Patrick pointed to the divorce papers resting on the coffee table. “Child support,” he said, tapping the screen with a dismissive fingernail. “I put down five hundred.” I stared at the line of text, the number blurring. “Five hundred? Pat, are you serious?” “It’s enough,” he clipped, sliding his gaze away. “The kid isn’t solely my responsibility, Eliza.” I laughed. A sharp, raw sound that caught in my throat and brought unexpected tears to my eyes. Seven years of marriage. A six-year-old son, Leo. And he declared five hundred dollars was “enough.” “Sign it if you agree, or don’t. It’s up to you.” He stood, snatching his phone off the arm of the sofa. The phone immediately buzzed. A text message notification popped up on the screen. The contact name read: Babe. 1 I didn’t sign the agreement. I told him I needed time to “consider.” Patrick huffed, utterly impatient. “What is there to consider?” “You pull in twelve thousand a month, Pat. Giving your son five hundred dollars for support—does that sound reasonable to you?” “I have to live, too,” he retorted. “Leo has to live, too.” “He’s with you. You take care of his living expenses.” I drew a long, shaky breath, fighting the urge to shatter the cheap glass table between us. “Legally, child support is calculated at twenty to thirty percent of the non-custodial parent’s income. That means you should be paying between twenty-four hundred and thirty-six hundred dollars.” “That’s the law’s suggestion, Eliza. It’s not my obligation.” “The law defines your obligation.” He fell silent, his jaw tight. After a moment, his voice dropped to a low, cold register. “Eliza, don’t push me.” “I’m not pushing you. I’m just demanding what my son is entitled to.” “You want to drag this to court?” “If you refuse to be reasonable, then court is where we’re going.” He glared at me, his eyes colder than I’d ever seen them. “Fine. You’ll regret this.” He slammed the front door on his way out. I sank back onto the sofa, staring at the printout. Child support: $500 per month. Leo is six, in the first grade. Tuition for his magnet school is a couple hundred a month, the after-school program is another five hundred, and his weekend tutoring is at least seven hundred. Plus clothes, doctor visits, and just, life. I spend at least two thousand a month on him. He was offering five hundred. I make about forty-five hundred a month. After rent of fifteen hundred, my own basic bills, and Leo’s two thousand… there’s practically nothing left. Patrick makes twelve thousand. After deductions… Wait. Where was his money going? I grabbed my laptop and logged into our joint savings account. Patrick’s direct deposit account. Balance: $1,800. I felt a chill wash over me. He brings home twelve thousand a month. How could he only have eighteen hundred left? I clicked on the transaction history. The most recent transfer: November 28th, $4,000 to “Savannah T.” Memo: Living Expenses. I scrolled up. October 28th: $4,000 to “Savannah T.” September 28th: $4,000 to “Savannah T.” August 28th: $4,000 to “Savannah T.” The 28th of every month. $4,000 on the dot. It had been going on for a full twelve months. My hand clenched around the phone. He gives Savannah four thousand dollars a month for “living expenses.” He would only give his own son five hundred. My phone chimed. It was Patrick. Patrick: If you don’t agree to $500, then it’s $300. I won’t give you another penny. Figure it out. I opened the Venmo app on my phone. 2 The Venmo history was far more detailed than the bank account. I saw the rest of the picture. In addition to the monthly $4,000 wire transfer: November 15th: Tiffany & Co. bracelet, $1,200. November 20th: The Gilded Spoon Bistro, Couple’s Tasting Menu, $180. November 22nd: The Fairmont Hotel, one night stay, $450. October 10th: Prestige Motors, Down payment on a vehicle, $15,000. I clicked on the $15,000 payment detail. It was the down payment for a BMW 330i—a sleek, nearly new model. The total cost was $45,000, with a loan for the remaining $30,000. Owner of the car: Savannah T. I sat there, perfectly still. My body felt heavy, hollowed out. Leo ran out of his room, his hair mussed. “Mom, I’m hungry.” I pulled him onto my lap, hugging him tight. “What do you want?” “Can we get a pizza?” “Absolutely.” I opened the delivery app and ordered a basic medium pepperoni pizza. $28. Then I looked at Patrick’s Venmo history again. November 25th: High-end Steakhouse, Surf-and-Turf Dinner for Two, $350. That very day, I had cooked Leo a cheap box of mac and cheese. It was the end of the month, my paycheck hadn’t cleared, and I only had fifty dollars left in my checking account. I called Patrick. It rang for a long time before he answered. “What do you want?” “Leo’s tutoring fee is due next week. Seven hundred dollars.” “I’m broke.” “What about your paycheck?” “Spent it.” “On what?” He paused for a few seconds. “My money is mine to spend however I choose, Eliza. You don’t get to audit me.” “You still have to cover the kid’s expenses, Pat.” “Didn’t I give you a deposit for living expenses?” “You give me two thousand a month! What am I supposed to do with that?” “Figure it out yourself.” He hung up. I stared at the phone, a strange, hysterical urge to laugh welling up. I wanted to laugh until I wept. Seven years of marriage. Year one: I was pregnant, violently ill. He said he was too busy with work to care for me. Year two: C-section delivery. He stayed at the hospital for two hours, said there was an emergency meeting, and left. Year three: I quit my job to stay home with the baby. He said since I wasn’t working, I was responsible for everything at home. Year four: I wanted to go back to work. He said Leo was too little to be left with strangers. Year five: I found a part-time job, making $3,000 a month. He said it was pitifully small, I should just stay home. Year six: I insisted on working, pushing my salary up to $4,500. He said I still made less than him, so he was the one supporting the family. Year seven: He wanted a divorce. He had been cheating. And he offered $500 for his son. I sent him a text: I’d like to meet Savannah. Can we arrange that? He replied instantly: What are you trying to pull, Eliza? Nothing. Just want to talk. A conversation. Don’t you dare cause trouble. I won’t. He texted me an address. The Riverwalk Residences, Tower 3, Unit 1502. I looked up the complex. Upscale condos. Average price per square foot was astronomical. A hundred-square-meter unit would cost over half a million dollars. Three years ago, Patrick had said we should buy a house. I offered the $20,000 my parents had gifted me for a down payment. He said the money wasn’t enough; we had to wait. We never bought a house. Now I knew why. The money wasn’t the problem. The buyer was the problem. And this was just the beginning. 