I went to pick up my brother from the airport but forgot my glasses. Squinting through the crowd, I accidentally hugged the wrong guy—and even kissed him on the cheek. It wasn’t until I looked up and met those dark, brooding eyes that I realized my mistake. It was my ex-boyfriend. “Kissing me while calling another man’s name? You’ve got some nerve.” 1 I was picking up my brother, Noah, from LAX, and like an idiot, I left my glasses at home. I stood at the arrivals gate, squinting at every blurry figure that walked out. Finally, a tall guy—about 6’2″—in a black windbreaker walked toward me. I got excited and ran over. I threw my arms around him and planted two big kisses on his cheek. “Noah! How did you get even taller?” Before I could pull away, a familiar voice called out from behind me. “Sis! Did… did you just kiss our team captain?” I froze. Slowly, I looked up. My ex-boyfriend’s dark, intense eyes stared straight into mine. “Kissing me while calling another man’s name? You’ve got some nerve, Mia.” 2 On the ride back, I was squeezed in the backseat between two men. Looking left and right, they were dressed almost identically. I pinched my brother’s arm hard. “I thought you hated matching outfits with people?” “Sis, you don’t get it. Matching with Captain Carter? That’s a blessing from the Esports gods.” I rolled my eyes. Noah looked back and forth between us, his eyes wide with gossip. “Sis, do you and Captain Carter know each other?” Instantly, we both spoke at the same time: “Ex-boyfriend.” “She’s my girlfriend.” Me: “?” Noah’s face: [Holy sht! The tea is hot!]* Suddenly, a hand landed on my waist, rubbing gently. “We didn’t break up. I’ve just been busy lately, haven’t had time for her, so she’s throwing a tantrum.” Tantrum? What tantrum? When his wandering hand started making me weak, I grabbed it and threw it aside. “Jax Carter, we broke up a month ago.” Jax actually laughed. He pulled me onto his lap, burying his face in my neck, his voice terrifyingly gentle. “Baby, if we broke up… can I chase you again?” I was furious. I told the driver to pull over and scrambled off him. “Break up means break up! Do you not understand English?” 3 I met Jax gaming. He was #1 in the region; I was dead last. I heard his voice in a random match and chased him until he was mine. Later, I found out he was a pro Esports player. No one around us knew we were dating. He gamed all night and slept all day. The one time we managed a date, he fell asleep in the movie theater. As his rank climbed—regionals, nationals, even worlds—his messages got shorter. Our conversations died. I tried to break up a million times. He wouldn’t even reply. Or he’d see my breakup text and smooth it over with a few sweet words, and I’d fall for it again. But this time, I was done. If this kept up, one of us was going to end up in a psych ward. 4 As soon as we got home, I bumped into a wall of muscle. My forehead throbbed. “Let me kiss it better. Does it hurt, baby?” Hearing that familiar voice, I snapped my head up. “Why are you in my house? Get out before I call the cops for trespassing!” Just as I was pushing him out, Noah ran over and stopped me. “Sis! The Captain is new to the city, he doesn’t have a place to stay. I told him he could crash with us for a bit.” I refused immediately. “No way. Our house is too small for his ego.” “How is it small? We have four bedrooms! Plus, this is Noah’s captain. If you kick him out, I’m going with him!” My mom walked out of the kitchen holding a tray of ribs. “Alright, that’s settled. Wash your hands, dinner’s ready.” Watching Jax walk toward the guest room, I stomped my foot in rage. 5 “Liv, I’m broken.” My best friend, Olivia, looked concerned. “What’s wrong?” “Jax… is living in my house.” “What?! He chased you all the way home? Is he trying to meet the in-laws?” “Stop!” I cut her off. “Don’t ship it. We really broke up this time.” “Really?” I nodded. “Really. Dating a ghost is exhausting.” “Exhausting? Girl, think about it! It’s Jax Carter! The Esports God! Half the girls in the country want him!” “Let them have him. I’m done.” Living day and night in reverse, never seeing each other… it was too unreal. Seeing me down, Olivia quickly changed the subject. “Forget him. Tonight, I’m taking you out. Put on something hot. The best way to get over a man is to get under a new one.” Remembering Jax was just a wall away at home, I didn’t want to go back anyway. I skipped dinner and left. 6 “These guys aren’t as handsome as Jax, but their… other stats are top tier.” Olivia tossed an iPad into my hands. “Pick anyone. My treat.” Looking at the young faces on the screen, I blushed. These hosts looked so young. I felt like a predator. I couldn’t choose. Olivia saw my hesitation, snatched the iPad back, scrolled to the very last page, and ordered. That guy… looked familiar? Before I could react, the waiter took the iPad away. “Don’t worry, I ordered the top guy in the club for you.” Olivia pouted. “Don’t waste my money, okay? He was expensive.” I was already a bit tipsy. “Where is he? Why isn’t he here yet? Hurry up, or I’m gonna fall asleep…” In a daze, I saw a stunningly handsome face. It looked just like my ex. “Are you the top guy?” “Top guy?” I nodded, pointing at Olivia. “Yeah! My bestie ordered you for me.” Seeing the man turn to leave, I grabbed him. “Don’t go!” He scoffed. “You want me to stay?” “Of course! You were expensive. I can’t let you leave.” Suddenly, I was swept off my feet and held in his arms. As he carried me away, I pointed back at Olivia passed out on the couch. “Can we take my friend?” Was it my imagination, or did his grip on my waist tighten? Just before I passed out, I heard a familiar voice whisper: “I only service one person. Someone else is picking her up.”

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Before leaving for my final mission, I asked Julian one last time: “Will you marry me?” He was silent for a moment. “Okay.” My heart—and the System in my head—dropped at the same time. “Crap.” I was supposed to be rejected one hundred times to return to my real world. Turns out, I panicked for nothing. On my last mission, a twist of fate made me the sacrificial lamb for his first love. Julian stayed by her side for three days before he even remembered me. By the time he asked, the news had already broken: Officer Chloe Hart, killed in the line of duty. 1 “Host, there’s really no rush.” “It’s your birthday. Nobody wants to be rejected on their birthday.” My heavy breathing echoed in the quiet hallway. I had just finished a three-month undercover assignment out of state. Dragging my exhausted body, I came straight to Julian Thorne’s penthouse. No other reason. I’ve been stuck in this world for seven years. I want to go home. The rules are simple: get rejected by Julian one hundred times, and I can return to reality. Just now, the System told me I only need one more rejection. Through the door, I heard Julian on the phone. The woman’s voice was on speaker, her sobbing soft and pitiful: “Julian, I know you’ve been with Chloe for three years. I shouldn’t be bothering you, but I just couldn’t help it…” Julian’s response was a long silence. The woman on the other end was Lydia Reed, Julian’s first love. The one who got away. Most of my successful rejections over the years were thanks to her. Julian changed the subject. “When are you coming back? I’ll throw a welcome party.” “In what capacity? As my ex?” “As an old friend.” Silence on the line. Then, a voice tinged with spite: “Ex-boyfriend, I’m getting married. The 20th of this month. You’re invited.” Julian seemed angry. He said her name, low and dangerous: “Lydia!” She hung up. The System cheered in my head: [Jackpot! Host, go in now! While he’s mad! Ask him to marry you!] Normally, I wouldn’t poke the bear when he’s in a mood. But the dead weight of seven years was suddenly lifted by the hope of going home. I pushed the door open urgently. The room was dark. Julian sat in front of the massive floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights glittering behind him like a sea of stars. The glow of his phone screen illuminated half his face. Sharp jawline, cold eyes. A face that could launch a thousand ships—or sink them. Seeing me, he locked his phone and leaned back, closing his eyes. His tone was unfriendly. “Why are you here?” See? A giant calendar on his desk, yet he didn’t even remember it was my birthday. My palms were sweating. “I have a mission tomorrow.” In the real world, I was a police academy graduate. So in this world, I chose to be a cop. No hesitation. Julian pinched the bridge of his nose, his voice icy. “So? Do you need something?” “Yeah. After this mission… will you marry me?” The System was already throwing a party in my brain: [AHHHH! Mission complete! I’m getting promoted! Yes! Yes! Yes!] Julian’s dark eyes reflected my shadow. His slight frown showed his annoyance. I took a deep breath, lowered my head, and waited for the magic word. Honestly, after liking him for so long, being rejected still stung a little. But the System promised me money. A lot of money. Spendable in the real world. “Okay.” “What?” The System’s cheering cut off abruptly. I looked up in shock, meeting Julian’s calm, almost indifferent gaze. He slowly turned his phone in his hand. “I said, okay.” A few seconds later, both the System and I cursed in unison. “F*ck…” 2 I hid in the bathroom. The accumulated frustration finally exploded. “Celebrating early? You must be Employee of the Month!” The System snapped back: [It’s your fault! Why did you remind him it was your birthday? Men and their cheap guilt!] My head was pounding. Overtime had drained every ounce of my energy. I slumped against the sink, weak. The System whispered tentatively: [Maybe ask him to sleep with you now? He might say no to that?] I sneered. “Why don’t I ask him to go die?” If only it were that easy. The game designers blocked every loophole from the start. “Sex,” “death,” and a whole list of trigger words are banned. And I can’t repeat a request. Rejection of marriage was one of the few cards I had left after seven years. We were at a dead end. The sound of water running filled the silence. I sat on the toilet lid, brainstorming my next move. Suddenly, my phone rang. Unknown number. I picked up. A gentle female voice spoke. “Miss Hart, this is Lydia.” I gripped the edge of the sink. Silence. Lydia chuckled softly, a hint of smugness in her tone. “You probably don’t know me well, but that’s okay. I know you very well.” “I’ve eaten the bento boxes you made for Julian. I’ve worn the white shirts you washed for him. Last time, when he left your birthday dinner to come see me, there was a strand of your hair caught in his tie clip.” I leaned back, voice cold. “So?” Lydia laughed. “Are you really stupid, or just pretending? Didn’t you hear? Last year on your birthday, I gave him my virginity. This year, I came back specifically on your birthday, and he forgot it entirely. Do I need to spell out who Julian really loves?” I stared at my face in the mirror. Seven years. Fine lines had appeared at the corners of my eyes. The eyes that used to light up whenever I saw Julian were now filled with numbness. I took a deep breath. “No need. Because Julian is going to marry me.” Silence on the other end. Then, Lydia’s voice turned sharp. “You don’t need to provoke me. You can’t compete with me.” Julian knocked on the door. I hid the phone behind my back and yanked the door open. I smiled softly. “Will you go with me to try on wedding dresses tomorrow?” Julian paused. Then he hugged me, his tone rare and indulgent. “Okay. On our wedding day, you will be the most beautiful bride.” I hung up the phone. And forced myself to accept Julian’s kiss, suppressing the nausea. Lydia, I hope you have some fight in you. Don’t disappoint me. 3 That night, I waited a long time. Lydia didn’t call Julian. Hot kisses landed all over my skin. Julian seemed unusually interested. But at the last moment, I stopped him. “I have a mission tomorrow. Let’s stop.” Julian looked unsatisfied. I pushed him away, turned my back, and wrapped myself tightly in the duvet. Julian was silent for a long time. Finally, he sighed. “Okay.” Water started running in the shower. The System voiced my worry: [Did you go too hard? Did Lydia give up?] “Unlikely.” Knowing Lydia, she wouldn’t give up on Julian even if she died. … The next day, the weather was gloomy. Julian didn’t leave early as usual. Instead, he sat at the dining table, eating breakfast with me. The only sounds were cutlery clinking against plates. Julian spoke. “After this mission, transfer to a desk job. If you marry me, you don’t need to work so hard.” The System commanded in my head: [Fried eggs! I want fried eggs!] I cut my ham, eyes lowered. “Okay.” Julian continued, like a CEO briefing a secretary: “From now on, I’ll be at the company on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays. I’ll be home the rest of the time. I don’t want you coming to the office.” System wailed: [No cheese! I want noodles!] I smiled sweetly. “Okay.” Julian frowned. I finished my milk, pushed back my chair, and stood up. “Chloe.” I turned. “What?” Julian stared at me. “You were never this obedient before. What’s wrong today?” Honestly? I didn’t hear a word he said. “Nothing.” I smiled. “Maybe because good things are coming.” Julian tugged at his tie. His thin, straight lips betrayed his annoyance. See? He’s a hundred percent reluctant to marry me. I curled my lips. “Hey, Julian. Can you wish for my safe return?” Julian snapped out of his thoughts. A moment later, he said, “Safe return.” “Thanks.” I turned and walked out. System: [Meh, boring. I thought he wouldn’t say it.] 4 I’ve been in this world for seven years. The city’s crime rate is actually quite low. Major incidents are rare. I didn’t expect to encounter one on my very last mission. A high-profile kidnapping. The kidnapper demanded 30 million dollars and a van to leave the city. When I arrived at the scene, it was drizzling. My colleague, Officer Miller—a young girl named Sarah—sat at the bottom of the stairs, eyes red. “Chloe, the negotiator is already in. The kidnapper wants to switch hostages.” “Switch hostages?” “Yeah… the current hostage is pregnant.” The team went silent. In this situation, if the kidnapper agrees to a switch, one of us has to go in. “So… who’s going?” Sarah bit her lip. “He demanded a woman.” There were only two female officers on the team: Sarah and me. Sarah’s husband was a detective who had just been injured in the line of duty and was still in the hospital. I unholstered my gun and handed it to Sarah. “I got it. I’ll go.” The System screamed in my head: [Host, this isn’t a game! If you die accidentally, you really can’t go back!] But I couldn’t let Sarah go. In seven years, Sarah had been with me far more than Julian ever was. We were best partners. Sarah hugged me, sobbing. “Chloe, I’m sorry. I know you’re getting married. I’m sorry, but Mike is still in the hospital…” “I know.” I patted her shoulder and walked into the rain. It was an abandoned factory on the outskirts of the city. Through the misty rain, I saw the woman in the kidnapper’s arms. Her pale face couldn’t hide her beauty. Long black hair plastered to her cheeks, big eyes full of pitiful tears. She protected her lower abdomen desperately. “Please, save me. I’m pregnant. I’m carrying the heir to the Thorne family…” My heart skipped a beat. System confirmed: [It’s Lydia.] We looked at each other through the rain. I couldn’t describe the feeling. The kidnapper, vicious and desperate, pressed a knife into her skin. Blood trickled down. “Get over here! Or I’ll send her to hell!” Lydia’s eyes widened in terror as she looked at me. “Chloe, please. I can’t die. Julian will go crazy. If he knows you didn’t save me, he’ll hate you forever…” So she knew who I was. I looked back at Sarah. Sighed. And walked toward the kidnapper. The moment the blade touched my neck, Lydia stumbled and ran toward the police line. Just me and the kidnapper left. “I want the car!” Before I got in, the Captain gave me a signal. The plan was simple: they track the van, I cooperate to take him down when the opportunity arises. I was tied up and thrown into the passenger seat. In the last second, I saw Julian break through the crowd. He caught the fainting Lydia in his arms.

