too far. Mrs. Sinclair, Savannah’s mother, rushed up to me, grasping my arm tightly. “Rhys, darling, you need to explain! Tell everyone there was a massive crisis at Sinclair Enterprises and Savannah had to run. Just start the dinner service now.” I looked down at the woman who always claimed to treat me like a son. The anger was a slow burn in my chest. “Mrs. Sinclair, do you think everyone here is stupid? That is the exact story I’ve told nine times already.” Her face hardened, and her tone turned sharp. “Well, you’ve said it nine times. What’s the harm in one more?” She leaned closer. “Unless, of course, all those grand promises you made about loving Savannah were nothing but lies?” Her self-righteous indignation—the absolute belief that it was perfectly normal for me to be treated like a total fool—was staggering. The memories flashed back, a quick-cut montage of humiliation. Our wedding dates had been a joke ever since Dane Foster, her childhood ‘man-bestie,’ returned to the States three years ago. Every single time, she took Dane’s bait. Every time, she lost. The first wedding: She drank her “last single-life cocktail” with Dane, overslept, and we had to postpone. The second: She lost a bet and literally gave Dane the wedding venue to host his ridiculous, scantily-clad rave. The guests were shell-shocked. The third… Each time, she offered the same weak excuse: “Rhys, Dane just got dumped. He’s heartbroken and needs me. As his best friend, I can’t abandon him now.” My hands clenched into fists. They chose our wedding day, every time, to play their games and she never won. Did they truly think I was that blind? As Mrs. Sinclair continued to prattle on with her condescending advice, the grand doors burst open. Savannah walked in, composed and beautiful, her arm intimately looped through Dane’s. “Rhys, I lost the bet again,” she announced to the room, a faux-apologetic look on her face. “It took me three hours and one minute to find Dane. You wouldn’t put me in a difficult position, would you?” She glanced at the clock. “The auspicious hour is long gone. We’ll just have to pick a new date.” Then, standing directly in front of Dane, she calmly took off the remaining part of her dress and dropped it, along with a framed wedding portrait, directly into a passing trash receptacle. A collective gasp swept the room. The sheer contempt in the act made the guests look at me with fresh sympathy. The heir to the powerful Harding family, treated as nothing more than an inconvenient afterthought. I met Dane’s eyes, which were shining with smug satisfaction. I let out a cold laugh. “Savannah, how about we make a bet?” I asked. “Let’s bet on the eleventh wedding. Will you lose that one, too?” She rolled her eyes, her gaze full of boredom. “Rhys Harding, betting is a special tradition between me and Dane. Don’t try to join the fun.” I paused, letting the silence hang heavy. “The bet is this,” I said slowly. “I bet on the day of the eleventh wedding, Sinclair Enterprises will be bankrupt.” Savannah’s face drained of color. “Rhys Harding! Just because I didn’t marry you today, you’re cursing my family?” She sneered. “No wonder Dane says you’re just an old loser who only knows how to threaten people with favors and guilt.” Rage finally snapped the chain. I couldn’t keep the roar in. “If you were sleeping with Dane, just admit it and marry him! Stop playing these pathetic, idiotic games to humiliate me!” Dane instantly flared up, his face turning beet-red. “Mr. Harding, how dare you! Savannah and I have been best friends since we were kids. Don’t you dare taint our connection!” He stepped closer, then leaned in, whispering into my ear, his breath hot and disgusting. “Rhys, after being dumped ten times, do you really have the nerve to stand here and beg like a dog? If I were you, I’d have taken the hint and left already.” He chuckled, a venomous sound. “The truth is, Savannah always said you were useless. Couldn’t satisfy her even once.” He pulled back, feigning exasperation for the crowd. “Savannah, last time you lost a bet, you said you were going to shred Mr. Harding’s suit and use it as a rag for the dog. I didn’t take it seriously, so why is Mr. Harding making such a scene?” Savannah gave him a soft, affectionate smile, grabbed a pair of shears from a nearby centerpiece, and handed