3 I didn’t go find Savannah. I went to see a lawyer. Ms. Ellis, a sharp, composed woman, reviewed the materials I’d compiled. “The evidence is very strong, Eliza.” “His transfer records to the third party, the car purchase records, the hotel stays—all valid evidence.” “Under marital law, you can demand the return of any community property funds he gifted to a third party during the marriage.” “Twelve months, four thousand a month. That’s forty-eight thousand dollars.” “The fifteen-thousand-dollar down payment on the car also counts as marital property. You can demand that back, too.” “That’s sixty-three thousand dollars total.” “In addition, since he is the party at fault for the dissolution of the marriage, you can demand a larger share of the remaining assets, as well as compensation for emotional distress.” I asked, “And the child support?” “His income is twelve thousand a month. The statutory baseline is twenty to thirty percent, twenty-four hundred to thirty-six hundred. Given Leo’s needs, I recommend we demand thirty-five hundred.” “If he disagrees, we file suit, and the court will set the amount.” I nodded. Ms. Ellis adjusted her glasses. “There’s one other issue.” “What is it?” “Do you have any community assets? A house, a car, joint savings?” “No house. The car he drives was purchased before we were married, and it’s titled only in his name.” “Savings?” “I have about eight thousand in my personal account, from my salary over the last few years. His account…” I showed her the bank statement on my phone. Patrick’s balance: $1,800. Ms. Ellis frowned. “He’s been working for years, making twelve thousand a month. There’s no way he only has eighteen hundred dollars left.” “Where’s the money?” “I have no idea.” “We need to investigate,” she said. “If he’s been liquidating or transferring community property to hide it, the court can penalize him severely.” I left the law firm and drove straight to Patrick’s office building. One of his colleagues, Mike, looked surprised to see me. “Liz? Hey, what are you doing here?” “Looking for Patrick.” “He’s on leave. Said he was taking an impromptu trip.” “A trip where?” “Didn’t say.” I opened my phone and pulled up Patrick’s social media. He had posted a photo yesterday. It was a sunset on a beach, with the back of a woman’s head in the foreground. The caption: Much-needed R&R. I zoomed in on the picture. I could clearly see the bracelet on the woman’s wrist: a David Yurman Cable Bracelet. Retail: $2,500. I had seen that bracelet before. Last month, Patrick had asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I’d suggested a simple, affordable bracelet—maybe a hundred dollars. He’d scoffed. “A hundred dollars? That’s too cheap, Eliza. I’ll get you something nice.” Then he never mentioned it again. Now I knew. He bought it. For Savannah. $2,500. I went home, booted up my old desktop, and logged into Patrick’s email. The password was our wedding anniversary. He hadn’t bothered to change it. There was an unread email from his bank. Dear Patrick J. [Zhou], a transfer of $100,000 from your account ending in 8888 was initiated on October 15th, 2024. Your current balance is $500. I froze. One hundred thousand dollars. Where did he move it? I scrolled further and found the electronic statement. October 15th. Transfer of $100,000. Recipient: Diane J. Diane J. was Patrick’s mother. He had moved the money to his mom. I sat there, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. He had been planning this for months. Liquidate assets, transfer the cash, file for divorce, hide the money, and try to get away with paying me and Leo five hundred dollars a month. My phone rang. It was Patrick. “Eliza, what were you doing at Ms. Ellis’s office?” “You’re spying on me?” “A college buddy works in that building. He saw you.” “I was consulting an attorney about the divorce.” “Consulting what? Just sign the damn papers!” “I won’t sign them.” “Then what do you want?” “I’ll see you in court.” He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “Go ahead. Sue me. I don’t have any money.” “You have one hundred thousand dollars.” Silence on the other end. After a long time, he spoke. “You went through my email?” “It’s community property, Pat. I have a right to know where our money went.” “That money is my mother’s! It’s not marital property!” “Is that so? We’ll let a judge decide.” I hung up. Leo ran over. “Mom, where’s Dad?” “Dad’s on a work trip, sweetie.” “When is he coming back?” “I don’t know.” Leo looked up at me, his small face serious. “Mom, are you and Dad getting a divorce?” I knelt and pulled him into a desperate hug. “I’m sorry, baby.” “I don’t want you to,” he whimpered. I started to cry, too. But I knew I couldn’t back down. I called Ms. Ellis. 4 Ms. Ellis helped me compile all the evidence. The transaction records, the texts, the hotel bills, the car receipt, the property transfer. It was 127 pages of undeniable fact. She said, “It’s more than enough. We can file.” “How long will this take?” I asked. “If he’s uncooperative, maybe three to six months.” “What about Leo’s support in the meantime?” “We’ll file a motion for temporary orders. The court can mandate he pay interim child support.” “How much?” “Based on the statutory guidelines, likely five to seven thousand dollars a month.” I nodded. Patrick hadn’t contacted me in days. His social media, however, continued to update. Beach, restaurant, hotel, theme park. In the photos, Savannah was beaming. I screenshotted them all. Then I drove to the Riverwalk Residences. Unit 1502. The door was closed. I rang the bell. No answer. I asked the security guard: “Who lives in 1502?” “A couple. The man is in his thirties, the woman is in her twenties.” “When did they move in?” “Two years ago.” Two years ago. Leo was four. Patrick had been “working late” and “traveling for business.” He’d told me I had it easy, staying home with the baby, compared to his corporate grind. Now I knew the truth. He wasn’t grinding. He was here. With Savannah. I waited outside the complex until 8:00 p.m. Patrick’s car—the one he bought before we were married—pulled into the parking garage. Savannah was in the passenger seat. They got out, holding hands, and walked toward the tower lobby. I followed them. I slipped into the elevator just before the doors closed. Patrick’s face went white when he saw me. “Eliza…” “Patrick,” I said, my voice steady. “We need to talk.” Savannah looked from me to him. “Who is this?” “I’m his wife,” I stated clearly. “More accurately, his not-yet-divorced wife.” The elevator opened on the 15th floor. I followed them into 1502. The condo was beautifully decorated. Minimalist, high-end furniture, a massive flat-screen TV in the living room. Everything we were supposed to have. I looked around. “You bought this place, Pat?” Patrick remained silent. “Purchased two years ago. Total price, four hundred thousand. Down payment of one hundred twenty thousand. Loan for two hundred eighty thousand.” “The down payment money? That was our community property.” “The mortgage payments for the last two years—eighteen thousand a year, thirty-six thousand dollars total—also community property.” “One hundred fifty-six thousand dollars, total. I want it back.” Patrick’s face was dark with fury. “Are you crazy? I bought this house! Why would I give you any of it?” “Marital law, Pat. Any property acquired during the marriage with community funds is community property. You gifting this to a third party is the malicious transfer of assets, and I have the right to demand its return.” Savannah shrieked. “That’s a lie! Patrick gave this apartment to me!” I turned to her. “Did you know he had a wife and a six-year-old son?” She looked down, silent. I continued, my voice low and cutting. “Did you know he only offered his son five hundred dollars a month for support?” “But he gave you four thousand a month.” “He bought you a forty-five-thousand-dollar BMW.” “He bought you this half-million-dollar condo.” “Don’t you feel any shame?” Savannah was trembling. Patrick suddenly roared, “Eliza! Enough! You came here to threaten us, didn’t you?” “I’m telling you, it won’t work!” “I bought the place, it’s in my name, and you can’t touch it!” “The money? I don’t have it! Sue me! I won’t give you a single cent!” I looked at him, and a genuine smile touched my lips. “Patrick, you know what my biggest regret is?” “That I was blind enough to marry a man like you.” “Don’t worry. I’m going to make sure you pay for everything.” I turned and walked out. Just before the door clicked shut, I heard Savannah’s muffled sobs and Patrick’s rushed comfort: “Don’t cry, Babe. She’s just trying to scare you.” Three days later, I gave him his surprise. 