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I received a call from a scammer and transferred $10 million to them without hesitation. When the police called to tell me I’d been scammed, I didn’t panic. But my “rich girl” roommate sure did. In my past life, on the first day of the semester, my roommate stole my Black Card and took the whole class to a high-end charity auction, engaging in a bidding war just to show off. She drained over a hundred million dollars from the card, freezing my family’s company assets and pushing us to the brink of bankruptcy. When I confronted her and demanded repayment, she threw herself into my boyfriend’s arms, sobbing. “Maya, you can’t just accuse me because your family is broke!” My boyfriend slapped me across the face and yelled, “Maya, you spent the money yourself! How dare you try to make Chloe take the fall? Have some shame!” When I went to the bank to get the transaction records as evidence, my roommate ran me over with her car. My boyfriend and the entire class testified that I was mentally unstable and had jumped in front of the car myself. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day my roommate offered to take the whole class to the auction. Chapter 1 “Hey everyone! Are you free tomorrow? I’m taking the whole class to the charity auction downtown. My treat. Put it all on my card!” Hearing Chloe’s voice, I shivered. I realized instantly that I had been reborn. Suddenly, Chloe linked her arm through mine. “Maya, I heard you have a VIP pass for that auction. Can I borrow it? That way we can all sit in a private box.” Chapter 2 Hearing those words, the phantom pain of being crushed to death flooded back. In my last life, Chloe used the excuse of borrowing my VIP pass to steal the Black Card my dad gave me. I didn’t realize until my dad called, furious, asking why I had drained over a hundred million dollars in one night, cutting off the company’s cash flow. When I confronted Chloe, she cried in my boyfriend’s arms. “Maya, you can’t just frame me because your family is going bankrupt!” My boyfriend, Tyler, slapped me hard. “Maya, have some shame! You spent that money yourself, and now you want Chloe to take the fall?” I went to the bank to get the statements. Chloe ran me over with her car, reversing over my body to make sure I was dead. My parents tried to get justice, but Tyler and the whole class testified for Chloe, claiming I was desperate for money and committed suicide by jumping in front of her car. Thinking of this, rage burned through me. I gripped my handbag tightly and said coldly, “I lost my pass. I can’t lend it to you.” Tyler snatched my bag from my hands, unzipped it, and dumped everything onto the floor. He picked up the gold VIP card lying on the ground and handed it to Chloe. “Here, Chloe. Use this.” Chloe hugged Tyler’s arm, her voice sugary sweet. “Tyler, you’re the best! Thank you so much.” Tyler beamed at her, then looked at me with disgust. “Maya, when did you become such a liar? You clearly had the card. Why didn’t you want to lend it?” I slapped Tyler across the face, then snatched the card back from Chloe. “Tyler, who gave you the right to touch my stuff?” Tyler’s eyes widened in shock. “Maya, are you crazy? Did you just hit me?” I slapped him again. “Yeah, I hit you. So what?” Chapter 3 Chloe immediately stepped in front of Tyler, looking like a martyr. “Maya, it’s all my fault. Blame me if you want, but don’t take it out on Tyler.” I looked at her coldly and slapped her too. “Don’t worry, I won’t leave you out. You two deserve each other. Stop acting like victims in front of me. It’s disgusting.” Tyler’s face turned red with anger. He shoved me hard, knocking me to the ground. My back hit a desk, and I gasped in pain. “Maya, you’ve crossed the line! How dare you hit Chloe!” I rubbed my back and glared at him. “Are you deaf? She asked for it. I was just obliging her.” The other classmates started chiming in. “Maya, that’s too much. You can’t just hit people for no reason.” Chloe was crying hysterically now. “I’m sorry, everyone. Don’t blame Maya. Tyler and I are innocent, he just treats me like a little sister…” Tyler hugged Chloe tightly, comforting her. “Chloe, you’re too kind. You’re being bullied, and you still blame yourself.” I watched them, my fingers trembling with rage. Tyler glared at me. “Maya, drop the spoiled princess act. This is college, not your house. No one is going to pamper you. Give the card to Chloe right now and apologize, or we’re done. I can’t have a girlfriend who acts like a barbarian.” Chapter 4 I laughed out loud. “Fine. We’re done. Go be happy with your precious ‘little sister.’” Chloe looked at me with big, teary eyes. “Maya, don’t be impulsive! You and Tyler have been together for three years. You can’t just break up like this. I’d feel so guilty.” Hearing this made me even angrier at myself for being blind enough to love scum like Tyler for three years. Suddenly, Chloe grabbed my arm. “Maya, how about this? Lend me the VIP card. All the points from our purchases will go to your account. That way you can upgrade your membership status.” Tyler looked at Chloe with admiration. “Chloe, you are literally an angel. She bullies you, and you still look out for her.” Then he turned to me, impatient. “Maya, Chloe is being incredibly generous. Don’t be ungrateful.” I sneered. “No thanks. I can’t afford your ‘kindness.’” A flash of malice crossed Chloe’s eyes, but she hid it quickly. “Maya, I really want to use this chance to bond with the class. If you lend me the card, I’ll buy you two items from the auction. Anything you want. Consider it a rental fee.” The classmates gasped. “Maya, take the deal! Auction items start at like ten grand. Chloe is giving you two for free! You’re making a killing!” “Plus you get the points! It’s a win-win. Why are you refusing?” Tyler mocked me. “Maya, you’re just greedy, aren’t you? Only Chloe is nice enough to tolerate you. Take the offer before she changes her mind.” Chapter 5 I rolled my eyes. “Do you guys not understand English? I said no. I don’t want to lend my card.” Chloe’s expression darkened. The next second, she wiped her tears and turned to the class, looking devastated. “I’m so sorry, everyone. I wanted to take you all to the auction to bond, but Maya is unhappy about it. I guess we can’t go. I shouldn’t have promised anything.” She burst into tears and collapsed into Tyler’s arms. Tyler looked at me with pure hatred. He slapped me across the face, then kicked me in the stomach. I curled up on the floor, gasping for air. “Maya, you did this on purpose! You just can’t stand seeing Chloe do well! You think you’re so special because your family has money, walking around in designer clothes. Now that you know Chloe is rich enough to treat the whole class, you’re jealous!” A classmate grabbed a water bottle and threw it at my head. “Maya, have some shame! We finally had a chance to see the high life, and you ruined it!” “Just because you carry last season’s Chanel bag, you think you’re better than us?” Chapter 6 “You’re so ‘rich,’ but you only ever bought us Starbucks. Do you think we’re beggars?” She splashed her leftover soda on my face. Others followed suit, dumping their drinks on me. In an instant, I was soaked and humiliated. I struggled to my feet, grabbed a chair, and smashed it on the floor. Everyone jumped back, cursing at me. “Maya, are you crazy?” I ignored the pain and pulled out my phone, dialing 911. “Yes, I’d like to report an assault. A group attack. The address is…” Hearing me call the police, Tyler rushed over and smashed my phone on the ground. “Maya, are you sick? You actually called the cops?” I glared at him. “You dared to hit me. Why wouldn’t I call the cops?” Tyler raised his hand to hit me again. I looked him dead in the eye. “Touch me one more time. Every hit is just more evidence.” The police arrived in ten minutes. The professor ran in behind them. The police saw it as a minor dispute since I wasn’t seriously injured and suggested a settlement. The professor glared at me, warning me not to make a scene. I demanded $1,000 from each person involved for emotional distress. The police agreed. The class started cursing me out. The officer looked at them coldly. “Settle privately, or go to court and get a criminal record. Your choice.” They all shut up and reluctantly transferred the money. $1,000 was half a month’s living expenses for most of them. It hurt them. After the police left, I picked up my stuff. My bank cards were still there. I sighed in relief, went back to the dorm to change, and called the professor to move off-campus. As I was packing to go home, I noticed my bag had been rifled through again. But nothing seemed to be missing.

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The year I was eight, I was held captive and tormented for three days to save young Garrett Sinclair. The trauma left me with severe prosopagnosia—face blindness. He had tied the blue silk cord I gave him around his wrist, his eyes red-rimmed as he promised: “Sloane, I’ll wear this forever. That way, no matter where I go, you’ll always be able to find me.” For over a decade, that flash of blue had been the only steady light in my dark, visually confusing world. Until the night before our wedding, when I overheard him talking to his friends. “Garrett, you really pulled out all the stops to get close to Willow. I mean, what about Sloane Kingsley? If she ever figures out the person she’s been sleeping with isn’t you, but her adopted brother… she’ll lose it, man.” Garrett swirled the glass in his hand, his voice a casual, effortless dismissal. “She only recognizes the blue cord. She’ll never notice.” “To be the blissfully ignorant Mrs. Sinclair for life? That’s her good fortune.” 1 I froze. Every muscle went cold. Willow Blackwood was my most trusted friend. Devon, my adopted brother, was the only family member who had painstakingly raised me, treating me like the most precious thing in the world. Garrett was the single star in my pitch-black universe. Yet, I had been living inside their perfect lie all along, unable to even recognize the face of the man in my own bed. His friend spoke again, a note of sympathy in his voice. “It’s a shame you and Willow are soulmates, but you’re stuck by this debt of gratitude. Gotta keep the affair underground.” “Thank God Devon Kingsley is covering for you. It’s the only way you can be with Willow while she gets through her pregnancy.” Willow… was pregnant? The pain already constricting my heart was brutally sliced open again. Someone else chimed in, curious. “So, G, you’re really going through with marrying Sloane?” Garrett frowned. “It’s just a name, a gesture to settle a debt. The heir to the Sinclair fortune will only ever be Willow’s child. Don’t get the wrong idea.” “As for Sloane, I’ll make damn sure she never gets pregnant with my child.” I was trembling, the ultrasound photo crumpled in my white-knuckled hand, my mind a blank void. Two months ago, Garrett had promised to be there for my birthday, but he was late. I was blowing out the candles alone when he finally wrapped his arms around me from behind. He presented me with a massive bouquet of ‘Shattered Ice Blue’ roses, his voice low and husky as he apologized for the delay, claiming he’d been collecting the rare flowers. That night, he’d been drunk, and we were intimate until morning. My nerves and frantic inexperience had made me overlook a crucial detail: Garrett was severely allergic to pollen. Now, the truth was blinding. He never could have sent those flowers. After that ‘accident,’ I hadn’t been able to keep food down. I’d gone to the doctor today, only to learn I was pregnant. My heart was bursting with shy happiness, and I’d rushed here, desperate to tell him the surprise. Instead, I had stumbled onto this visceral, gut-wrenching truth. So, this child… I didn’t dare finish the thought, a shiver running through me. What kind of monsters had I been living with, day in and day out? I stuffed the prenatal scan back into my purse, unable to listen anymore, and turned to walk away.