them to him. “I honor my bets, Dane. Go ahead. I can’t break my word in front of family.” I stared at Savannah, utterly frozen in disbelief. In that moment, she was a total stranger. She placed the scissors in Dane’s hand and spoke to me with chilling indifference. “Rhys, it’s just a suit. Don’t be such a drama queen.” The custom-tailored wedding suit, a masterpiece my late grandmother had personally commissioned, was savagely sliced to ribbons. Dane grabbed a handful of the silk, his eyes glittering with disdain. “Savannah, didn’t you say this was made by a famous designer? It looks even worse than our dog’s rag.” He contemptuously tossed the shreds into the nearest trash bin. Savannah patted his arm, a gentle gesture of appeasement. “Okay, okay, you don’t like it. We’ll buy you something better tomorrow.” I watched the two of them, the bile rising in my throat. I lashed out with every ounce of strength I had, hitting Dane squarely on the jaw. Then, I snatched the shears from the table and plunged them deep into his chest. My hand was instantly soaked in blood. Dane gasped and staggered backward, clutching his wound as he collapsed into Savannah’s arms. The ballroom erupted in chaos. “He’s killed him! Call the police!” I stood there, gasping for breath, my body shaking uncontrollably. “Savannah,” I asked, looking into her panicked eyes. “Are you satisfied with this bet?” This was the first time I had ever seen genuine terror on her face. She gripped Dane tighter, shoved me away with her foot, and screamed, “Call 911!” Then, she looked down at me, her eyes arctic cold, filled with pure revulsion. “Rhys Harding, no wonder your father left and your mother killed herself! You deserve to be miserable. You don’t deserve anyone’s love.” Her words were a frozen blade. My blood ran cold, and a thousand needles pierced my heart. She knew my most vulnerable spot, the ultimate wound. She had targeted it perfectly. I collapsed onto the floor, defeated and wretched. The paramedics arrived. Savannah helped load Dane onto the gurney. As they wheeled him out, she paused, giving me one final, icy glance. “Rhys, you hurt Dane. This isn’t over.” The guests silently filed out, shaking their heads in disgust. My tenth wedding had ended in bloodshed. I sat there for a long time, the silence growing heavier until the last person was gone and the police arrived. “Are you Rhys Harding? We received a report of aggravated assault. You need to come with us.” I managed a bitter, humorless laugh. “Savannah called you, didn’t she?” The officer nodded. In the interrogation room, I numbly recounted the entire process and my motive. The detective looked at my disheveled state with pity. “Mr. Harding, why stay devoted to a woman who treated you like this? Why hang yourself on one rotten branch?” I looked at the officer, the question echoing in my mind. Why? Was it because I was drowning in the undertow, and she had once offered me the illusion of a lifeline? When I was fifteen, my mother, consumed by depression, jumped from a rooftop. I became the parentless outcast overnight. Months later, my father remarried. They were instantly a happy family of three. My stepmother hated me, making it clear I was never welcome in that house. I was an outsider. I was shivering, starving, and close to collapsing on the street that day when Savannah found me. She held me, comforted me, and gave me the courage to keep going. My love for her wasn’t just romance; she was the single anchor in my drowning world. A few hours later, Savannah returned with a limping Dane. When questioned by the police, she fixed me with a hostile glare. “We will not settle this. He needs to be prosecuted to the full extent. He was violent even as a kid. If we don’t teach him a lesson now, he’ll become a killer.” Dane, his head held high, looked at me with open provocation. The police officer sighed, pulling me aside. “Mr. Harding, Ms. Sinclair is still your fiancée. Go apologize. This whole thing can go away.” He looked at me meaningfully. “Don’t let pride ruin your life. If they press charges, you’re looking at serious time. Can you survive that?” I gritted my teeth, the gravity of the situation crushing me, and reluctantly agreed. I followed the officer back into the room, swallowing my shame. I lowered my head. “I’m sorry. I acted on impulse. I