5 I filed the divorce petition with the court. My demands: Dissolution of marriage. Custody of Leo, with Patrick to pay $3,500 monthly child support. Return of marital assets gifted to a third party, totaling $221,000 (includes apartment down payment, two years of mortgage payments, monthly transfers, and the car down payment). Return of the fraudulently transferred $100,000. $50,000 in damages for emotional distress. The court accepted the case. A week later, Patrick received the summons. He called me, screaming obscenities. “Eliza! You’re completely out of line!” “The apartment, the cash, fifty thousand in damages? Are you trying to steal from me?” I smiled into the phone. “Yes, Pat. I am.” “Don’t push your luck!” “Patrick, I’m asking you: what did I give up for this family over the last seven years?” “When I was pregnant, I went to every doctor’s appointment alone. I was sick, I had to be put on an IV, and I cried in the clinic hallway alone.” “When Leo was born via C-section, you left the hospital after two hours, saying work was more important.” “When I was recovering, your mother stayed for three days and left, saying the city wasn’t comfortable for her.” “And you? You came home after ten p.m. every night, saying you had clients.” “I took care of the kid, the laundry, the cooking, the cleaning—all by myself.” “When Leo spiked a fever at midnight, I held him in line at the emergency room for three hours.” “Where were you? You were with Savannah, watching a movie.” “For seven years, my paycheck—forty-five hundred a month—went entirely toward our family.” “Your paycheck—twelve thousand a month—went entirely toward your mistress.” “Now you want a divorce, and you offer your son five hundred dollars in support.” “Tell me, Patrick. Who is out of line here?” Silence again. After a very long pause, he said, “I admit, I haven’t been a good husband.” “But $221,000—I don’t have that kind of money.” “The apartment is Savannah’s home. I can’t leave her homeless.” “The $100,000 is with my mother; I can’t get it back.” “The best I can do is thirty thousand dollars and three thousand a month for Leo. That’s my absolute final offer.” I laughed again. “Patrick, you know what is the most disgusting thing about you?” “That even now, in this moment, you are prioritizing Savannah.” “You say you can’t leave her homeless.” “Did you once consider leaving your son with enough money to live on?” “When you were sending her four thousand a month, did you know I had fifty dollars left in my bank account?” “When you bought her the twenty-five-hundred-dollar bracelet, did you know I couldn’t afford a hundred-dollar pair of sneakers for myself?” “When you were on vacation with her, did you know I was home alone with a sick child?” “You say you can’t get the hundred thousand back from your mother? That money was mine! Why does your mother get to keep it?” “You say three thousand is your bottom line for child support? The law’s bottom line is twenty-four hundred to thirty-six hundred! What do you think your ‘bottom line’ is worth?” “Patrick, I’ll see you in court.” I hung up. Leo looked at me from the doorway. “Mom, is Dad leaving us?” I knelt and held him tight. “No, sweetheart.” “Daddy still loves you.” It was the biggest lie I’d ever told. But I refused to let my son carry the burden of feeling unloved by his father. No six-year-old deserves that. I started organizing the final documents for the hearing. My phone rang. Ms. Ellis. “Eliza, the opposing counsel contacted me. They want to settle out of court.” “What are the terms?” “They won’t agree to the apartment or the one hundred thousand, but they’re offering thirty thousand cash as compensation, and three thousand a month for child support.” “No.” “He says if you refuse, he’ll drag this out. He claims he has no liquid assets, so even if the court rules against him, there’s nothing to seize.” “Then we drag it out,” I said firmly. “I have time.” Ms. Ellis was silent for a moment. “Eliza, I want you to consider this seriously.” “Litigation is a marathon. It could take six months, maybe a year.” “During that time, you’ll be a single mom, working full-time, under immense stress.” “And even if we win, enforcement is the problem. He’s already moved the assets. The court orders him to pay, he claims he’s broke, and we’re stuck.” “Thirty thousand isn’t a lot, but it’s guaranteed cash. Three thousand is low, but it’s better than five hundred.” “Think about it.” “Ms. Ellis, I don’t want the thirty thousand.” “I want what he legally owes us.” “I need him to understand that there is a severe price for what he did.” “I will not settle.” “Understood. I respect your decision.” I put the phone down and opened my laptop, pulling up more evidence. Patrick’s social media from the last two years: Photos with Savannah—restaurants, movies, theme parks, vacations. Every single photo was screenshotted and dated. Then, I logged into his payment app history. Beyond the monthly $4,000: Weekly dinner dates: averaging $100. Monthly hotel stays: averaging $450. Yearly vacations: averaging $4,000. A conservative estimate: he spent at least $100,000 on Savannah in two years. For me and Leo? Two thousand a month for all of our expenses. I organized the data into a spreadsheet and emailed it to Ms. Ellis. Her reply: Evidence solid. We will win. I put the phone down. Looking out the window, I suddenly remembered our wedding day, seven years ago. He had promised: “Eliza, I will take care of you forever.” I had believed him. Now, I knew better. The day before the hearing, Patrick called me again. “Eliza, let’s meet. Let’s talk this through reasonably.” “There’s nothing left to talk about.” “You have to give me a way out, Eliza!” “Did you ever give me or Leo a way out?” “I know I messed up, but why do you have to ruin me completely?” “I’m not ruining you. You did this to yourself.” “Then what do you want? I can’t give you two hundred twenty-one thousand dollars! I have mortgages, I have to support the….” “Support the what?” I interrupted. “Support Leo? What have you supported?” “I…” “You offered him five hundred dollars a month. That doesn’t even cover a pair of quality sneakers and a winter coat.” “Do you spend time with him? When was the last time you saw him? Six months ago?” “Do you care about him? Did you know he was in the hospital with a fever last week?” “I…” He had no words. I finished for him. “Patrick, I’ll see you in court.” “Wait,” he pleaded. “Let me send you something.” A text notification popped up.