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I fell for my best friend’s rival. The day I finally confessed, my best friend’s eyes went red, her face shifting through a kaleidoscope of shock and betrayal. In the end, she forced out a tight, biting, “Congratulations.” But afterward, she turned all her focus on Reid. She sparred with him academically, then ruthlessly sabotaged him in the corporate world. I thought she resented him for stealing the top spot in my life, the one she’d always coveted. It wasn’t until our fifth year of marriage that she and Reid slept together. I screamed. I cried. I begged. But they only escalated their cruelty. Eventually, I was exhausted. I chose to walk away and grant them their twisted peace. Years later, I returned home for a Stanton University alumni event. A strange little boy tumbled into my arms, his face a startling, miniature replica of Reid’s. Our former class president laughed upon seeing us. “Is this yours and Reid’s kid? I always knew you two had a spark, even back then.” He chuckled conspiratorially. “I used to joke that even though you were always bottom of the class, you had a best friend who was number two, and a boyfriend who was number one!” I was about to correct him when my old best friend, Blair, rushed over, grabbing the boy and clutching him tight. “Finn! Why did you run off? You scared Mommy half to death!” Reid was right behind her. He froze the moment his eyes landed on my face. “Sierra, you’re alive?” 1 Blair’s head snapped up, her expression a mask of pure, visceral shock. To them, I had been lost at sea five years ago. Drowned. I offered them a slow, distant smile. “My luck held out. I just swallowed a lot of saltwater.” Blair, ever the quick study, regained her composure instantly. She shook the little boy in her arms gently. “Finn, this is Aunt Sierra. You should call her Godmother.” We’d once promised that if we married, we’d catch each other’s bouquets, and if we had children, we’d be the godmothers. The boy, Finn, shyly whispered, “Godmother.” I didn’t acknowledge it. Turning to the class president, I simply said I had an appointment and prepared to leave. The president, sensing the toxic atmosphere hanging over the three of us, was eager to see me go. Reid, however, was determined to follow. “Sierra, where are you headed? I can drive you.” Blair’s lip twitched almost imperceptibly, but she said, “Yes, it’s not safe for you alone. You don’t even drive.” I inwardly scoffed. After all these years, she still saw me as the helpless, flighty girl. But a free ride was a free ride. On the way, Reid kept peppering me with questions about my life. I kept my answers clipped and minimal. I told him I was rescued and survived. I told him I’d been living overseas, selling my art. I was back now because a long-time buyer wanted to meet in person. Reid’s voice suddenly climbed an octave. “Man or woman? Are you sure they’re trustworthy? You need to keep your guard up.” I didn’t spare his feelings. “Friends I’ve known for years aren’t trustworthy. A husband I shared a bed with isn’t trustworthy. How, then, can I judge a stranger?” Reid fell silent. Blair’s face turned an ugly shade of gray. When we arrived at my place, I got out, collected my bags, and then turned back toward the car, stopping beside the little boy, Finn. He had Reid’s eyes and Blair’s mouth. The moment I reached a hand toward him, Blair reacted, pulling Finn tight into her chest, her eyes wide with terror. “What are you doing? You want my child to pay for your revenge? He’s innocent!” Reid warned my name, his voice low and dangerous. I simply reached out and plucked a small, hard fruit stone from Finn’s lips. “I was afraid he’d end up like my child—choked and suffocated, with adults right there, too blind to save him.” Their faces went white. The silence was absolute. Back inside my home, I checked my messages. Mr. Albright had confirmed our meeting. He genuinely admired my work; over the years, he’d observed every new piece I created, even if he didn’t buy it. I was back for him, yes. But I was also here to finish a much older, darker piece of business. I met Mr. Albright in a quiet, upscale coffee shop. He looked to be in his late fifties, with a kind, reserved face. “Ms. Wyatt,” he said warmly. “I see so many stories in your paintings. They make me deeply curious about you.” He paused, looking around the nearly empty shop. “Would I be privileged enough to hear some of them?” I nodded. 2 In high school, I was still Sierra Wyatt, the spoiled heiress who had no worries. While my classmates were pulling all-nighters and drowning in stress, I was only interested in painting and partying. Reid, however, was the polar opposite. He was the undisputed number one student—brilliant, disciplined, and politically adept. At first, I found him utterly pretentious. Then Blair arrived. She came from a poor background and was fiercely academic, working a job every evening to help her family. I was impressed. I convinced my father to establish a scholarship specifically for students like her. I wanted to keep it anonymous. But the teacher, in front of the entire class, made a point of announcing my donation and forced Blair to bow and thank me. Looking back, I believe that public moment of forced gratitude was when Blair started to resent me. But I was oblivious. I poured my heart out to her, treating her like the sister I never had. Blair’s biggest aspiration was to beat Reid and claim the number one spot. But Reid was an insurmountable fortress. She was always second. After yet another loss, Blair broke down crying. To cheer her up, I tried everything I could think of. “It’s okay,” I’d announced dramatically. “I’ll just start dating Reid! I’ll distract him, ruin his grades, and you can finally win!” Reid, passing by, scoffed. “Sierra, you’re too clueless. You don’t even know how to flirt. Need me to show you how?” And that’s how we ended up together. My senior year was the year my life shattered. My father’s business went bankrupt, and he killed himself. In my deepest despair, Reid and Blair were my anchors. Reid swore he would take over my father’s role, promising to be the one person in the world who would always love me. Blair let me stay in her tiny apartment and worked tirelessly to tutor me. I pulled myself together. I started studying like my life depended on it, and by the time the SATs arrived, I was confident I could get into a decent college. Then the accident happened. Despite checking and double-checking everything, I couldn’t find my No. 2 pencil for the Scantron sheet. Leaving the testing center, I slapped myself, convinced I was the most utterly worthless person alive. Again, Reid and Blair were there. They encouraged me until I moved past the trauma. They both went on to Stanton University, the country’s best. I decided higher education wasn’t for me, so I took a job bussing tables near campus. Reid would come straight from class to help, and soon, customers assumed he was the employee. He constantly talked about our future. We’d marry right after graduation. He’d earn enough money to buy me the best art supplies and keep me a carefree, sheltered art patron. But I felt a creeping sense of insecurity. I begged Blair to keep an eye on Reid for me. Blair looked at me with an unreadable, deep expression, a forced, unnatural smile pulling at her lips. I remember feeling smug, thinking I was successfully “showing off” my perfect relationship. I urged her to start dating, too. “No need,” she’d said. “I already have someone I like.” It took years to finally understand that smile, and to know exactly who that person was. It was already too late. 3 Reid and I married right after he graduated. But reality was far harsher than his dreams. He worked himself to the bone to earn money, coming home exhausted every night, collapsing into sleep the moment his head hit the pillow. To ease his burden, I learned to cook, clean, and manage the house. I had never realized how much labor was involved in keeping a home. The endless cycle of meals, laundry, and cleaning. They were all small things, but stacked together, they were enough to drown me. By the time the financial pressure finally eased, our daughter, Skye, was born. I named her Skye, wanting her to be calm and serene. But she was a whirlwind of energy, always crying and restless. Every night, I had to walk the length of the living room, holding her, for hours until she finally drifted off. By the time I slipped into bed, Reid’s hand would be reaching for me. “Honey, it’s been too long since we…” Despite my physical and emotional exhaustion, I dutifully submitted. But the moment of climax was always ruined by Skye’s first whimper. I’d instantly push Reid away, scrambling naked off the bed to comfort her. I never saw the look of pure annoyance on his face as he lay behind me. Life had successfully chipped away at the clueless princess, turning me into a killjoy of a housewife. For my birthday that year, Reid brought home the most expensive set of oil paints. I glanced around the house. “We’re out of diapers,” I said flatly. “You should have bought diapers.” Meanwhile, Blair was carving a bloody path through the corporate world. She and Reid joined the same firm, and she clung to her old rivalry, fighting him at every turn. And she was still losing. Once, she prepared a flawless presentation, grinding on the pitch for weeks, but the CEO still chose Reid’s plan. Blair called me, sobbing hysterically. “Why can’t I ever beat him, Sierra? Why? After all these years, can’t I just win once?!” I shot Reid a dirty look, preparing to go comfort her. But Skye wrapped herself around my legs, refusing to let me go. I resignedly sent Reid instead. “She’s a woman drinking alone at a bar; it’s not safe. You caused this mess; you clean it up.” Reid’s hands paused on the remote. He looked at me, a searching quality in his eyes. “Are you sure you want me to go?” “Of course.” Reid looked like he was making the most momentous decision of his life. “Fine,” he said. He turned back and looked at me several times before walking out the door. I didn’t sense the earthquake coming. I was just there, cooing at my daughter, telling her silly stories. The true catastrophe began that night. Reid never came home. When he finally returned the next morning, I was already cooking. He mumbled some excuses about Blair being a drunken mess and how he’d been so exhausted getting her back to her place that he just passed out on the floor. His tone was calm and believable. Blair was my best friend. I accepted the lie easily. In the days that followed, Reid’s “overtime” and “business trips” became more frequent. At first, I assumed the company was just busy. Then, I started to notice things. A foreign hair on his jacket. A strange, sharp perfume that wasn’t mine. Finally, when I found a discarded, opened condom wrapper in his pants pocket, I knew. He was cheating. Shattered and enraged, I drove to Reid’s office and staged a scene. I cried, I screamed, I lay on the floor, demanding he name the woman. Reid’s face was pure disgust. “Sierra, I provide for you! I put a roof over your head! I let you be a homemaker so you didn’t have to worry about a thing, and this is how you repay me? By making baseless accusations?” He pulled out his phone, flipped on the camera, and pointed it at my face. “Look at yourself! What do you look like right now? A hysterical shrew!” 4 On his phone screen, I saw a stranger: my hair was a wild mess, my skin sallow. My outdated dress was stained with unwashed grease spots. Behind me, the female employees were immaculate, their makeup perfect, their business suits crisp. They radiated the aura of competent professionals. Their stares were a mix of pity and contempt. Blair emerged from the crowd. “Sierra, don’t make a scene. This is pathetic.” Reid yelled, “Let her! She just wants me to get fired so the whole family starves! Go on, do it! Start a live stream! Let everyone see!” It was then I realized I had no ammunition left. I’d been out of the workforce since high school. With just a high school diploma, I had zero leverage. If I divorced him, he’d easily win custody of our daughter. A cold clarity washed over me. I crawled up from the floor. “I’m done. I’m going home.” After that day, I became subservient, terrified of provoking Reid. He grew bolder—lipstick smudges on his shirt were common. Yet, I clung to him, desperately afraid he would abandon me. My only defense was Skye. I tried to use her to appeal to his vanishing affections. Reid did love his daughter, though. When he wasn’t busy, he would even take her to the office. One afternoon, he took her again. I finished my chores and started scrolling through my phone. Purely by chance, I stumbled across a viral thread. The title read: The Rivalry: Years of Hate, Decades of Lust. I clicked it open. The first line hit me like a physical blow: “No one understood that the eternal runner-up didn’t want the top spot—she just wanted the number one student’s attention.” My heart plummeted. My mind flashed. I raced to the rest of the post. “After losing to him at work again, I went to a bar to drink. He came to comfort me. He asked what I needed. I told him to kiss me. And he did.” “From high school until now, he rejected my advances ten thousand times. But on the ten thousand and first, he accepted. I took him home, and we spent the night making up for all that lost time.” “The top spot I could never reach finally became my conquest.” I felt the blood drain from my body. Blair loved Reid. Reid’s mistress was Blair. I lost all control. I tore to Reid’s office and barged into his suite. Groans and muffled sounds were immediately audible from the inner office. I kicked the door open. Blair was sitting on Reid’s lap, their clothes in disarray. Blinded by fury, I grabbed every object in sight and hurled it at them. A ceramic figurine struck Blair on the forehead. She started bleeding. Tears streamed down my face. If Reid’s betrayal was a freezing wind, Blair’s was a total annihilation of hope. “We were best friends! How could you do this to me?” Blair wiped the blood from her temple, her gaze icy. “I never considered you a friend.” Her voice was flat. “You were a spoiled, useless girl. All you were good at was condescension and charity.” “I hated you from the first day we met.” I tried desperately to deny it. “If you hated me, why did you take me in after my dad died? Why did you tutor me?” Blair laughed—a harsh, empty sound. “Because I like to fatten the rabbit before the slaughter. Why do you think you checked for that No. 2 pencil so many times and still didn’t find it? I took it outside the testing center!” “What?” The ground fell out from under me. Blair giggled, lightly shaking Reid. “We have a witness, don’t we, R.J.? You saw me take the pencil, didn’t you?” Reid’s face stiffened. He looked away. “Don’t be shy! You didn’t tell Sierra back then, which is how I knew—you’ve always loved me.” Suddenly, my circulation seemed to reverse. My limbs went limp. I nearly collapsed. “I’m going to—I’m going to report you…” Reid’s face darkened. “Sierra! Enough! Think about our daughter!” Then his expression shifted. He started looking around frantically. Our daughter? Skye? She was supposed to be here. We checked the security footage. We found Skye’s body hidden under the coffee table. While Reid and Blair were engaging in their sordid affair, they’d left Skye alone with a bowl of dried fruit. Skye choked on a hard fruit stone. She pounded on the door, trying to call for help, but her desperate pleas were drowned out by their ecstatic sounds. She tried to reach the water glass on the table, but she was too small. She died silently, just a few feet away from her father. When I finished telling the story, there was a stunned silence in the coffee shop, followed by muffled sobs. Mr. Albright sighed heavily. “I had no idea you’d endured so much, Ms. Wyatt.” He looked at me, heartbroken. “Five years have passed. Do you still hate your ex-husband?” I took a slow sip of my coffee, a subtle smile touching my lips. “Is that all Reid Jefferson—or rather, your employer—wanted to know?” Mr. Albright froze, his professional composure shattering. “What employer? I don’t know what you mean.” I walked past him and approached a patron who had been sitting quietly at a corner table the entire time. I reached down and pulled off the man’s surgical mask.