apologize and I’ll make restitution. Please, forgive me.” Dane looked utterly unimpressed. “Mr. Harding, it’s not that I don’t want to forgive you. But a narrow-minded, malicious snake like you needs to be punished, or you really will hurt someone badly one day.” The stress of the day, combined with my chronic stomach issues, sent a wave of agonizing abdominal pain through me. My face broke out in a cold sweat. Seeing my obvious physical distress, Savannah’s voice softened momentarily. “Dane, how about this? I’ll make him apologize by bowing and swearing on his grandmother’s grave that if he ever threatens you again, they can both burn in the lowest circle of hell.” She snapped her head toward me. “Now, kneel down and apologize to Dane until he’s satisfied.” The police officer, clearly wanting the conflict resolved, pushed me hard from behind. With a dull thud, I landed on my knees. Savannah grabbed my head and slammed it against the polished floor. Once. Twice. Thrice… Blood streamed from my forehead, blurring my vision. After what felt like an eternity, Dane’s voice, now bored, cut through the agony. “That’s enough, Savannah. Fine. I’ll let it go for your sake. But if this ever happens again, I won’t be so lenient.” Savannah instantly let go of me and hurried to support him. “Don’t worry, Dane. As long as I’m here, he won’t lay a finger on you again.” They started walking out. Just before they passed through the door, Savannah turned back. “Go home and think about what you’ve done, Rhys. When you truly understand your mistake, we can talk about the wedding again.” She gave me a final, contemptuous glance. “You are completely useless. You really need to learn something from Dane.” I scoffed. She had forgotten the seven years I’d spent building Sinclair Enterprises from a nobody to a powerhouse. She had forgotten that I’d sold the last asset my grandmother left me—our family home—to provide the capital for her company’s IPO. She had forgotten that I gave her my own bone marrow. Stumbling out of the precinct, I doubled over, clutching my throbbing abdomen, and immediately headed to the nearest hospital. The attending physician was furious when he saw my bloodied, disheveled state. “Mr. Harding, you are a fool! You know you have severe complications from the transplant. Your heart is overloaded! You should be resting in bed!” He immediately ordered a battery of tests. I took the stack of requisition forms and headed toward the fourth floor. As I passed a private room, I heard two familiar voices. I instinctively stopped and peered inside. Savannah was carefully helping Dane settle onto the bed. “Savannah,” Dane said, his voice laced with suspicion. “You tricked Rhys into giving you his bone marrow by faking a serious illness, and then you kept dragging out the wedding. You wouldn’t scheme against me like that, would you?” “Don’t be silly, my darling. Of course not. You are the only person I truly love.” Then she lowered her voice, but I heard every word. “I pushed his mother off that roof, Dane. All those years ago. I did it because I wanted to shatter all his reliance so he’d only have me. Robert Harding only has one son; eventually, the estate is all Rhys’s. Once I get the money, I’ll ditch him and marry you.” The world exploded into a high-pitched ringing silence. My mother didn’t jump. She was murdered. By Savannah. Tears streamed down my face. I stumbled back to my own room, locking the door. After hours of staring blankly at the ceiling, I finally grabbed my phone and made the call. “Eleanor, I’m ready to move forward and marry you abroad. But I have one condition. Sinclair Enterprises must be annihilated. I want Savannah Sinclair back on the bottom rung where she started.” A delighted, utterly composed voice answered instantly. “Consider it done. I’m flying back now, Rhys. Wait for me.” The next morning, I woke up, opened my phone, and saw the breaking news: Sinclair Enterprises Faces Mass Contract Breach as Overseas Conglomerate Launches Aggressive Market Attack: Stock Plummets. As I lay there, processing the carnage, my door was pushed open. A striking, coolly beautiful woman strode in, bringing a blast of cold air with her.