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My reunion with Lincoln Shaw after twelve years came in the most professional of settings: across a mahogany desk, with me acting as the divorce attorney he was trying to hire. “Sloane, I know you despise her, which is exactly why you should help me without hesitation. Once she’s out of the picture, we can finally be together, the way we were meant to be.” I offered a dry, almost imperceptible laugh. “I’m sorry, Mr. Shaw, but I don’t take cases I’m emotionally conflicted on. And I definitely don’t take your case.” He choked on the refusal. For a long moment, he just stared. Then, a sudden softness crept into his voice, the kind of manipulative nostalgia that used to reel me in. “Sloane, you’ve changed. You used to be the one who couldn’t stand the thought of me being unhappy or hurt.” “Twelve years of erosion can break any kind of love, Lincoln. We’re well past the age for empty romantic gestures.” “You’re truly heartless, aren’t you, Sloane?” Heartless? There was nothing left between us to protect, let alone save. 1 I certainly hadn’t expected to see him again like this. The man across from me, though now in his early forties, still maintained that air of polished, refined charm. But I knew, intimately, what kind of cold, self-serving core lay beneath that perfectly tailored exterior. He showed no surprise at seeing me, which told me everything: he came here looking for me. He wore that expertly crafted mask—half-warm, half-shrewd—as he talked conditions, just as he had when we divorced. His words were soft, yet sharp, like a snake’s tongue—a venomous caress. Every syllable was a carefully hidden strike. “Sloane, I’m getting a divorce, and I want… I want you to handle the case.” He spoke slowly, meticulously tracking my reaction. He was clearly disappointed. He pressed on, a nervous edge to his voice. “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m leaving Talia?” “Mr. Shaw, if you’re here to hire counsel, please state your legal requirements. I am not interested in your romantic backstory. My time is extremely valuable, and I have a heavy caseload to manage.” My cool dismissal seemed to actually satisfy him. A flicker of excitement crossed his face. “I knew you still cared.” I rolled my eyes, a gesture he chose to ignore. He was always skilled at ignoring things, particularly people—just as he’d ignored me during the end of our marriage. He continued his self-pitying confession. “It wasn’t until you left that I realized her sweet, charming act was just a façade. Everything she did was to get me to discard you so she could waltz in and claim everything.” “Sloane, you have to help me. You know I was manipulated, misled into divorcing you.” His attempt at a soulful, sincere look made an irrational surge of anger flare up inside me. “Mr. Shaw, please confine your comments to the details relevant to the dissolution of your marriage. I only require your precise demands.” “I want Talia to leave with nothing.” He spat out the terms, then fixed his gaze on me. “You can make it happen. They say you’re the best divorce attorney at this firm.” “You’re mistaken, Mr. Shaw. There are cases I cannot win. Don’t you recall? When I divorced you, I was left with practically nothing, too.” My smile was pure, bitter irony. His face momentarily seized up, a shadow of that old memory passing over him. Lincoln Shaw. After years of playing the benevolent husband, he probably genuinely believed he was a good man. 2 Lincoln was a natural-born entrepreneur, a genius, really. His talent began to show when he was barely out of his teens. I met him at a college track meet. Back then, he was a little solitary, yes, but he hadn’t yet become this crass, calculating man. The story is a cliché: I’d stained my white track shorts, and he was the one who leaned in and mumbled, “Hey, um… your shorts are stained.” He blushed crimson before I did. Mortified and scrambling for a way to hide the disaster, I was saved when he awkwardly pressed a grey hoodie into my hands. “Take this. No one will notice on your walk back.” That hoodie rescued me from an embarrassing moment, but it also plunged me into a whole new storm. Lincoln was the undisputed star of the Business School—the campus golden boy. He was devastatingly handsome, but so consumed by his investment studies that he was utterly uninterested in dating. He was a long-standing campus legend of singlehood. Until he handed me that hoodie. Suddenly, the campus forum exploded. Who is that girl? Looks like she’s in the Law department. So, our God-tier Lincoln likes the delicate, petite type. She’s pretty plain, honestly. Guess the Big Shot’s taste is… different. The private messages started flooding in—some trying to forge a connection, most of them nasty, passive-aggressive jabs. The comments dug into me. I was notorious for being a bookworm, completely inept at relationships. For years, dating hadn’t even registered on my radar. My unhappy childhood had solidified a single, consuming goal: I had to become a lawyer. I refused to end up like my mother, beaten senseless by my father year after year, eventually just existing—crawling—to survive. I’d pleaded with her to divorce him, but she was too terrified. “Sloane, your dad promised he’d kill us both if I ever tried to leave.” She shook when she spoke, fear having calcified her spirit. Once, I called the police on my own, which almost cost my mother her life. After that, he cut me off from school funding. I started collecting scrap paper, taking any summer job I could find, penny-pinching my way through tuition, all to break free from the suffocating mud of that life. I believed I was utterly rational. Love had no place in my life. I didn’t trust it. Then, Lincoln showed up. Under the thread that cruelly exposed my family’s financial struggles, he posted one single reply: A person’s background isn’t a choice, and yet you use it as gossip fodder. You are the ones who should be ashamed. His comment ignited a firestorm. A new topic erupted: The Great Lincoln had engaged in a campus forum debate. His influence was immense. The people who’d been criticizing and mocking me actually started sending apologies. I didn’t reply to any of them. My time was too scarce. I was in a race against the clock to excel in my studies. A few days later, a text popped up: Can we talk? This is Lincoln Shaw. Lincoln again. A headache started throbbing. Since I’d gotten tangled up with him, my world felt unnecessarily complicated. Finally, I accepted the connection. Some things, I decided, had to be cleared up. When we met, he held a bouquet of red roses, offering a sheepish smile. “I didn’t know if you liked flowers. I hope it wasn’t presumptuous. But this is my way of showing I’m sincere.” The crimson roses were vibrant, and they sent a strange little ripple through my carefully guarded heart. That day, we didn’t discuss much beyond his apology for the unsolicited trouble I’d faced because of him. Yet, I distinctly felt my pulse accelerating. I started anticipating his messages, even posting meaningless updates on my social media—a totally new behavior for me. My roommate, June, noticed and watched me with a raised eyebrow. “Well, look at you. Looks like someone’s heart is blossoming.” 