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I’d just been chewed out by my stone-cold boss and was practically dissolved in tears, so I quickly tapped open the chat for my online boyfriend. “Waaah, honey, that devil boss just trashed my proposal again.” The reply was almost instantaneous. “That miserable jerk! How dare he talk to my baby like that?” “Don’t worry, babe. Get some sleep tonight. I’ll fix this for you.” The next morning, I handed my boss the proposal my online boyfriend had stayed up all night rewriting. My boss stared at the document for a long time, his expression growing strangely complex. Even the sound of his voice carried a tremor I almost missed. “This proposal… you did this?” 1 As a recent college graduate—a grunt worker barely out of the intern pool—I’d practically bored a hole to the earth’s core trying to draft a half-decent proposal. The day before, in the meeting, my boss held up my work with disgust. “Do we really need this garbage cluttering the folder? Whose is this?” Graham Shaw was an Ivy League legacy, a trust-fund prodigy who’d returned from London with an MBA and a face that looked straight out of a GQ spread. He was brilliant, ruthless, and universally loathed. My friends told me I was lucky, getting paid to look at a face that belonged on a billboard. Only I knew how soul-crushing his perfectionism was. Hesitantly, I raised my hand. The next second, his sharp, glacial gaze was on me. “How were you hired with work like this? It seems the HR department has become quite the joke.” The whole room was watching. My cheeks burned hot, and all I wanted was for the floor to swallow me whole. Unsurprisingly, I was kept back. I stood. He sat. His brow was deeply furrowed as he tossed my proposal onto the floor. “Last chance. Produce trash like this again, and you can walk yourself down to HR.” I swallowed hard and bent to pick up the papers, not daring to meet his eyes. My own eyes were stinging and swollen, but I didn’t care. I kept my head down and stumbled out of his office. 2 I finally found an empty hallway corner where I could sob uncontrollably, then reflexively opened the messaging app to vent to my online boyfriend. “He made me cry again today.” The reason I was here, working, instead of finishing my Master’s, was because my mom had gotten terribly sick right after I secured my acceptance. Every penny we had went to her care. The money still wasn’t enough. On a friend’s suggestion, I started a niche account, doing faceless livestreams of me making custom macrame wall hangings. To my shock, people actually tipped. Then, my online boyfriend showed up, immediately became my Tier-S Patron, and dumped what added up to over eight hundred thousand dollars into my account. For a college graduate from a normal background, it was an astronomical, life-changing sum. I added him as a friend to thank him. “Midnight_Investor” was nothing like my boss. He was kind. He comforted me every time I was down. Soon, we were inseparable. He replied right away. “Hugs, baby. Your boss is clearly a toxic narcissist.” “He has no right to yell at our baby. I believe everything you do is the best.” “After all, you’re so talented with your hands. You make those gorgeous macrame pieces.” The more he comforted me, the more the raw emotion welled up. “But I really worked so hard on that proposal. I didn’t even sleep last night, and he still screamed at me.” He immediately sent a flurry of the kissing emojis I always used. “It’s okay, baby. You just graduated. It’s good to let the sadness out. Big things take time.” “Don’t be sad. I’ll fix the proposal for you tonight. You get some rest.” Looking at the gentle, thoughtful man on the screen, half my heart melted. I scrubbed at my raw, red eyes. “What good is crying?” The cold, icy voice made my whole body jump. I looked up to see my boss, Graham, meticulously wiping his hands, looking vaguely annoyed. “If you can’t seize the opportunity, if you rely on ‘taking your time’ for everything, you’ll end up like your proposal: thrown in the trash.” He tossed the hand-wiping napkin into a waste bin to emphasize his point. His cold eyes leveled on my still-red ones. “So, instead of crying here, get back to work.” 3 After Graham finally left, I was barely able to keep myself from collapsing in tears again. How could someone with a pulse say something so glacial? But this company was excellent. I’d fought tooth and nail to get this job. With Mom’s illness, I absolutely could not lose it. I dragged my exhausted body to my cubicle. Tessa, my least favorite colleague, was there, already launching into her passive-aggressive commentary. “I knew she couldn’t have been hired for her competence. Must’ve gotten in on looks, not brains. Figured.” I was too drained to even snap back. I sank heavily into my desk chair. Even though Midnight_Investor promised to fix it, I felt I needed to revise the document again. I had to lighten his load. He was an adult; he surely had his own life and responsibilities. I worked until closing, kept thinking about it on my commute, and finished the final revisions at home that night. Only then did I send my redrafted version to my online love. He seemed to be online 24/7. He received the file immediately. Half an hour later, he sent an encouraging message. “Is this your first draft, baby? It’s a bit rough around the edges, but for a first attempt, it’s really good.” I wanted to cry until I was dry. “That’s my Nth revision. Am I really that bad?” He was silent for a full minute, then sent a massive barrage of hug emojis. “No, not bad! You’ve made huge progress. All that matters is your effort, baby.” “Don’t pay any attention to whatever your boss says. He clearly doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s just a miserable jerk who takes his own frustrations out on you.” Watching him curse out my boss with a cascade of angry emojis calmed my nerves again. “Thank you, my sweet boyfriend! I’m going to get some real sleep tonight.” It was the best night’s sleep I’d had since starting the job. 4 My online love was incredibly reliable. When I woke up, there was a new document on my phone. Sent at 2:00 AM. The attached note: “Go get ’em, Wifey.” It was incredibly touching. My boss made me pull an all-nighter; I made my boyfriend pull one. I sent him a couple more kissing emojis, picked out an outfit, and headed to work. The moment I walked in, I heard Tessa’s loud, sneering voice. “Well, look who decided to show up, Gen Miller. Look at that face, that glow! Doesn’t look like she pulled an all-nighter, does it? Must’ve been sleeping with someone last night.” Tessa rolled her eyes, a look of malicious pleasure on her face. “Though, Mr. Shaw looks like he didn’t sleep well at all. He’s exhausted. Must have been up all night stewing over some people’s proposals.” I ignored her and headed to the printer to get the new file. But my silence only egged her on. “Off to generate more trash, Gen?” I gathered the printed sheets, ignored her completely, and walked toward Graham’s office. “Still too good for us? Watch out, you’re going to get yelled at and cry again!” 5 Graham genuinely looked like he hadn’t slept. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to be dragging toward his jawline. He rubbed his temples, his expression flat when he saw me. Graham Shaw was known for being utterly devoid of warmth; office lore claimed he was married only to his job and was possibly an emotionless robot. I carefully placed the proposal on his desk. He took it without expression and started reading. He looked up several times, his gaze fixed on me between reading the pages of the document. Finally, he read the last page. “Is this yours?” His voice, unbelievably, had a slight tremble.