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It was the day my lawyer boyfriend took me home to meet his parents, and the future mother-in-law, Eliza Alistair, decided to share a little anecdote at the dinner table to “break the ice.” “I’d just gotten my license back then,” she said, taking a delicate bite of her artisanal bread. “I snuck out with your father’s prize possession—that vintage Porsche he worships—and I was so nervous, I hit something out on Sycamore Creek Road. I think it was a large dog, maybe? I panicked and just kept driving.” She chuckled, a light, dismissive sound. “The bumper was totally bashed in. It took forever to fix it in secret. Your father still has no idea!” She lifted her glass of Meritage, elegantly sipped it. “Thank God that area is so isolated. No traffic cameras, or I would have been in real trouble.” The knife and fork slipped from my fingers, hitting the porcelain plate with a piercing, metallic shriek. The model of the vintage car, that specific stretch of suburban road, even the detail of the light drizzle that evening… every single detail slotted perfectly over the memory of the night my brother died. I looked at Rhys, and his face was a portrait of abject terror. He was deathly pale, his eyes darting away, unable to meet mine. In that frozen instant, I understood everything. 1 The clang of my cutlery against the white china plate was a scream in the otherwise quiet, stately dining room. Eliza Alistair, Rhys’s mother, froze, the practiced smile on her face dissolving. She looked at me, a slight frown creasing her brow, her gaze carrying a hint of annoyance at the interruption. “Cassidy, what is it? Not to your taste?” Rhys’s father, Judge Wallace Alistair—a former judge, now semi-retired—also looked up from his newspaper, his eyes, magnified slightly by his reading glasses, sizing me up with cold assessment. I didn’t look at them. My eyes were locked solely on Rhys. His hands, resting on the tablecloth, were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. A bead of sweat tracked down his temple, and he didn’t even dare lift a hand to wipe it away. “Rhys.” I spoke the name, the sound of it light, yet laced with a chilling coldness I hadn’t known I possessed. “That road your mother mentioned—is it… Sycamore Creek Road?” Rhys’s body jerked as if struck. Eliza’s mask of aristocratic grace finally fractured. She looked at me, eyes narrowed, instantly on guard. “How do you know that?” I pulled at the corner of my mouth, trying to produce a smile that felt more like a grimace. “My brother,” I said, the words heavy and deliberate. “He died on that road.” “Hit by a hit-and-run driver in a vintage car.” “On a rainy evening, just like you described.” A deathly silence settled over the room. The air felt vacuum-sealed, pressing down on my lungs until I could barely breathe. Eliza’s face cycled through confusion, shock, rising panic, and finally, a sheet-white terror. The stem of her wine glass snapped, the bowl crashing to the floor. The crimson spill of wine on the pale rug looked horrifyingly like a pool of blood. “You… you’re talking nonsense!” she shrieked, her voice warped by fear. “Sycamore Creek? I don’t remember any of that!” “You don’t remember?” I repeated slowly, my gaze drifting to the brand-new, cherry-red sports car parked in their massive driveway. “The car. The license plate ended in 77, didn’t it?” “Those were the last two numbers my brother managed to whisper before he died.” Eliza’s lips trembled, unable to form a single word. Rhys finally moved. He shot to his feet, grabbing my wrist with a violence that felt like he was trying to crush bone. “Cass! Calm down! This has to be a misunderstanding! My mother, she—” “A misunderstanding?” I ripped my arm out of his grasp and stood up. The sudden, sharp movement sent a jolt of searing pain through the old injury in my right leg. I stumbled, leaning hard against the table for support. “Rhys, tell me, what is the misunderstanding?” “Is it that you knew who I was the first day we met, didn’t you?” “Is it that you approached me, pursued me, and were so kind to me, all because your mother killed my brother, didn’t you?” “Your love, your tenderness, your thoughtfulness—it was all a lie! It was your form of atonement! Your hush money! Wasn’t it?” My voice rose with each accusation, each one more desperate than the last. Every word was a blade, first stabbing him, then plunging back into my own heart. Rhys Alistair! He