3 Lincoln commented on every post. He seemed incredibly knowledgeable. Eventually, I even risked posting a difficult legal question on my feed, and he’d respond with one or two profoundly insightful suggestions. I thought I’d found a kindred spirit, a true soulmate. I couldn’t ignore his presence anymore. But June brought me back to reality with a cold dose of water. “Sloane, sometimes soulmate connection can’t conquer family ties. Do you even know what Lincoln’s family does?” What does Lincoln’s family do? I froze. I didn’t know. I only knew he was affluent. His posts featured photos of global travel; his clothes were high-end. I’d always assumed he was rewarding himself with the profits of his first entrepreneurial successes. But June shook her head. “Naive Sloane. A genius can’t win without massive capital backing, too.” I felt a suffocating tightness in my chest. I managed a strained, weak smile. “June, I’m not pursuing anything with him.” I meant it. I couldn’t dare to. With my broken family, even if Lincoln truly loved me, what good would it do? Besides, he hadn’t actually said he loved me. Reality told me he was probably just trying to make amends for the mess his attention had caused me. That stunning bouquet of roses eventually dried out. I preserved them, still deep red, but lifeless. I realized it was a beautiful illusion, a mirage in a glass. I pressed the dry flowers into a bookmark and listed it on a second-hand marketplace. A day later, a buyer contacted me. He offered double the price but insisted on an in-person exchange. The money tempted me, but I was hesitant about meeting a stranger. Safety was a concern. Finally, I suggested a compromise: we could meet at the busy coffee shop across from the university. No risk there. The buyer agreed instantly. I was stunned when I arrived and saw Lincoln waiting. He saw the bookmark in my hand, sent the payment via Venmo without a word, and then looked at me, his eyes gentle. “I never realized how clever you are with your hands. Now, this bouquet has a new meaning.” The roses he’d given me had circled back to him. Even later, after we married, that bookmark hung framed on our wall. But just like that object, even the most cherished thing becomes stale and unexciting after you look at it for too long. After that meeting, Lincoln started asking me out to coffee and dinner constantly. I exhausted every possible excuse to avoid him, but he was relentlessly persistent. When we finally met again, he cut straight to the chase. “Sloane Reynolds, are you trying to avoid me?” I couldn’t speak, guilt making me flustered. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to be direct. “What exactly do you want, Lincoln?” He looked momentarily lost for words. Then, he answered with some difficulty. “I thought you knew. I’m trying to court you.” I froze. He’d just said it, plainly and simply. A rush of pure, unadulterated joy slammed into me. My heart hammered against my ribs. Years later, I would still think about that afternoon, and feel a pang of that first exquisite thrill. But the irreparable fissure of what we became would always follow. Seeing my silence, he pressed, “Is there something I’m doing wrong that stops you from accepting my feelings?” “Sloane, you can reject me, but I’ll keep trying until I win you over.” “I truly only want to be with you, until the end. We’ll be together, forever and ever.” 4 Lincoln lied. His family vehemently disapproved of our relationship and promptly cut him off. He was literally kicked out of their penthouse. His mother looked at me with open contempt and scoffed, “A girl like her is just a fleeting crush. This love will lead nowhere.” Lincoln refused to believe her. He used the connections and small amount of seed money he had to invest aggressively, and, astonishingly, he carved out a successful path for himself. Then, he set his sights on the international market. During this time, we were inseparable. I was moved. He’d practically rebuilt his life for me. “I want you to know that I can support you just fine, even without them,” he promised. To give me peace of mind, he found a lawyer for my mother and forced my father into a divorce. My mother moved near my university and lived with us. Lincoln even helped her set up a small boutique shop. It felt like our lives had finally turned a corner. My mother adored Lincoln. “Your taste in men is so much better than mine, honey.” My heart swelled with a secret sweetness. A voice in my head argued against the whole world: If there is only one genuinely good man in this universe, it’s Lincoln Shaw. But Lincoln was struggling. He was sleeping only two hours a night, his work schedule a crushing cycle. He was visibly wasting away. During those rare moments, he’d hold me tight and repeat his vow, “Sloane, as long as you’re by my side, I can handle anything.” Yet, this man, who supposedly loved me so fiercely, cheated on me just three years into our marriage. It was with an intern from his company—a nervous, timid girl who seemed like the last person Lincoln would ever notice. The bitter irony? I was the one who kept her on staff. She’d applied for an executive assistant position, but her English skills were poor, and she booked a crucial meeting at the wrong time. Lincoln flew into a rage. “Who hired this deadweight? This blunder is costing us thousands! Who’s going to pay?” He spotted me, then slumped into my arms, the picture of aggrieved exhaustion. He held me, complaining, “I’m furious. How can a person be so utterly incompetent?” I saw Talia Vance cowering in a corner, trembling, and I saw a flash of my former self. I couldn’t help but defend her. “Maybe she just wasn’t ready for that position. Let her move to a different role to train, and she can come back later.” Lincoln was furious and gave me the cold shoulder for an entire day. “You think everyone is as driven as you are? That girl has no ambition. She doesn’t belong in my company.” “But I started out just as anxious and timid as she is! Lincoln, you’re the golden boy. You don’t understand how long it takes for the rest of us to recover from one small mistake.” That single sentence stuck in his mind. It also became the knife he eventually used to stab me. He started giving Talia a second chance. He would occasionally mention her to me: “The girl has potential. She just needs confidence. She could be a star someday.” His focus on her began to intensify. He even coached her through a project during our movie date. When the movie ended, he offered an apologetic smile. “Her project is actually really promising, just a little rough around the edges. Sorry, Sloane. I lost track of time when I got into work.” I told him it was fine, that I should be understanding. They were working hard. Until our anniversary. I went to the office to surprise Lincoln, who claimed he was working late. The staff who saw me had a strange, knowing look in their eyes. A woman’s intuition is rarely wrong. I walked quickly to Lincoln’s corner office. The moment I pushed the door open, I heard Talia’s sugary, breathless voice: “Oh, Lincoln, stop it. You’re being naughty. I can’t—”

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I was born a human polygraph machine. No one, not even the most seasoned manipulator, could stand before me and successfully lie. I was eight years old when the head of the group home—a man named Mr. Thompson—stood on stage, weeping into the microphone. “Funding is tight, children,” he choked out, his voice thick with fake despair. “We all need to tighten our belts. We can only afford meat once every three months from now on.” I immediately pointed a finger at his blotchy face. “That’s a load of crap!” I yelled. “You just bought your mistress a brand-new, six-figure SUV last month using the foundation’s charity funds! Did you think we wouldn’t notice?” The man’s face went from ashen to a deep, toxic purple. He was arrested for embezzlement a week later. When I was twelve, a seemingly perfect, well-dressed couple came to adopt. All the other girls were frantically pasting on their sweetest smiles, trying to look perfectly obedient. I just stared at the man. Then, I grabbed the closest thing—a broom—and slammed it down on his polished wingtip shoes. “The woman next to you isn’t your wife! She’s a paid actress!” “You’re not married, but you’re here to adopt a little girl? What kind of sick predator are you? Get out, you pervert!” The man scurried out of there, practically wetting himself. He was later apprehended and booked for a series of sickening crimes. After that, no one dared to pull any fast ones in front of me. Eventually, my birth parents, the Caldwells, came to take me back to their sprawling estate. The girl who had stolen my identity for the last two decades, Lila Reed, rushed up to me, tears welling in her impossibly wide, beautiful eyes. “Rhia, you’re finally home! This is wonderful!” she cried, clutching my hand. “We’re a family now. We have to promise to get along. No drama, okay?” I only needed one look at her face before I spoke, my voice cold and flat. “Your pupils just blew wide, your heart rate spiked—I’d guess a frantic 150—and that tiny, involuntary tremor in your right pinky? That’s pure adrenaline signaling deceit.” “Every single part of that was a lie.” “You’re happy to see me?” “Stop the theatrics, Lila. You’re trying to con a con artist.” 