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Savannah, who was eight years my senior, didn’t come home that night. That was already unusual. Then my friend’s message popped up—a photo of a mature man and my wife. The hand draped across her waist was a white-hot brand on my retina. I sat with my guitar cradled in my lap all night. It wasn’t until dawn that Savannah finally stumbled through the door, smelling of stale liquor, yet carrying herself with unnerving composure. “Business dinner, I forgot to tell you. Why are you still up?” I pulled up the photo and laid the phone on the coffee table between us. “Would it be impolite to call him ‘sir’?” 1 That hand in the photo. It was like a searing iron, pressed hard onto my vision. It wasn’t a casual touch; it was a possessive, almost territorial clasp. Clasped around my wife’s waist. The sender was my buddy, and the message was just a dry, bare statement: “Bro, Savannah was at The Bluebird last night.” I knew the bar. I’d played a residency there a few years back. My gut—that raw, male instinct—screamed that this wasn’t just a “business dinner.” “I had a last-minute dinner with a major client. Couldn’t bow out, drank too much, so I just got a hotel room near the office and crashed. I forgot to text you.” She was unsteady on her feet. She walked straight to the kitchen island, grabbed a glass, and downed a full one of cold water. Setting the cup down, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and finally turned to face me. She tilted her head slightly, as if looking at a child who was making a fuss over nothing. “The sun’s up, Rhys. Why are you sulking here? Go get some sleep.” Forgot to text me? My gaze moved to her face, a mask of calm that bordered on cold indifference. The acoustic guitar in my lap felt like a slab of frozen concrete. I flipped the phone screen, presenting the photo on the coffee table. “Oh, a business dinner.” My voice was a rough, dry rasp, like sandpaper rubbing against wood. “Then this gentleman in the photo… this ‘sir’,” The word was squeezed through my clenched teeth, sharp with mockery, “If I called him ‘sir,’ would it be… disrespectful?” She glanced at the image and immediately launched into a counter-attack, her voice ringing with indignation. “Did you hire someone to track me?” I shook my head, finding her chosen point of focus darkly amusing. Her first instinct wasn’t to explain, but to deflect and accuse. “My friend happened to be at The Bluebird last night, that’s all.” “And this is what you call a business dinner? Did you get a room with him?” Savannah bristled, her voice climbing to a sharp, aggressive pitch. “‘Happened to be there’? The photo is perfectly clear! How convenient!” “Dr. Hawthorne is our most crucial client. I was drunk last night, he just helped steady me. What is wrong with that?” “Do you even understand what client relations are? Do you understand what it takes to maintain them?” Her words shot out like a machine gun, attempting to build a defensive wall with cold, hard concepts: “work,” “projects,” “importance”—all just to hide the naked intimacy of that hand in the picture. “Maintain client relations?” I echoed her phrase, my eyes boring into her face, searching desperately for a ghost of the woman I used to know beneath the perfectly applied makeup. I found nothing. “Do you need to maintain relations until his arm is wrapped around your waist like you’re a piece of luggage? Maintain it until you stay out all night and can’t even be bothered to send your husband a single, tired text?” “You!” Savannah’s face went white, choked by my bluntness. Her chest heaved violently. She drew a deep breath, forcing down the rage, and looked at me with a mixture of exhaustion, annoyance, and utter disappointment. She looked at me as though I were a burden—an eternal child who only knew how to whine. “Rhys, enough!” Her voice suddenly dropped, carrying the icy chill of absolute refusal to engage. “Look at you! Huddled over that damn guitar, sitting here like a ghost all night just to catch me in some imagined ‘lie’? Aside from baseless suspicion and childish accusations, what exactly can you do?” She raised a hand and rubbed her temples hard, an action heavy with fatigue. A deathly silence fell over the living room. All I could hear was her sharp, ragged breathing, and the slow, heavy, almost-stopping beat of my own heart against my ribs. So this is it. I stared at her. The metallic, coppery taste of rust finally broke through in my throat. I bent over sharply, coughing—a wrenching, tearing sound, as if I were trying to cough up my own insides. She watched me double over, but there wasn’t a flicker of emotion on her face—just an indifferent coldness, perhaps even a hint of revulsion. She smoothed down her messy curls and turned toward the bedroom. “I’m tired. I need to rest. You… think about what you’ve done.” The bedroom door clicked shut behind her, a faint sound that sealed off two separate worlds. I was left alone in the living room. In the year we had been married, we’d had countless arguments, large and small. Every one of them ended with her walking away and me sinking into silence. I remembered what my friend had told me when we first started dating. The age gap is too big. It won’t last. But I couldn’t resist the way she looked at me. Her eyes were bright, like she was looking at some rare, precious treasure. I went against everyone’s advice to be with her. When we first got together, we had endless things to talk about. I promised her I’d only sing for her, and I promptly quit my successful band. I retreated into the background. The living room was terrifyingly silent, broken only by the tireless sweep of the second hand on the wall clock. The door Savannah had closed was a boundary, a chasm that separated us completely. “Think about what you’ve done.” The phrase looped in my mind like a curse. Was I… truly wrong? The thought, cold as a viper, slipped into my chaotic mind. Maybe… maybe it was just a business dinner? Maybe Dr. Hawthorne had just politely helped her up? Maybe I was too sensitive, too immature, jumping straight to the worst possible conclusion? A rush of intense guilt, mixed with a desperate urge to save the relationship, instantly drowned out my anger and heartbreak. I couldn’t let go this easily. At the very least, I couldn’t let my “immaturity” and “suspicion” destroy this. I needed to do something. To prove I still cared about her, that I cared about our home. My eyes fell instinctively on the guitar in my lap. Years ago, this guitar, my voice, my songs—they were what made her walk toward me, against all odds. I sat with the guitar, nervous and awkward as a kid at his first open mic, staring intently at the bedroom door. I was waiting for her to come out. I was going to sing her “Night Flight,” just like I did when we were first falling in love. Time crawled by. The light in the living room shifted from the pale gold of dawn to the harsh white of midday, then slowly, began to tint with the orange glow of dusk. There was no movement from the bedroom. She needs rest. She’s so tired… I told myself this, fighting down the rising tide of anxiety and unease. It wasn’t until late afternoon that I finally heard a stir. The door opened. Savannah stepped out. She had changed into a new outfit—a sharp, tailored business suit of high quality. Her face was perfectly made up, her hair impeccably styled. There was no sign of a hangover or our morning argument. She looked refreshed, even radiant. “You… woke up?” I managed to croak out, my voice raw from a sleepless night and full of cautious hope. “Are you hungry? I can… I can make you something?” I moved to set the guitar down and stand up. “Don’t bother.” She cut me off coolly, her voice devoid of warmth. Her gaze swept over the coffee table, lingering on my guitar, and her frown deepened. “Put that thing away. It’s in the way.” I watched her back, the words, “Let me sing you a song,” stuck in my throat, impossible to voice. She turned around, her arms crossed, and assessed me with a chilling, critical stare: “Rhys, this morning I told you to ‘think about what you’ve done.’ Have you figured it out?” I struggled to form the words, grasping at a straw of reconciliation. “I… I have. Maybe… maybe I was too impulsive. I shouldn’t have questioned you like that…” She immediately interrupted, her voice sharp with impatience. “It’s not about the questions! That’s not the point! The point is you’re completely stagnant! Rhys, I don’t need a man who only knows how to clutch a guitar, wallow in past fantasies, and be pathologically suspicious!” I looked down at the old companion she’d dismissed as “that damn guitar.” It had been my life, the symbol of everything I’d given up for her, and now, in her eyes, it was the main evidence against me. “I…” Put it away? Go find a nine-to-five job, something “legitimate” and non-musical? Would I even be Rhys anymore? My hesitation, my internal struggle, was, to her, nothing more than cowardice and an utter lack of salvation. “Hmph.” She let out a short, cold scoff, full of complete despair and… a perverse sense of relief. “So your big ‘think’ resulted in you clinging to your rock and roll dreams. Fine.” She didn’t look at me again. She turned and walked into the bedroom, starting to pack. Her movements were sharp, decisive, and entirely without remorse, as if she were simply boxing up a piece of luggage she no longer needed. “Where… where are you going?” My voice was edged with panic. “Business trip.” She didn’t turn around, her voice cold as ice. “Project requires me to be out of town for a few days. We both need to cool off.” “A business trip? With who?” The name was almost out before I could stop it. Her packing abruptly ceased. “Rhys! Stop it! Stop with your disgusting paranoia! My work and my whereabouts are none of your concern! You have no right, and frankly, no capacity, to interfere!” She zipped the suitcase shut with a harsh, grating sound, announcing an end. She dragged the suitcase toward the front door. “Savannah!” I jumped up, trying to block her, desperate to say something—even a pitiful plea. But she only paused, turning her head just enough to shoot me a cold, sidelong glance. Her eyes held no love, no hatred—just sheer fatigue and the chilling certainty of someone who has seen through a long-held deception. “Rhys,” her voice was frighteningly calm, yet every word was a stab to the heart, “What do we have left, besides that marriage license? Your guitar? Your ‘dreams’? Or that heart of yours that refuses to grow up?” She paused, her gaze sweeping over my frozen figure and the solitary guitar beside me, her lips curling into a deeply cynical smirk. “Don’t bother me again until you learn how to act like a man. And don’t send me any more of those idiotic messages.” With that, she wrenched open the front door, dragged the suitcase out, and walked away without looking back. Ding-dong. A notification chime interrupted my paralysis. Her phone, sitting forgotten on the entryway cabinet, lit up. She must have been in too much of a rush. I picked it up and input the passcode. It was still our anniversary. The pinned chat was with a contact simply labeled: “♥” It wasn’t me. A few more messages popped up: [Morning, Wild one. How’s the ‘red wine’ after effects from last night?] [You left your scarf in my car. I’ll bring it to you next time. Make sure you get some rest.] Attached to the text was a photo. The background was a hotel room, the messy sheets revealing exactly what had happened. A purple silk scarf lay on the rumpled bedding. It was Savannah’s. “Wild one…” The two words were like barbed hooks digging into my eyes. All my agony, my questions, her self-righteous “business dinner” monologue—all of it was shredded to pieces by this text and this photo. Leaving only the ugly, naked truth. So this was what she meant by “so tired.” This was where she needed to “get some rest.” And this was how the mature, responsible Dr. Hawthorne addressed her in private. I clenched her phone so tightly my knuckles turned white and bruised, convinced I was going to shatter the device. I bent over, dry coughing again, violently. Just then, the door was yanked open. Savannah had come back for the phone she’d forgotten. She frowned, her eyes instantly locking onto the phone tightly gripped in my hand. Her pupils constricted. “Rhys! What are you doing with my phone?!” Her voice was instantly sharp, laced with the panic of invasion, the last vestiges of sleep gone. She rushed forward and snatched the phone away from me. “You read my phone?! You actually spied on my phone?!” Her voice was so shrill it seemed to tear the air. “Do you have no respect?! No boundaries?! You are… you are impossible!” She gasped, her chest rising and falling furiously. “Yes! I am with Victor! So what?!” She completely tore off her last layer of composure, shouting with desperate abandon. “He’s more mature than you! More stable! He understands what responsibility is! Being with him, I realize how stupid I was! Waiting around for you, you piece of dead weight that will never climb off the floor!” “Look at you!” She lifted her hand, her forefinger stabbing violently against my chest, her touch ice cold. “What else do you do besides sit here like a whiny victim clutching that dusty guitar, or act like a thief spying on my privacy?! What have you ever given me? Security? A future? Or just your ridiculous, worthless rock and roll dreams?!” I couldn’t muster the strength for a single word of rebuttal. My throat was choked with cold despair and utter emotional death. My silence seemed to only further enrage her. SLAM! The front door was slammed shut again with all her force. The thought of the flirtatious messages, the explicit photo—it sent a wave of nausea through me. I bolted to the bathroom, leaning over the cold porcelain of the toilet bowl, dry heaving violently. Nothing came up but the burning bile and stomach acid, bringing wave after wave of tearing spasms to my throat. This was Rhys? The rock singer who used to burn up the stage and roar with life? I splashed cold water on my face. The icy sting brought a momentary, painful clarity. Every inch of this “home” was poisoned by betrayal. To stay one second longer was torture. I had to leave. Now. I didn’t have a destination, I just needed to escape this suffocating space. I walked to the corner and picked up the heavy gig bag. I pulled open the door Savannah had just slammed. I walked the silent, predawn streets, aimless, like a wandering ghost. Before I knew it, my feet stopped beneath a familiar, flickering neon sign: The Bluebird. This was it. The place the photo came from, the origin of the nightmare. Another message popped up from my friend: [Bro, still in the VIP booth at The Bluebird. Your wife… she’s here too.] A booth number followed. My heart felt like it was seized by an invisible hand and squeezed until it stopped beating. The booth number was burned into my vision. As if possessed, I pushed open The Bluebird’s heavy, soundproof door. The deafening music and psychedelic lights instantly swallowed me whole. The air was thick with the mixed scent of alcohol, perfume, smoke, and raw desire. I was an intruder, awkwardly carrying my gig bag, moving through the gyrating crowd toward that booth number. Fear, rage, despair, and a sliver of absurd hope. Hope that all of this was some terrible mistake. I finally stopped in front of the door. The heavy panel couldn’t completely block the noise inside. I could vaguely hear a woman’s soft laughter, a man’s low murmur, and… Savannah’s distinctive, slightly lazy, husky voice. She was speaking in a tone I had never heard before, almost a playful coo. I raised my hand, my fingers cold and trembling. Should I push it open, or turn and run? In that instant, the booth door was suddenly pulled open from the inside. A server stepped out, holding an empty tray. In the moment the door was ajar, the scene inside slammed into my eyes, fully exposed. Under the crystal chandelier, on the wide, curved sofa. Savannah wore a sequined, spaghetti-strap dress I’d never seen before, her makeup more provocative than when she’d left the house. She was practically draped across a man in a dark dress shirt—Dr. Gerard Hawthorne, the man from the photo. One of his hands was brazenly, tightly wrapped around Savannah’s slender waist. The other held a glass of liquor as he leaned down to whisper something in her ear. This made Savannah laugh, a throaty chuckle that caused her to lean even more relaxed into him. Her eyes were hazy, her cheeks flushed with an unnatural color. It was the look of a woman completely immersed in raw intimacy and lust. Time froze. Savannah’s laughter died in her throat. She must have sensed the anomaly at the door, and she turned her head languidly. As her eyes pierced the hazy light and fixed on me—the ghost-white figure with a guitar bag at the doorway—her smile instantly fractured. The haziness in her eyes was replaced in a millisecond by shock, panic, and the sheer embarrassment of being caught red-handed. She flinched, almost convulsively trying to pull away from the man’s embrace. “Rhys…?” Her voice was a shaky, incredulous whisper. Dr. Hawthorne also looked up, saw me, and his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. There was no panic in his eyes, only the annoyance of being interrupted and a cold, condescending appraisal. His hand, far from letting go, tightened demonstratively around Savannah’s waist, a clear act of provocation. This final gesture ignited every volcano that had been dormant inside me. I stood in the doorway. I didn’t roar or rage as she might have expected, nor did I beg weakly. The extremity of the pain and rage brought a bizarre, chilling calm. My gaze bypassed the other man and fixed solely on Savannah’s panic-stricken face. My voice was eerily flat, yet it cut through the din of the music in the booth with crystalline clarity: “Savannah.” My voice wasn’t loud, but it was an ice pick in the heart of the illicit air. Her body gave a sharp shudder. Her lips parted, as if to offer some frantic defense. I didn’t give her the chance. “I want a divorce.”