looked at me, his mouth opening and closing, his face ashen, utterly unable to deny a single thing. “Enough!” The sharp, authoritative command came from Judge Alistair, who had remained silent until now. He slammed his newspaper onto the table. Standing up, he fixed me with an icy stare. “Ms. Linnea, you may speak freely in this house, but you cannot speak recklessly.” “The police classified that incident as an unsolved cold case due to insufficient evidence.” “To come into my home today, basing your claims on a few baseless speculations, and to loudly ruin my wife and son’s reputation—that is a gross overreach!” His voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable, crushing judicial authority. I looked at the three of them. A frantic killer. A guilt-ridden deceiver. A cold, ruthless accomplice. Perfect. What a perfectly intact family. I suddenly laughed, a hollow sound that ended with tears streaming down my face. “You’re right. I overreached.” I wiped my eyes, and slowly, deliberately, limped toward the front door. “My apologies, Judge Alistair, for the disturbance.” 2 I thought I would flee the city that night. But I had only just cleared the wrought-iron gate of their estate when Rhys caught up to me, wrapping his arms around me in a crushing embrace. “Cass! Don’t go! Please, just listen to me!” His voice was thick with tears, hot and wet as they hit the skin of my neck. “I’m sorry, Cass, I’m so sorry… I never meant to deceive you.” “The first time I saw you, it was in my father’s case files. The photo—you were holding your brother, crying your heart out.” “I admit, I approached you with an ulterior motive at first. I wanted to make amends for my mother.” “But after that, I truly fell in love with you! You have to believe me, Cass!” His arms tightened, holding me as though I might dissolve into smoke if he eased his grip. An hour ago, those words would have shattered me with grief and gratitude. Now, I only felt a sickening, churning nausea. Atonement? Using love as atonement? How noble. How deeply moving. But how dare he think his love could possibly pay for my brother’s life? I didn’t struggle, letting him hold me until his sobs subsided and his emotions were somewhat steadier. Only then did I speak, my voice cold and flat. “So, you’re admitting it.” Rhys’s body stiffened in my arms. “I…” “Your mother is the one who ran over my brother,” I finished for him. He remained silent. Silence was the only answer needed. I pushed him away, looking at his handsome face, now etched with pain. “Rhys, we are done.” “No! Cass, you can’t do this to me!” He grabbed my arm again, his eyes pleading. “We were going to get married! We were going to travel the world together—” “Married?” I laughed, the sound brittle and unbelievable. “To you? And live with your mother, the hit-and-run killer?” “My mother didn’t mean to! She was terrified at the time…” “So she was entitled to flee the scene? To leave a young boy bleeding on the roadside? To live a life of comfort for ten years without a single pang of guilt?” My rapid-fire questions silenced him completely. Behind us, the heavy front door opened. Eliza, draped in a luxurious cashmere wrap, stepped out. The panic in her eyes had been replaced by a cold, calculating scrutiny. “Ms. Linnea, name your price.” She walked toward me, her tone that of a CEO wrapping up a minor business deal. “I know your family has struggled; you’ve had a difficult life.” “A condo in the city, a new SUV, and five million dollars in cash.” She paused, evaluating the weight of her offer. “That figure is enough for you to live comfortably for the rest of your life. Forget what happened. Continue your relationship with Rhys. It’s better for you, and certainly better for us.” I stared at her. The woman who killed my brother, now trying to buy my silence with the blood-money from her son’s fraudulent affection. To them, a human life, my grief, my brother’s wrongful death—it was all an itemized, negotiable expense. I smiled. “Fine,” I said. Both Rhys and Eliza looked stunned. Meeting their shocked gaze, I spoke clearly, one word at a time: “I don’t want the money.” “I want you to go to my brother’s grave, kneel down, bow your head, and confess your crime.” 