1 Lila’s porcelain face flushed white, then crimson, then a dangerous, angry red. “Rhia… how could you say that?” she stammered, her expression dissolving into fragile misery. “I truly am happy to have you back.” My mother immediately stepped in, wrapping an arm protectively around Lila’s shoulders, shooting me a look of deep disapproval. “Rhiannon, your language is awful! Lila is making an effort here, and you’re just being difficult and overly sensitive!” My father’s face was set in a deep scowl. “It was a nurse’s mistake twenty years ago, Rhia. Lila had nothing to do with it.” “She has been a kind, obedient, and devoted daughter to us all these years. She is a Caldwell in every way that matters.” “You were born to us; she was raised by us. We won’t choose sides. Now that you’re home, we won’t just send her away. We expect you to be the bigger person. Show some grace.” I scoffed, my eyes raking over the two strangers who were biologically my parents. “Of course Lila isn’t happy I’m back! That’s just human nature! No one likes to have their life interrupted, their title revoked.” “Unsolicited kindness is usually a cover for malice. Don’t try to play this fake, sweet-family drama in front of me. It’s making me sick.” My parents’ faces tightened with visible displeasure, their eyes betraying a carefully concealed layer of disgust. They clearly saw their biological daughter as coarse, wild, and utterly lacking in the polish of the upper class—like some street urchin they’d scraped off the curb. The House Manager, a slick man named Franklin, approached me, his demeanor overly deferential. “Miss Rhiannon, your room is ready. Everything is brand new. I assure you, you will be very comfortable.” I didn’t move. I simply watched him for two slow seconds before walking past him and into the opulent bedroom. When I re-emerged, I was holding a discreetly placed listening device and a tiny pinhole camera. “Is this what you meant by ‘comfortable,’ Franklin? Talk. Who told you to bug my room?” Franklin dropped instantly to his knees, his eyes wide with terror, then shot a desperate look toward Lila. “Miss Lila, you have to say something! You told me to—” “You’re lying!” Lila shrieked, cutting him off instantly. “Mom! Dad! He’s trying to blame me!” “How could I possibly do something like this the moment my sister gets home?” My mother was already moving to comfort Lila. My father frowned deeply, addressing me. “Rhiannon, maybe Franklin was concerned for your safety and wanted to keep an eye out for you?” “He’s served this family for twenty years. He’s earned our loyalty. This is a small thing. Don’t make a scene.” “A small thing?” I laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. “Invading my privacy is a ‘small thing’? We can either fire him, or we can call the police. You choose.” My parents, unwilling to risk a media scandal, had Franklin pack his bags and disappear by the morning. After that, everyone in the Caldwell house treated me with hushed caution. No one dared to be two-faced again. But my parents’ expressions were even more distant, more annoyed. “You’re internally cursing me right now, aren’t you? You think I’m an absolute nightmare, a disruptive force?” I simply smiled, completely uncaring. “Good. That’s who I am. Get used to it.” 2 That evening, Preston Mills, the man I was promised to since birth, arrived at the house. The Caldwell and Mills families were old money, long-time associates. But while the Caldwells had flourished, the Mills fortune had shrunk. Fortunately, my parents weren’t completely mercenary; they hadn’t broken the engagement, and Dad had even given Preston a seat as an independent director at the Caldwell Group. Preston was handsome and polished, his face fixed in a flawlessly charming, gentle smile. “Rhia, welcome home. When should we set the date?” he said, stepping forward. “I promise you, I will make you the happiest woman in the world.” I crossed my arms and slowly appraised him. “Your cadence is steady, like an AI narrator—completely devoid of real emotion. You subtly adjusted your cufflink before shaking hands, a classic sign of over-compensating for internal anxiety.” “Preston, the deception level of those few sentences is hovering at about 99%. I think the only thing that wasn’t a lie was the period at the end.” I wasn’t in the mood to spar. “There’s no need to force this. A strong marriage needs more than a family contract. You can’t squeeze juice from a rock.” I glanced at Lila, who was conspicuously listening in, her ears practically perked up. “You and Lila are clearly more familiar with each other. I won’t steal your thunder. I’m giving the engagement to her.” A sudden, brilliant flicker of naked desire and hope flashed in Lila’s eyes as she turned expectantly toward Preston. Preston’s face tightened for a fraction of a second, but then he quickly shifted his gaze back to me, his tone suddenly resolute, utterly sincere. “Rhia, you misunderstand! I meant every word I just said! They came straight from the heart.” “Lila is like a sister to me, nothing more. I have never felt anything romantic for her. It’s you I’m falling for. We were betrothed at birth—this is fate!” He grew more animated, even reaching out to grab my hand. “To be honest, before you even came home, I used to dream about a girl. Her face, her profile… it was exactly like yours! This is destiny, Rhia…” I dodged his clammy reach and picked up the hot cup of Earl Grey tea on the side table. Without a second thought, I tossed the contents right in his face. “Shut up! Those cheesy lines are so old I nearly choked on my own spit!” “Stop using your canned, manipulative lines on me. I don’t buy the fantasy.” Preston, spluttering and soaked, immediately backed away, his suave performance shattered. Lila glared at me, her eyes burning with a hateful, poisonous jealousy. Yet, despite my blatant rejection and hostility, Preston still insisted on marrying me. This man was persistent, and behind that persistence, there was clearly something rotten. Luckily, I had a contingency plan. Why didn’t I call the police on Franklin the House Manager? Not out of mercy, but because I needed him. Though he was gone, I knew he had allies in the staff. I’d given him a hefty payment to have his contacts discreetly plant a micro-camera and a listening device in Lila’s room. This was an eye for an eye. Sure enough, that night, a shifty-eyed Preston snuck into Lila’s bedroom. The couple immediately fell into a furious tangle, the massive bed shaking violently. Afterward, the dogs started plotting. “Preston, baby, you don’t love me anymore, do you? Why are you still trying to marry that freak?” Preston chuckled, a cold, snake-like sound. “Of course I love you.” “But Rhiannon is the official heir to the Caldwell fortune. I have to marry her first, get the family’s assets firmly in my grasp!” “Once I have the papers signed, I’ll dump her instantly! Then, the entire Caldwell empire, and you, will be mine!” “Lila, you won’t feel guilty, will you? Once it’s done, not only will Rhiannon be out, but I’ll make sure your adoptive parents are dealt with too!” “Total cleanup. No loose ends.” Lila nestled against his chest, her voice laced with greed and venom. “Of course not! I hate those old fools!” “This was all supposed to be mine! Who is Rhiannon to come back and steal it? They never should have found her! I hate every single person in this family!” I listened to their vicious planning, a cold smile forming on my lips. Trying to run a con on a human lie detector? Game on.