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I was the daughter the whole internet nicknamed “The Scourge,” the one who stole my mother’s life savings—the money meant for her cardiac surgery—and blew it all on high-end escorts at a downtown club, claiming it was for my own selfish vanity. That very night, I was brought down in a VICE raid. My father, Police Director Frank Wallace, nearly had a heart attack from the sheer humiliation. He cut all ties with me in front of his entire squad. “Sloane Wallace! You are no daughter of mine. Never show your face to your mother or me again!” I vanished as he wished, a ghost in the wind. Seven years later, a little girl appeared at the precinct. She was wearing rags and clutching a backpack stained dark red. She spoke timidly. “I’m looking for Mr. Wallace. Sloane asked me to bring him a gift.” Dad’s eyes immediately went bloodshot. “She’s out of money, so she comes crawling back? Is that leech, Sloane, trying to bleed her mother and me dry from the grave?” The little girl shook her head in fear. “Sloane doesn’t want money. She’s with lots of other sisters, living in the black house. She wants you to come get her.” 1 Seven years. Dad looked so much older, but the fury in his face when he heard my name was exactly as it had been that final night. I drifted close to him. No one could see me, but I dropped to my knees anyway and lowered my head seven times, a deep, silent apology. “Dad, I’m so sorry. Your daughter won’t be able to take care of you and Mom anymore.” The agony of my physical death still clung to my soul. I felt like I was enduring the slow burn of a terrible fire at every moment. But even that great pain couldn’t compare to the ache in my heart over the gray strands threading through his hair. Phoebe flinched at Dad’s sharp voice. She was the toughest of the children, though. She sniffled but didn’t cry. Instead, she stretched out her small arms, holding the stained backpack up, trying to reach it to him. “Mr. Wallace, this is the gift Sloane left for you.” But Dad angrily slapped the bag away. “Where is Sloane? She severed all ties seven years ago and walked out without a single look back. What good are these gifts now? Does she actually expect me to forgive her?” Bringing up the old scandal caused a wave of whispers among the uniformed officers. Detective Miller, Dad’s closest friend, couldn’t hold back his frustration. “She really is a debt-collector, isn’t she? Couldn’t rest even after leaving. Nearly killed Ellie seven years ago, and now she’s back to finish the job on you?” That seven-year-old headline seemed to be burned into everyone’s memory. Without exception, they all saw me as the monstrous daughter. “Ellie needed her cardiac bypass. Not only did she ignore her own mother’s illness, she stole the money and hired escorts.” “I was actually the one who caught Sloane in the raid. Three guys. I still can’t bring myself to talk about the scene.” “Thank God the Director managed to recover the stolen funds, or Ellie… God.” The sighs grew heavier. Phoebe, anxious and frightened, retrieved the backpack and clutched it fiercely. She seemed to understand that they were badmouthing me, her eyes wide and tear-filled as she defended me in a choked whisper. “Sloane is good. Don’t call her bad names.” “What’s the connection with Sloane? Why is this kid so protective of her?” Everyone’s attention slowly shifted to Phoebe. She looked two or three years younger than her actual age due to chronic malnutrition. Dad’s expression flickered between anger and confusion. “Are you Sloane’s daughter? That leech’s child?” Phoebe’s environment had been so brutal that I’d only taught her how to talk after I arrived. She didn’t know what a “mom” or a “daughter” was. She only clung to the task I had given her, struggling to explain. “Sloane took the best care of me. Mr. Wallace, please, open the backpack. Sloane and so many other sisters are in the little black room. They want to get out, but they can’t.” Detective Miller scoffed. “She walked out so easily back then. Now she can’t afford to raise her kid, so she sends her back to cheat money out of you. Sloane is truly a leech.” Dad grabbed Phoebe’s arm and then froze. Beneath the thin skin, he could see layers of scars, old and new, sickeningly overlapping. “Sloane… that animal. She can’t even raise her own daughter properly? Did all those lessons about protecting the people go straight to the dogs?” Then, he seemed to remember something else, and his voice became desolate. “Maybe I never taught her anything at all.” I felt the deep disappointment radiating from him. Perhaps the wounds to my body had been so profound that they had shredded my soul, too. I shook my head gently, a lonely voice in the silence. “You taught me very well, Dad.” The word “animal” must have hit a nerve. Phoebe suddenly dropped, covering her head and screaming in a loud wail. “I’m sorry… please don’t hit me… I won’t run away again.” I knew this was the deep-seated PTSD of the black house, but Dad didn’t. Everyone fell silent, watching Phoebe curl up on the floor, crying helplessly. “Sloane…” Miller’s eyes were red-rimmed, but they didn’t curse me anymore. My nose stung with unshed tears. They had never changed. Always so soft-hearted and good. That’s why I had sent the only one who could escape, Phoebe, to find them. Dad’s hands clenched white-knuckled. He stiffly patted Phoebe’s head, his voice hoarse. “Tell me where Sloane is. I’ll go ask her myself if she’s fit to raise you. If she can’t, I’ll take you to a foster home. I won’t let you be abused again.” Without the expected fists or whips, only a warm hand rested on her. Phoebe slowly relaxed, clinging to the backpack. She furrowed her brow in painful memory. “Sloane is in the black house.” Seeing that Phoebe couldn’t offer any more information, Dad silently pulled out his phone and brought up a contact. He used to have me saved as “My Princess.” Later, when I was demanding, greedy for money, he changed it to “Sloane Wallace.” After we cut ties, I became a cold, anonymous number. His finger hovered over the screen for a long time before he finally pressed the dial button. I knew this was a call that would never be answered. I’d broken the SIM card and thrown it in a dumpster the day I left seven years ago. “Hello?” But the call connected. 2 Dad’s mouth twitched. It was as if a thousand needles were lodged in his throat. He swallowed hard before speaking with effort. “Do you still want your daughter? If not, I’m sending her to the State Home.” “What the hell is this? I’m sending my daughter to school! Who are you?” The voice on the other end was angry and completely unfamiliar. “Are these scam calls getting this sloppy? If you curse my daughter again, I’m calling the police and having you arrested.” The line disconnected. I felt a sudden jolt of realization. Seven years was so long. Even my phone number had been recycled and reassigned. Dad slowly lowered the phone, his lips a thin, tight line. His finger aimlessly traced the screen. “So cold-blooded. She won’t even claim her own child.” Miller sighed and patted Dad’s shoulder. Dad exhaled, then his brow suddenly furrowed. “I want a full trace on Sloane Wallace. Where has she been all these years? Child abuse, abandonment. If this is all true, I won’t let her get away with it.” “What about her?” Miller pointed to Phoebe, who had calmed down and was looking at them expectantly. Dad looked at her for a long time. “I’ll take her to a State Home.” When Dad held out his hand, Phoebe obediently took it and walked behind him. She was so good, so obedient. Her journey had been long and difficult, all because I told her: “Phoebe, don’t cry.” Seven days and six nights. Even when she fell down a rocky slope, her knees bloody and scraped, she didn’t shed a single tear. When she was chased by stray dogs fighting over scraps in the early hours, or kicked into a dark alley by a disgusted passerby, she only wiped her eyes, bit her lip, and continued on her journey. I told her: “Phoebe, you must listen to Mr. Wallace.” Despite being bruised and scarred by men, she didn’t resist or struggle when Dad held out his hand, following him docilely toward an unknown future. I floated silently behind Phoebe, but I wasn’t as strong as she was. Tears streamed from my eyes. A single tear fell onto her cheek. Phoebe seemed to feel something. She looked up slightly. “Mr. Wallace, I think it’s raining.” Dad didn’t say anything. He just spread his hand to cover her head. The two of them drove in silence to the State Home entrance. The Director there looked at the scarred Phoebe with deep sympathy. She murmured constantly. “Such a poor child. Is this another one you rescued?” Dad simply nodded, gently pushing Phoebe toward the Director. “Just for a few days of temporary placement. Once we find her mother… I’ll come back for her.” The Director agreed. Phoebe stood still, clutching the backpack, her eyes wide with terror. She nervously darted her gaze around, as if searching for someone. I watched Dad’s resolute back, shouting in despair. “Dad, don’t leave Phoebe! She walked so far to find you! They’re the last hope! If she’s found, she’ll die! We’ll all die!” But no one could hear my voice. I could do nothing but circle helplessly. A deep feeling of powerlessness enveloped me, making my soul feel heavy. Phoebe suddenly let out a short, sharp scream. She fiercely shielded the backpack and crouched in the corner, muttering repeatedly. “Don’t catch me, don’t catch me, oh God, I won’t go back.” I knew this was Phoebe’s core trauma response, but Dad didn’t. Everyone fell silent, watching Phoebe curl up on the ground, crying frantically. “Sloane…” Miller’s eyes were getting red, but they didn’t utter any more harsh words. I felt a familiar lump in my throat. They had never changed. Always so compassionate and kind. That’s why I had desperately sent the only escapee to them. Dad’s hands were shaking as he knelt down. He stopped Phoebe’s movements and pulled her into his arms, his voice ragged. “Sloane taught you to threaten me like this?” 3 Phoebe’s face was deathly pale with terror, and her tears flowed uncontrollably, like a broken faucet. “Mr. Wallace, please don’t leave me.” Something must have clicked in her mind. Her trembling hands started to unbutton her t-shirt. “Phoebe can take her clothes off and earn money. Just please don’t leave me.” Dad’s body seized up. His face turned ashen as he quickly stopped her. “She actually made you… made you go out and do that for money… How could she turn out this way? She swore she would become a hero, just like me.” But Dad’s weakness lasted only a moment, so fast that the tear in his eye seemed like a trick of the light. He called Miller. “Issue an immediate warrant for Sloane Wallace. Move fast. I’m going to personally bring her in.” He did, however, bring Phoebe home. I looked at the familiar front door and the familiar, yet strangely distant, sight of my mother, Eleanor. My soul trembled with pain. Mom had aged so much. She used to meticulously fix her hair, never letting a strand be out of place. Now, she looked frail, like an old woman. Yet, despite her pale face, she gently wiped a tear from Phoebe’s cheek the moment she saw it. “What’s your name, sweetie? Why are you so hurt? Did someone bad hurt you?” Phoebe numbly rubbed her face against Mom’s hand and whispered. “I know you… You’re Sloane’s Mom.” On many unbearable nights, I would hold the equally distraught Phoebe and softly hum a song to soothe her. Phoebe would quiet down, dependent, and ask me. “Sloane, what is that? It’s so pretty.” I told her it was a lullaby, the song my mother loved to sing to me. Mom was the person who loved me most in the world, the one who would feel guilt if I was hurt and who would try her hardest to give me everything I ever wanted. Phoebe didn’t know what a mother or daughter was. After all, in that black house, we were all just called “livestock.” “When you meet my mom, you’ll understand.” The instant Phoebe pressed against Mom, she suddenly relaxed like a lost cub finding its den. She threw herself into Mom’s embrace, sobbing. “Sloane, I know what a mother is now.” Mom went completely rigid. She looked at Dad in disbelief. Dad lowered his head, his voice strained. “Sloane sent her to me. She’s her daughter.” My usually forgiving mother suddenly shoved Phoebe away. A hint of disgust and an unspeakable pain twisted her eyebrows. “She… How dare she? Is she back to see if I’m dead yet?” Mom’s voice trembled as she spoke wildly to the confused Phoebe. “Do I owe her something? She stole my life-saving money for men!” “For seven years, she never called, not even when your father was stabbed and bleeding out in the street, waiting to die! She abandoned her own child! Sloane Wallace, it took me seven years to see her wicked nature. I should never have given birth to her!” I knelt before Mom, repeatedly whispering, I’m sorry. Phoebe stood there, clutching the backpack and apologizing, too. Our voices overlapped, as if I was voicing through Phoebe the repentance I never got to speak seven years ago. Dad worriedly rubbed Mom’s chest to help her breathe. Yet, despite their hatred and resentment, they didn’t abandon Phoebe on the doorstep. Mom instead took Phoebe to the bathroom to clean her wounds. The moment she removed Phoebe’s shirt, the coldness in Mom’s eyes dissolved into shock and heart-wrenching pity. Her trembling hand touched Phoebe. The small child had almost no unscarred skin; she was covered in lacerations. “Did Sloane do this?” Her voice was laced with towering rage. Phoebe slowly shook her head. “Sloane protected me.” Mom clearly didn’t believe her, but no matter how angry she was, her hands became even gentler. Then she reached for Phoebe’s dirty backpack, and Phoebe suddenly shrieked. “Don’t touch it! Only Mr. Wallace can touch this backpack!” Phoebe struggled violently, splashing Mom with warm water. Mom quickly soothed her, gently coaxing her. “Phoebe, it’s okay. I won’t touch the backpack. You want to give it to Mr. Wallace, right? He’s right outside the door. You can give it to him yourself.” Dad, who had been listening anxiously outside, watched as Phoebe pleaded and handed him the backpack. He finally took it. “Mr. Wallace, if you open this, my sisters can all come out of the black house.” Because it was wet, the first thing that happened when Dad touched the bag was a pool of blood seeping onto his palm. He frowned uneasily, exchanging a worried glance with Mom. The apprehension in their eyes deepened. Dad’s hand trembled as he pulled open the zipper. A piece of decaying human skin fell out. It had a reddish, butterfly-shaped birthmark. I had that exact mark on my chest. Mom gasped, clutching her chest, her breathing shallow. The phone rang at that moment. Dad mechanically answered the call. It was Miller’s grim voice. “We’ve got a lock on Sloane’s last location. It’s the warehouse where the main suspect from the massive missing persons case seven years ago last vanished.”