3 Eliza’s face instantly hardened, turning the color of oxidized metal. “You’re dreaming!” she spat. “Me, kneel before a dead boy? Who the hell do you think you are?” “Mom!” Rhys quickly gripped her arm, desperate to stop her from saying anything more incendiary. I ignored her outburst, keeping my focus on Rhys. “That is my only demand.” “If you can’t meet it, we call the police.” The word “police” struck Eliza like a physical blow. Her body swayed, and Rhys had to stabilize her. Judge Alistair walked out of the house, his expression dark and menacing as he watched me. “Ms. Linnea, there is a concept called leaving room for maneuver,” he said, his voice frigid. “Escalating this will not benefit you. Don’t forget, Rhys is a prominent attorney, and even in retirement, I maintain considerable influence in the judicial system.” It was a naked threat. They were informing me that even if I went to the authorities, they could ensure their escape. And I, a woman with no power, no influence, and a visible disability, would only be crushed under their heel. A cold certainty settled in my heart. This was the power of privilege. It could twist the truth and trample over human life. “So, there’s nothing left to discuss?” I asked. Judge Alistair gave a dismissive grunt, his attitude clear. “Fine.” I nodded, pulled out my phone, and pretended to dial a number. “Wait!” Rhys lunged forward, pressing his hand over mine. He turned to his parents, his eyes a warzone of agonizing conflict. “Dad, Mom, please, just agree to it.” “We… we owe her this.” “Rhys! Are you insane!” Eliza stared at her son in disbelief. “You want me… you want me to—” “Mom!” Rhys cut her off, his voice a strained plea. “I’m begging you! Or Cass will destroy us!” Eliza’s lips trembled. She glared at me, her eyes filled with a murderous hatred. Finally, she collapsed against Rhys, deflated. “Fine… Fine… I agree,” she hissed, squeezing the words out between clenched teeth. “Tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow.” I pocketed my phone, looking at them. “Not tomorrow.” “Now.” I needed to strike while the iron was hot, to deny them any time to regroup or plot. Rhys’s face went white. Eliza nearly fainted. “Now? Look at the time! The cemeteries are closed!” “Then we go to Sycamore Creek Road,” I said coldly. “The intersection where the accident happened.” “I want you to kneel at the place where my brother died.” 4 The night was deep and dark. The streetlights on Sycamore Creek Road cast a sickly, yellowish glow, stretching human shadows thin and long. This was the suburban edge, and late at night, the road was deserted. The wind whistled through the roadside trees, a mournful, crying sound. Eliza, in her expensive, custom-made suit, was kneeling on the cold, unforgiving asphalt, her entire body shaking. She had likely never experienced such humiliation in her life. Rhys stood beside her, his face pale, his hands clenched tightly. Judge Alistair remained in his luxury car parked a little distance away, the twin beams of his headlights acting like cold spotlights, fixed solely on me. “Are you satisfied?” Eliza spat, looking up at me, her voice ragged. “I knelt. Is that what you wanted?” I didn’t answer. Instead, I opened my handbag and took out a faded, yellowed photograph. The picture showed a boy with a radiant, gap-toothed smile. My brother, Finn Linnea. I placed the photo on the ground directly in front of Eliza. “Look at him.” My voice was quiet, but it carried an undeniable command. “Tell me why you killed him.” Eliza’s breathing hitched. Her eyes darted around, desperately trying to avoid the photograph. “I… I didn’t mean to… it was dark, raining, I didn’t see anything…” “You didn’t see?” I scoffed. “You stopped the car after you hit him, didn’t you?” Eliza’s pupils constricted. “How… how do you know that?” “My brother told me,” I said, and the tears I had held back for ten years finally broke free. “He was still alive. He thought you had stopped to help him.” “But you didn’t.” “You paused for a few seconds, and then you pressed the gas pedal and drove… right over him.” My voice was trembling as I delivered the final words. This was the secret I had buried for a decade, the nightmare that haunted my every sleepless night. I had seen it. I saw the car pause, then surge forward, the wheel passing mercilessly over my brother’s body. I was too young, too terrified, hiding in the tall grass, unable to even