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I was pulling an all-nighter on the Q3 performance review deck when Seraphina called to break up with me for the Nth time. “Rhys Sullivan, you have twenty minutes to get to The Astor Lounge and beg my forgiveness, or we’re finished.” I shattered. “The review is crucial for my promotion, Sera. Can you please pick another day to throw a fit?” Her voice was light, dismissive. “A fit? I see. So your job is more important than I am. Then let’s break up.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, and I’m a very petty person. Undoing your promotion would only take one phone call.” I slammed the phone down, but a row of pop-up comments appeared in my periphery. 【The female lead won’t actually follow through on the threat, will she? She wants to surprise him; she secretly greenlit his promotion weeks ago.】 【Just show her you’re willing to sacrifice the job for her, and she’ll hand him the CEO position. She’d never ruin his career.】 【That’s how we avoidant types are. We say no, but we desperately want it. He just needs to hold on and never let go.】 【She’s waiting by the door, ready to take a taxi to the club and console him. Toxic-sweet angst is the best ship.】 Doubt crept in. I almost grabbed my jacket to rush out, but a text popped up. “Heard Mr. Sullivan’s promotion is off the table. Interested in a change of scenery?” 1 I stared at the odd message, replaying the text thread in my head. The name was only a pair of stylized wings. I was certain it wasn’t a prank, but I had no idea who it was. Sera trying to test me with a burner phone? I quickly dismissed the thought. Sera was too arrogant for such a petty move. Ten years. Ten years of dating, and it had always been me who caved, me who apologized, me who came running. We’d acted out this exact taxi-to-the-rescue scene countless times. My unwavering devotion had given her absolute impunity. So, who was it? The pop-ups had the answer. 【The female lead’s arch-rival is trying to poach her man! The rival overheard the breakup call in the bar’s restroom and immediately contacted the male lead. Fast move.】 【The male lead is Sera’s lover, but also Kingston Global’s rising star. Vivian Sharpe, the rival CEO, needs to poach him.】 【Seriously, the floor above, are you going to pretend that CEO Vivian, who daydreams about the male lead, isn’t doing this for private reasons?】 I narrowed my eyes. Vivian Sharpe. I had led the team that beat Sharpe Dynamics in the last bid. At the celebratory cocktail party afterward, someone had tried to broker a friendly exchange, suggesting we connect for future ‘collaboration.’ She hadn’t even looked at me. I stood there, smiling until my face hurt, before she finally, coldly, offered her phone for a scan. I’d assumed she deleted my contact the second she got home. Turns out she hadn’t. Still, I only believed half of what the pop-ups said. Sera never hid our relationship, but she always treated me like a lower-tier employee in public. To outsiders, I was just her cheap corporate conquest, a pet project she’d plucked from the field. Vivian Sharpe’s favorite barb, aimed at Sera, was always, “Only Kingston would hire a low-level pawn just for free sex. Such a shrewd businesswoman.” Vivian looked down on me. Her olive branch was nothing more than a move to spite Sera. I skipped past her name and saw a voice message from Sera’s assistant, Molly. “Rhys, you need to get here now. Ms. Kingston is drunk and refusing to leave.” She also sent a video of Sera being dramatic. I hesitated. I was about to change out of my sweatpants when I froze. Leo Albright’s unmistakable, childish laugh was clearly audible at the thirty-second mark. 【The female lead is pulling this stunt again. She deliberately called the male second lead to make the male lead jealous.】 【The male lead always falls for it! Every time she scares him, he doubles down.】 【Go now, male lead! I’ll bet my premium subscription that if you apologize and console her, she’ll be waiting on her knees for your little riding crop later tonight.】 【I totally get Sera. Watching my boyfriend suffer because I threatened to break up makes me feel so loved and wanted.】 I was stunned. The pop-ups weren’t a hallucination. They were right. The ‘male lead’ was me; the ‘female lead’ was Sera. She was exactly as they described—always provoking a fight, always expecting me to rush back. If I didn’t, she’d enlist everyone around her to force me. But even if I did go, she wouldn’t immediately relent. The last time, I took a red-eye train all night to her side. When I walked in, exhausted and dust-covered, she didn’t even look at me, instead clinging tightly to Leo Albright. “Who told you to call him? Didn’t he have the spine to stick to the breakup?” Yet, the next second, her body would betray her, pulling me in and walking me out. That night, she clung to me for hours. The next day, she bought me a watch and booked a trip, compensating me tenfold. I once asked her if she was ever worried I would leave after all the emotional abuse. She buried her head against my chest, a small child seeking comfort. “My husband would never leave me over something so small. Rhys, if you take one step toward me, I will always take the remaining ninety-nine.” But what she didn’t know was that after being repeatedly abused, I didn’t want to take even one step anymore. I was too tired for this exhausting kind of love. When I didn’t reply, Molly kept calling. I was still waffling, considering whether to give in one last time, when a text from Leo came through. “Sera said you don’t need to come. She’s taking me to watch the sunrise!” He followed it up with a video clip. “Sera, if Rhys doesn’t show up, does that mean you’re really breaking up?” Sera chugged her drink. “We broke up. Don’t mention him.” She turned to Leo. “Didn’t you say you wanted me to watch the sunrise with you? Let’s go.” Her eyes flicked toward the camera for a split second. She knew Leo was filming. I took a deep breath, tossed the phone onto my couch, and turned back to optimize my review deck. Instead of believing the pop-ups that Sera had already approved my promotion, I chose to trust my own competence. I wasn’t Sera or Leo, born with a silver spoon in my mouth. For someone like me, who grew up poor, I had to seize every opportunity myself. 2 Sera never came home that night. I didn’t sleep a wink either. The next day, when I walked into the office with a knot in my stomach, she was already there, impeccably dressed and composed. The oppressive weight of the CEO radiated from her. She was a different person from the drunken, petty woman from the night before. I nervously finished my presentation for the executive review panel. When I finished, she clapped along with everyone else. Her gaze was cool, even friendly. I wondered, did my refusal to chase her actually calm her down? The meeting ended, and I noticed small gifts on everyone’s desks. The CFO next to me gasped, eyes shining. “Wow, having a CEO girlfriend is great! Presents for everyone when her man gets promoted!” The admin sister cleared her throat. “That’s the new Executive Assistant’s welcome gift to the staff.” The CFO was shocked. “A limited-edition perfume for a welcome gift for everyone? What new form of rich-kid humiliation is this?” The admin gave me an uneasy look and pulled the CFO aside. “The new assistant is the only son of the Albright Group’s owner. And Ms. Kingston paid for the gifts. She said she was ‘supporting her childhood friend.’” So, Leo Albright. It all clicked into place. Leo had been trying to use a job at Kingston Global as an excuse to get closer to Sera. The Albright family had repeatedly proposed a merger-by-marriage, a power couple linking the two families. Sera had refused because of me. But after one night, she’d given in. She’d hired him for the Executive Office—a place so sacred, even I, her long-term boyfriend, had never been allowed a permanent seat. I fought to block out any thoughts of what might have happened between them the night before. I opened my laptop, ready to work. A colleague told me Sera was looking for me. I had something to discuss with her as well, so I headed straight for the Executive Suite. I walked in and saw Leo sitting on the edge of Sera’s massive desk, his back to me. His body was pressed close to hers. A searing pain shot through my palms. I never thought I would see Sera in such an intimate position with someone else. I cleared my throat. Leo jumped up, startled. He turned, and the smile vanished from his face. He pouted. “You’ve worked here for years. Don’t you know how to knock?” I paused, momentarily stunned. Knocking had never crossed my mind when entering Sera’s office. “My apologies,” I said flatly. “Next time you two are doing something inappropriate, you should remember to close the door.” Sera had been waiting for me to explode, but my words made her face twitch. Still, she remained outwardly composed. “Did you call for me, Ms. Kingston?” “The board has decided to put your