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Three years into the substitute marriage—the one I took for her—my husband was arrested for murder. With nowhere else to go, I found myself back at that house. The fake daughter, Stella Reed, was there, wrapped tight in Mother’s embrace, whispering for attention. The atmosphere was thick with awkward silence. Nobody quite knew what to do with me, the thorny piece of returned property. It was my brother, Marcus, who finally broke the tension. He simply pointed toward a small room. Seeing my lack of protest, he narrowed his eyes, a flicker of genuine surprise there. “Marriage certainly calmed your fire, Liz.” “I thought you’d tear the place apart, like you used to.” I managed a slight tug at the corner of my mouth, a polite, practiced smile. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to fight. It was just that the will to fight them had died. I had surrendered. 1 No one, I suppose, expected the runaway daughter to be returned, used and discarded. The lively air in the main hall instantly chilled. Mother, Veronica, instinctively tightened her arm around Stella, her eyes on me defensive and cold. Marcus rubbed the bridge of his nose, impatience etched on his face. “You’ve been gone for three years. That guest room was converted into Stella’s music studio ages ago.” He gestured vaguely. “If you insist on staying, there’s that small room available.” He was pointing to the utility space, the cramped spot they used for the retrievers when I first arrived. It was the first power play Marcus had made, seven years ago, the day I was found to be the true Reed heir. I touched the scar beneath my sleeve—an old, jagged souvenir. It hadn’t hurt for years, yet my body still trembled. After learning the truth—that I was the stolen Reed daughter—I’d spent hours online searching for the family. Wealthy, harmonious, and everything my troubled childhood had lacked. My real brother, the society columns promised, was elegant and fiercely protective. He was not the lowlife I’d known who peeked in while I showered and openly discussed marrying me off to an old, lame widower for a dowry. But on the first day, the only welcome was three enormous, pedigree Dobermans that lunged, their jaws wide, tearing at my clothes and flesh. Just as I thought I might die, Marcus, the brother I’d only seen on television, appeared. His voice was utterly devoid of warmth. “In this house, I will only have one sister. Stella.” When I remained silent, he sighed, his impatience returning. “If you don’t want to stay there…” “I’ll take it. Any room.” I rushed the words out, terrified he’d retract the offer and leave me on the curb. The still-healing wounds from the past few days ached faintly as I spoke. Before he could say anything more, I limped toward the small, dark room. His voice followed me. “Look, it’s temporary. We need time to clear out the spare guest suite. Don’t be melodramatic.” I paused, turning back, forcing out a small, placating smile. “No sacrifice needed.” My voice was a mere whisper of gratitude, a truth. But Marcus’s face instantly darkened. “Liz Sutton, are you questioning my arrangement?” “Or are you still bitter about the marriage three years ago? Stella was still in school. We couldn’t very well force her to drop out, could we?” At the mention of the past, my eyes glazed over. Stella had caused a scene at a high-end club, offending someone with serious influence. To settle the issue, the Reeds had proposed a marriage alliance. They just failed to specify which daughter. On my wedding night, I was drugged and delivered to Rhys Albright’s bed. The next morning, the headlines screamed: ‘Adopted Reed Daughter Steals Sister’s Fiancé! The Ungrateful Imposter!’ Dragging my battered body, I’d confronted Marcus, asking why he forced me to take her place, why he had ruined my name. He had no guilt in his eyes. “You lived the life of a Reed for years. It was time to give back.” “Besides, the Albrights are old money and powerful. You married up.” I turned to Mother for help. She mumbled a few platitudes and told me to be a good wife. I thought that even if they didn’t love me, they held some form of affection for me. But how could four years of blood ties compete with eighteen years of shared life with Stella? No sacrifice needed. That was my truth. The utility room, despite its size, was the best, safest space I’d been in for years. The Albright family, forced to take me, the imposter, vented all their fury on me. Rhys, spoiled and entitled, took particular pleasure in my misery. In the beginning, he’d just lock me in the basement, cutting off water and food. Later, the vicious games started on the bed. I remember screaming that I was pregnant, begging him to stop. He only laughed, his hands tightening around my throat. Just hours before his arrest, Rhys had me bound to the bed. When the police finally stormed in, they found me covered in bruises, welts, and lash marks. I retrieved the first-aid box and began treating my wounds with practiced ease. The door burst open. Stella walked in, holding a glass of milk. “How do you have the nerve to come back?” she spat. “Did you hear I’m marrying Owen Kincaid and decide to crash the wedding?” The unexpected mention of Owen’s name sent a fresh, sharp ache through my otherwise numb heart. Owen Kincaid. The boy who was my only sunlight in the old shantytown. We’d sworn we’d attend Crestwood’s best university together. When the Reeds first found me, he was the only person I could confide in. He would defend me, righteously condemning the Reeds’ blindness, even once risking their wrath to warn Stella off. But as he grew closer to Stella, Owen changed. He stopped taking my side. He urged me to ‘be the bigger person,’ to stop ‘competing’ with Stella, the poor adopted girl. He said the Reeds would eventually reward their blood daughter, and that Stella, as an orphan, was at a disadvantage. The irony was crushing: I was the one they publicly labeled the ungrateful foster child, and it was Stella they protected. Even the one person who stood by me had defected. I didn’t understand Owen’s shift, and I was too weary to probe it. The fear of losing my only anchor made me hysterical, leading to screaming arguments. Each fight brought a colder, more distant response from him. When the abuse and torment began, Owen ignored my desperate calls for help. My silence seemed to irritate Stella. She walked toward me and threw the glass of milk. The warm liquid coated my hair and dripped down my face. “I’m warning you, Liz Sutton. I chased you out of the Reed home three years ago.” “I can do it again, now.” Compared to the dark, sustained torment in the Albright house, Stella’s petty act felt insignificant, a mere splash. No humiliation registered. I looked up at her, my eyes flat. “I’m not here to take anything from you.” Before I could finish, Stella didn’t miss a beat, dramatically collapsing to the floor. “Sister!” she cried, tears instantly welling up. “I only came to bring you warm milk because you looked starved!” The rest of the family—who had been in the living room—rushed in. Owen immediately knelt, gently lifting Stella from the floor. Marcus frowned at the white mess on the carpet. “Liz Sutton, I just complimented you on your improved disposition. Are you dropping the act already?” Accusations like this were a staple of my four years in the Reed house. Stella once shattered Mother’s favorite vase. She’d confessed to me, yet she cried and swore I was the culprit. Whenever I argued my innocence, the only reply was the sting of a cane across my palms. Knowing the outcome, I always stubbornly fought back. This time, I was empty. I dropped to my knees, right there on the ruined carpet, facing Stella. “I’m sorry. It was my fault.” Before Stella could speak again, I raised a hand and slapped my own face. Hard. I didn’t stop until my mouth filled with the coppery taste of blood. Stella finally seemed to ‘recover’ from her shock. “Sister, why are you hurting yourself?” she wailed. “Are you trying to make them believe I attacked you? Are you trying to force me out of the house?” She stood up, sobbing loudly. “Fine! I’ll leave the Reeds. I won’t stand in your way anymore!” Marcus instantly chased after her. Owen, however, remained. He pulled a crisp, folded handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to me. “Wipe yourself.” “Since you’re back, stop trying to make Stella leave. She’s marrying me in a few days. She won’t be here much longer anyway.” That faint, familiar cedar scent he always wore was now completely drowned out by the sickly-sweet smell of peach—Stella’s signature perfume. The sudden mix made me nauseous. I reached out to take the handkerchief. Instead, Owen bent down, bypassing my hand, and gently wiped the blood from my lip. I flinched, instinctively curling my body inward, protecting my head. My hair, already sticky with milk, smeared with dirt from the floor, made me look even more pathetic. Owen stared at me, his eyes complicated. “Liz, do you really hate me that much?” “Look, you can’t force feelings. If you need anything, just ask.” I forced out the most genuine, placating smile I could manage. “Could you… give me some money?” Disappointment washed over Owen’s face, harsh and immediate. “After all this time, that’s all you want?” The old me had wanted so much: pure motherly love, a doting brother, and a singular, selfless love from him. The current me only wanted enough money to escape. Owen took out his phone, his voice cold. “Unblock me. I’ll transfer the funds.” I hesitated, embarrassment rising. “Could you just give me cash?” His expression immediately turned to ice. “Are you truly that determined to cut me out of your life?” He didn’t hand the money to me. He pulled a handful of thick, crisp bills from his wallet and threw them in my face. By the time I had gathered the cash from the floor, Owen was gone. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to add him back. It was that three years in the Albright house had severed every possible connection I had to the outside world. If Rhys’s crime hadn’t been so public, so massive, I wouldn’t have even had a chance to flee. After a quick wash, I took the money, intending to buy painkillers. I didn’t expect Rhys Albright, who should have been in a jail cell, to be waiting in the Reed living room.