cry out. “No! It’s not true! I didn’t!” Eliza shook her head wildly, desperate to dislodge the accusation. “I didn’t run him over! I just drove away!” “Oh, really?” I knelt down, forcing my gaze to meet hers. “Then look into my brother’s eyes, and say that again.” Eliza’s eyes were forcibly drawn to the clear, smiling gaze in the photo. She recoiled as if burned, screaming and pushing the photo away. “Ah! Don’t let him look at me! Take it away! Take it away!” She was breaking. In the face of the truth and the terror, all her poise shattered. Rhys rushed forward, wrapping his arms around his mother, then looked up at me, his face twisted with anger. “Cassidy! That’s enough!” “My mother apologized, she knelt down. What more do you want?” “Do you want to destroy us completely before you’re satisfied!” I looked at him. The man who claimed to love me, now shielding a murderer. It was ludicrous. “Destroy you?” I stood up slowly, wiping my tears, looking down at them both. “Rhys, you misunderstand.” “I never wanted your lives.” “I wanted something far worse than death.” With that, I turned, and with a slow, deliberate limp, disappeared into the cloak of the night. 5 I thought the kneeling on Sycamore Creek Road would be the end of the spectacle. I was wrong. I severely underestimated the utter shamelessness of the Alistair family. The next morning, my phone was besieged. News headlines dominated every outlet, each one more sensational than the last. [Alistair Family Scandal: Disabled Orphan Blackmails Future Mother-in-Law for Millions!] [Former Judge’s Son Duped: Girlfriend Revealed as Vicious Gold Digger Seeking Extortion!] [Exclusive: The Truth Behind the ‘Kneeling Gate’—A Calculated Scheme of Blackmail!] In the media’s narrative, I had become a calculating, greedy, malicious woman. Eliza Alistair, meanwhile, was portrayed as a poor, victimized mother, forced into humiliation by her vicious future daughter-in-law. The accompanying photos were damning: an aerial shot from Sycamore Creek Road of Eliza on her knees, and me standing over her—the angle deliberately highlighting my coldness and my leg’s residual injury. Another image showed Eliza, looking pitiful, being treated at a hospital with an orthopedic cast on her arm. I was shaking with rage. They dared to strike first! I immediately called Rhys. The phone rang for a long time before he answered, his voice thick with exhaustion. “Cass, did you see the news?” “Rhys, how could you be so utterly despicable!” I yelled. “Cass, listen, this was unavoidable,” Rhys said, a strained tone of helplessness in his voice. “Someone filmed last night’s incident and posted it online. We had to preemptively control the narrative, or the firm—our family—would be ruined.” “Control the narrative? By painting me as a malicious gold digger?” “Cass, I know this is rough. But it was the best way. Once the dust settles, I’ll make it up to you.” Make it up to me? Compensation? Again? I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “Rhys, I must have been blind to ever love you.” “Cass…” “Let me tell you, this isn’t over. I will publicize the entire truth! I will make sure everyone knows what kind of murderer your mother is!” I slammed the phone down. I opened my laptop, ready to compose a long social media post, laying out every single detail. But as I typed the first letter, a new push notification popped up. It was an official statement from Rhys’s law firm. The statement, drafted in ruthlessly professional legal language, defined my actions the previous night as “the intentional use of threats and coercion, with the intent of illegal financial gain, to extort property from the victim.” Blackmail. Extortion. They had formally labeled me a criminal. The statement concluded with a stern legal notice, warning me to immediately cease all “libel and harassment” of the Alistair family, or face the full force of judicial prosecution. I stared at the frigid legal document, my hands and feet turning to ice. I had forgotten. Rhys was a top lawyer. His father was a former judge. Manipulating the law and controlling the narrative was their specialty. What could a civilian like me, without power or legal resources, do against them? Just as I felt all hope drain away, an unknown number called my phone.

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