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It was right after my family went bankrupt. I saw the group chat on my husband’s phone: [She runs a credit check on my location every day, demands I be home by nine—must be home—no alcohol or smoke smell on me, sets a million ridiculous rules. She treats me like a dog on a leash!] [Now that her family’s lost everything, if she tries to control me or boss me around one more time, I’m filing for divorce!] When I didn’t dare to act out, when I stopped controlling him, and stopped giving him orders, my husband actually pinned me down on the bed, looking utterly wronged. “Why aren’t you checking up on me?” “Why aren’t you giving me orders?” “Did you get a different dog?” 1 Damon Hawthorne walked in the door at nine-oh-one. He was about to step inside when I blocked his way, my arms crossed. “Do you know what time it is?” Damon frowned, a familiar flicker of impatience in his eyes, and glanced down at his watch. “Traffic was backed up, Sloane. I’m one minute late. Isn’t that a bit much?” I scoffed. “You dare to be one minute late today, tomorrow you’ll be ten minutes late, and after that, you’ll start sleeping out all night, won’t you?!” He looked speechless, holding back a retort. After a few tense seconds, he sighed and apologized. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Can I please come in now?” My temper flared up fast, but it always settled just as quickly. “Fine. I’ll let it slide this time. But if you’re late again, you can forget about setting foot in this house!” Just then, my dad called. “Sloane, I have some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?” I rolled my eyes. “Dad, are you serious with the dramatics? Fine. I’ll take the good news.” My father paused, the silence stretching uncomfortably. “Let’s stick to the bad news first. We’re ruined. The company is gone.” I froze, the air knocked out of me. “The good news is we managed to stash a little cash. Your mother, your brother, and I are using it to move overseas. You stay put and build a good life with Damon. He won’t let you down.” “We’ll call you once we’re settled abroad.” And with that, he hung up, leaving me in a state of absolute chaos. Damon emerged from the bathroom, carrying my electric foot spa filled with hot, scented water. He set it down in front of me, knelt, and skillfully removed my socks, easing my feet into the warmth. The soothing heat brought me slowly back to earth. Damon looked up at me, his eyes searching mine. “What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I looked back at him, the words tasting like ash. “My family is bankrupt.” Damon seemed unfazed, almost calm. “Your dad’s company has been on the ropes for a while. I put some money in to help him, but the hole was too deep. There was no way to save it.” I couldn’t process it. I stood up, pulled my feet out of the water, and walked straight to the bedroom. 2 I couldn’t sleep. I woke up around 3 AM. Damon was next to me, already asleep, his silk eye mask pulled down over his face. But the screen of his phone on the nightstand flashed. I was wide awake now. I quietly picked up the device. I had forced him to set the password to my birthday, a tiny, petty requirement to make sure he never forgot it. I typed in the numbers and opened the messaging app. The notification was from his group chat with his friends. [Our D-Man finally grew a spine!] I frowned and scrolled up, my heart starting to pound. [I’m so furious!] [I was one minute late coming home today, and she locked me out until I apologized!] [Now that her family’s lost everything, if she tries to control me or boss me around one more time, I’m filing for divorce!] His friends chimed in: [Use this opportunity to fix the Princess’s temper, D-Man. Get your old self back. Prove you’re not whipped.] [Our Hawthorne is a big shot outside, a CEO, and then at home, he’s treated like a servant! She’s running his face in the dirt!] [Once D-Man tames his wife, we can finally get back to those all-nighters, drinking until sunrise.] [Agreed.] [Agreed, plus one.] [….] My hand trembled, but I kept scrolling, tracing back months of conversations. [She’s completely out of line! She actually makes me wash her feet! Treats me like I’m a personal valet!] [When she’s on her period, I’m her punching bag! I just shifted on the sofa next to her and she threw a pillow at me, shouting I was distracting her. I move far away and don’t dare to breathe, and she calls me heartless for not caring. I swear, breathing is a mistake now!] [She doesn’t treat me like a person…] I closed his phone, placing it back on the nightstand, unable to catch my breath. So much resentment. Damon hated me this much. He must despise me and desperately want a divorce. I have nothing now. My parents and brother are gone, and their phones are already unreachable. If he leaves me, what will I do? 3 Damon and I were brought together by a corporate merger—an arranged marriage, pure and simple. Damon had a college sweetheart, a fragile little thing. Their relationship was cut short almost immediately by his mother, who paid the girl a million dollars to disappear overseas. After that, he didn’t date seriously until he took over the company and was pressured into marrying me. He seemed deeply reluctant. I assumed he couldn’t get over the one that got away. I didn’t care. Out of all the suitable heirs in The City, Damon was the best option. He was gorgeous, built like a Greek statue, capable in business, and he was clean—no tacky side-pieces, no scandals. We met once before the wedding, then rushed into the marriage and moved in together. He worked constantly and came home late. Very late. It cut into my beauty sleep. And most of the time, he reeked of alcohol. I hate the smell of alcohol. I never tolerate discomfort. So, I laid down the law: He had to be home by 9 PM. And he couldn’t smell like booze or cigarettes. At first, Damon ignored it. He kept coming home late, smelling like a distillery. Furious, I changed the locks on the front door. He knocked for what felt like an hour before I finally opened it, cold as ice. “Try being late again, or let me smell booze on you, and you won’t get back in.” He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. After that, though, he was home every night before nine, clean as a whistle. I began to use him more and more. If I wanted seafood, I only ate the shrimp and crab he’d painstakingly peeled for me. I demanded the foot spa ritual, and he had to bring it to me. The water temperature had to be exactly right; too hot or too cold, and he had to dump it and start over until I approved. When I was in a bad mood during my period, he was the only acceptable target for my fury. My mother had treated my father the exact same way, so I never saw anything wrong with it. But things were different now. Drastically different. I had to change immediately. I couldn’t give Damon any more reasons to despise me. 4 I planned to get up early and make Damon breakfast. But I couldn’t drag myself out of bed. Instead, I woke him up with my groaning. Out of habit, I stretched my foot out. He automatically reached for my sock to put it on. Halfway through, I snapped to attention. Wrong! I couldn’t order him around anymore! I sat bolt upright. I snatched the sock from his hand, forcing a sickly sweet, high-pitched voice. “Honey, I can do it myself.” I’d never called Damon “Honey.” The word left my mouth and made me wince. I wasn’t the only one uncomfortable. A flash of pure bewilderment crossed Damon’s eyes. He stared for a few seconds, then simply got out of bed and left the room. When I finished my bathroom routine and walked into the kitchen, a perfect, gourmet breakfast was waiting on the island. He set a glass of freshly squeezed juice in front of me, then dressed quickly, preparing to leave for the office. Before walking out, he walked toward me, a sour look on his face, intending to kiss me. It was another one of my rules: He had to kiss me before leaving. He always obeyed, but he always looked like he’d just been asked to kiss a toad. Now, I couldn’t force him. I pushed him gently away. “You don’t have to force yourself to kiss me, Honey. Go on, you’re going to be late for work.” He stared at me, his expression clearly saying, Let me guess. What’s the catch this time? I urged him to leave again, and only then did he turn. But just as he reached the front door, he spun around and strode back to me. He reached out, cupped my jaw, and kissed me fiercely, aggressively, until I was breathless. He pulled back, wiping his mouth, a look of utter annoyance on his face. “Can you stop playing these little games?” “Playing coy doesn’t suit you.” ??? I was completely lost. Playing coy? What game was I playing? 5 That evening, Damon called me. “I’m meeting some friends tonight. I’ll be back before nine, though.” I rushed to reassure him. “No, no, you don’t have to! You play for as long as you want. It’s totally fine if you don’t come home!” There was a long silence on the other end, and then he hung up. I was being so understanding. Surely, he didn’t hate me now. I didn’t ask the housekeeper to prepare dinner. Instead, I ordered a huge takeout feast—fried chicken and soda. I usually allowed myself one cheat meal a month to keep my figure. I was settled on the sofa, watching a trashy reality show. I heard footsteps outside the door. I thought it was the delivery guy, so I ran to open the door, barefoot. Damon looked at my bare feet, frowned, picked me up, and placed me back on the sofa. He gave me a look of disdain. “Do you really have to be this excited to see me?” I… I glanced at the time. It was only 8 PM. I was confused. “Why are you home so early?” “I thought you were meeting your friends?” He snorted. “Don’t pretend I couldn’t hear the passive-aggression in your voice on the phone.” “What you meant was, ‘I don’t want you to go.’” I was not being passive-aggressive! He didn’t wait for my explanation. He took off his suit jacket, walked to the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves, and started cooking. As I sat on the sofa, Damon’s phone flashed again. The kitchen was out of sight of the living room. I quietly picked up the phone. The message was, predictably, from his friend group. Damon: [She’s pissed. We’ll have to cancel tonight.] His friends: [She’s still acting like that, even after her family went bankrupt?!] [D-Man, what happened? Can you please show some backbone?] Damon: [This is the last time I indulge her, for old times’ sake. Next time she pulls this, I’m getting a divorce!] His friends: [……] [You better mean it.] I nearly blacked out. Wait, what? I was the one who was pissed? 6 Damon’s birthday party was held at his sprawling estate outside the city. Almost every important figure in The City was there. Halfway through the party, a security guard came in and approached me. “Mrs. Hawthorne, there’s a young woman outside who claims to know Mr. Hawthorne, but she doesn’t have an invitation. Should we let her in?” I thought for a moment, then followed the guard out. I recognized the girl immediately: Lily Stone, Damon’s college sweetheart. Lily saw me and looked up, all wide-eyed fragility. “I just wanted to see him for a minute.” In the past, I would have dismissed her without a second thought. I had my family’s empire backing me, giving me the confidence to stand my ground. But now, that was gone. Damon didn’t love me, and he could divorce me at any moment. I didn’t dare let her in. What if Damon still carried a torch for her? What if they rekindled their old flame? The guard looked at me for instruction. I shook my head, then turned and walked back into the party. After a few glasses of champagne, my head felt foggy, so I went upstairs to the private lounge for a rest. When I came back down, I saw Lily had somehow gotten inside. She was standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, chatting with Damon. 7 They stood by the window, him handsome, her delicate—a perfect, picture-book couple. Lily must have said something funny because a soft, almost tender smile touched Damon’s lips. It was a look I had never seen him direct at me. An invisible hand gripped my heart, squeezing until I couldn’t breathe. I took a deep, steadying breath. Calm down, Sloane. You’re not the spoiled Miss Harrington who can throw tantrums anymore. You have to be sweet, generous, and play the part of the perfect wife. I picked up a glass of red wine and walked toward them, my heels clicking deliberately on the marble floor. “Honey,” I said, my voice sweet to the point of nausea, as I naturally looped my arm through Damon’s. “Is this a friend of yours? Why haven’t you introduced me?” Damon’s body went rigid. The smile vanished instantly, replaced by an expression of shock—like he’d just seen a ghost. He probably didn’t expect this reaction. Lily Stone’s face also shifted, but she quickly reverted to her damsel-in-distress persona. “Mrs. Hawthorne, please don’t misunderstand. I… I just haven’t seen Damon in a long time. I wanted to catch up.” “Catch up?” I smiled brighter. “Perfect! I’ll have someone find you a place to sit so we can chat. But, Honey, you’re the star of the show tonight. You can’t spend the whole night with just one guest; you’ll neglect everyone else.” As I spoke, I used undeniable force to pull Damon away from her. The message of proprietorship couldn’t have been clearer. Damon looked down at me, his eyes as complex as an algebraic equation. There was surprise, curiosity, and a strange hint of… excitement? It must be the alcohol. A delusion. I steered him toward a cluster of business partners and then headed to the buffet area. I had just picked up a plate when I saw Lily walking toward me, a look of contrite apology on her face. “Mrs. Hawthorne, I’m so sorry about earlier. I didn’t know you didn’t like that… I just missed him.” I picked up a petite tiramisu, speaking airily. “It’s fine. Friends catching up is perfectly normal.” “Good,” she sighed with relief. “Actually, Damon and I, in college…” Ah, the classic opening. I saw it coming a mile away. I cut her off. “Miss Stone, this petit four is amazing. You should try it.” She blinked, clearly thrown off by my refusal to engage. “Mrs. Haw—I mean, Sloane, I…” “Oh, dear!” My hand suddenly “slipped.” The entire glass of red wine flew out of my grasp and landed squarely on her pristine, white cocktail dress. The crimson liquid bloomed rapidly on the white fabric, looking like a grotesque, beautiful wound. “I am so sorry, Miss Stone,” I gasped, wide-eyed and innocent. “I must have had one too many. My hand just gave out.” Lily’s face turned green, but with so many prominent guests around, she had to grit her teeth and say, “It’s… it’s fine.” “How can it be fine? Such a gorgeous dress, and I ruined it.” I pulled out a napkin, attempting to “help,” only succeeding in smearing the wine deeper into the fabric. Damon heard the commotion and strode over. He saw Lily’s ruined dress and his brow furrowed fiercely. Lily’s eyes welled up instantly. She looked at him, the silent message clear: See? She’s bullying me. My heart tightened. Was he going to defend her? If he dared to humiliate me in front of all these people, I would… I would cry until he regretted it! Instead, Damon simply grabbed my wrist, pulled me aside, and lowered his voice. It was a strange mix of anger and amusement. “Did you do that on purpose?” “Honey, what are you talking about?” I immediately switched to my most fragile, wounded voice, leaning against him. “My head is spinning. I think I really did drink too much…” He looked down at me, his expression a complicated mix of exasperation and a flicker of… endearment? I was definitely too drunk. He sighed, completely ignoring the petrified Lily Stone, and half-carried, half-guided me upstairs. “Are you done with your little scene? I’m taking you to rest.” As we passed his cluster of friends, I clearly heard their sharp intakes of breath. [Holy crap, D-Man just got tamed by his wife? The ex is right there!] [This isn’t fixing her temper; this is throwing his own face on the floor for her to stomp on!] He took me into the lounge and dropped me onto the plush king-sized bed. “Sloane Harrington, what is your endgame here?” He stood over me, his expression thunderous. I decided to double down on my “sweet and weary wife” act. “My endgame? Nothing. I’m tired. I want to sleep.” I rolled over, presenting my back to him, letting my hair convey my innocence. The room was silent for a long time. I could feel his eyes on my back, tracing me like a searchlight. The old me would have leaped up, yelling at him for taking the other woman’s side. But my silence was a new, unexpected weapon. Slam! The door was forcefully shut. He was gone. Good. He was angry. But somehow, not that angry. I slowly climbed off the bed and tiptoed to the door, pressing my ear against the wood. Silence. I pulled out my phone. I hesitated, then unlocked the one in my hand. I had “accidentally” slipped Damon’s phone from his suit pocket when he was carrying me upstairs. I truly was a genius. The group chat was, predictably, on fire. Brother A: [D-Man, what the hell? The ex shows up, and your wife doesn’t make a scene? She just… let it go?] Brother B: [Let it go? Did you not see the red wine “mishap,” bro? That was surgical. High-level play!] Damon: [She’s changed.] Three words. I could practically see him scowling as he typed them. Brother C: [Changed for the better? Maybe she realized she needs to dial it back.] Damon: [Better my ass! She threw wine on Lily, but she won’t admit it, and she won’t fight me. She never used to do that.] Damon: [When she used to get mad, at least I knew she cared. Now, she’s quiet and compliant, and I have no idea what’s going on.] Damon: [She doesn’t love me, does she? She only married me for the merger, and now that my family is bankrupt, she’s planning to leave me. She’s being nice now so we can have a clean break!] I squinted at the screen. “???” My brain froze for three seconds. What kind of absurd, twisted logic was this man operating on? I was scrambling to save our marriage, and he thought I was preparing for divorce? What in the actual hell was going on?!

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