promotion on hold,” she replied calmly. Leo shot me a look of triumph. I stared at the tips of my shoes. I’d known it, of course. She hadn’t been bluffing. She had personally stalled my promotion just because I hadn’t groveled. My chest felt like it was crushed by a thousand-pound weight. My eyes stung, but thankfully, the earlier pop-up warnings had prepared me. I managed to remain calm. “Understood.” The silence was deafening. “If you want to fight for it—” I cut her off. “I don’t. If there’s nothing else, I’ll get back to work.” I turned sharply, but she called after me. “One more thing. The West Coast project is being reassigned to Leo. You won’t be in charge of it anymore. Please hand over the brief to him today.” I spun back around. “What did you say?” I had poured six months of my life into the West Coast project. I hadn’t taken a day off in months. The pressure had been so immense that I needed medication every night just to get a few hours of sleep. This project was my hope, my lifeblood. I needed it to prove my worth, to show everyone I wasn’t just Sera’s kept man. Sera knew how obsessed I was with it. She had even secretly leveraged her resources to support me. And now, when the project was on the cusp of success, she was giving it to Leo? “Leo just joined the company. He needs a high-profile project to gain a foothold,” she explained. “The West Coast project has a great reputation and is about to deliver results. It’s the perfect training ground for him.” I fought back tears, my voice breaking. “You know this project is everything to me. Why would you do this?” She smiled, a cold, vengeful smile. “I told you, I’m petty and I hold a grudge.” “Besides, I’m the owner. I don’t need your approval to assign work. If you’re unhappy, you’re free to quit anytime.” Leo covered his mouth, stifling a laugh. I glared at both of them. One smug and gleeful, the other poised and unbothered. They both believed I was too pathetic to walk away. “Fine. I quit.” Sera’s smile vanished. She looked at me in disbelief. “Rhys Sullivan,” she snapped, raising her voice. “Don’t think your status as my boyfriend gives you the right to throw a tantrum. Don’t think I won’t let you walk out that door!” I met her cold eyes. “Ms. Kingston, are you forgetting? We broke up.” She was momentarily speechless. Leo, seeing the tension, smirked but feigned concern. “Sera, maybe let’s just forget it. Don’t fight because of me,” he whined, then smiled a little too widely at me. “I’m clumsy. What if I mess up Mr. Sullivan’s hard work?” Sera caressed his head, her voice soft with indulgence. “It doesn’t matter if you mess up. It’s just a small project. Nothing to worry about.” My blood rushed to my head. It took every ounce of strength to keep from lunging at them. My fists were clenched so tightly my palms were bleeding. “A company that uses projects to reward a lover isn’t worth staying at. I’ll consider these last few years of hard work a donation to the dogs.” “Who are you calling a dog?” Leo yelled, furious. I laughed, a harsh, cold sound. “You know who you are.” “Rhys Sullivan!” Sera’s face was ashen. I turned and walked out, not looking back. 3 I stumbled back to my cubicle, feeling like a ghost. I didn’t let the tears fall until I was alone. They came in a torrent. The pop-ups reappeared. 【The male lead is so clueless. Sera was deliberately putting on a show for him. The moment he leaves, she’ll kick Leo out.】 【Sera just wanted to see him jealous and begging, but the male lead is too stubborn. He’d rather quit than swallow his pride.】 【If you date the boss, you have to be subservient. He wants to keep his dignity and the money? That’s wanting to have your cake and eat it, too.】 【The male lead is being ridiculous. Without this job, how will he afford his sick mother’s exorbitant medical bills? Can pride buy medicine?】 They were right. My mother’s life depended on a ridiculously expensive imported drug. Sera’s salary had always kept us afloat. If I couldn’t keep her on the treatment, the only family I had left would be gone. As I worried about the money, Sera sent a text—the first time she had ever reached out first after a fight. “Come apologize to Leo, and I’ll consider giving you back the project.” “I’ll give you Kingston Global’s new project next half, too.” “And your key card. Come get it back.” It was the first time Sera had ever truly backed down. Even the pop-ups were advocating for her. 【The Queen of Conceit is finally humbling herself! God only knows how much the ‘playing hard to get’ girl is struggling right now.】 【As an avoidant, I’m touched. How much love does it take for a stubborn person like her to lower her head? Male lead, treasure this!】 【Other than being a drama queen, Sera is rich, beautiful, and deeply in love. Male lead, tread carefully, or you’ll lose her.】 They had a point. Aside from her theatrics, Sera was a good partner. If I could just tolerate the manipulation, she was everything a man could want. But I refused without hesitation. “I’m submitting my resignation to the HR Director today.” She took a long time to reply. “Are you serious?” “Fine. Don’t ever ask me for help again.” “You’ll regret this. Your beautiful relationship and career, all thrown away because of your stubbornness.” I rested my head on the desk and cried silently. I mourned the decade we’d spent together, and the loss of my career. But I couldn’t accept the way Sera treated me. She had a black hole where her heart should be, and she filled it by tormenting me. I saw no end to the darkness, no way to fix myself inside her warped world. I sent the resignation email, then found Vivian Sharpe’s contact. “Vivian, is your offer still valid?” She replied instantly: “Valid. But not for Sera Kingston’s boyfriend.” Me: “Separated. Resigned.”

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After my daughter left for college, I repurposed the two commercial units I owned in the complex into a community kitchen and after-school hub. I hired a designer for a full renovation and bought all new fixtures and furniture, dividing the space into distinct areas for seniors and for children. The pricing was the same for everyone—a flat rate of five dollars per person, help yourself, eat what you need. My intention was twofold: to give the kids of busy parents a safe place to land and to offer lonely, elderly residents a reliable, inexpensive meal and company. Everything was brand new. I hired two professional chefs for the kitchen, and every day at noon, we offered twenty different dishes, three kinds of soup, and five main courses. I truly felt like I was doing something good. Once we opened, business boomed. People loved the chefs’ cooking and were happy with the clean, bright environment. Neighbors would enthusiastically call me ‘Mama Sarah,’ and people from across the country would send gifts after reading about us online. Several students who had gotten better jobs would even make special trips back to visit me. Seeing their smiling faces warmed my heart, making every sacrifice feel worthwhile. Until Owen Maxwell and his family showed up. He walked in with his wife, one of them holding a child’s hand, the other pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair. He looked around at the bustling, harmonious scene, his gaze lingering on the community-sent banner that read Trusted Local Service, focusing for a long minute on the words. After a moment, he smiled. 1 The day Owen brought his son, his daughter, and his wife’s physically disabled mother in for registration, I was there personally. He was refined, wearing smart glasses, and his wife, Naomi, also seemed poised and spoke comfortably. I liked them immediately and decided to give them the tour myself. “The latest pickup for the after-school program is midnight,” I explained. “Of course, if there’s a special circumstance, we can arrange for an overnight stay. All our linens are changed daily, professionally cleaned and sanitized. Wi-Fi and utilities are complimentary.” “As for the kitchen, the menus are set by a certified nutritionist. You can choose a custom plate or stick to the daily special. The soup and staple courses are always free refills.” Since it was lunchtime, I took them over to the kitchen for a tasting. The special was three sides and a soup for five dollars. Our most expensive à la carte dish, the BBQ Ribs, was ten dollars—a generous portion. I introduced each item to them. Naomi nodded approvingly, but Owen remained quiet until we passed the restroom. He stopped and pointed to the toilet. “Sarah,” he said, using my first name, “that commode looks like a generic brand. Honestly, they’re often a safety hazard.” I paused. “Really? The contractor recommended it. I’ll call someone to have it replaced right away.” “It’s just that with so many seniors and kids, safety has to be the priority.” His tone lacked emotion, yet it felt strangely authoritative, like a command. I felt a prickle of annoyance but kept my face smooth, smiling and nodding. “You’re absolutely right. My oversight.” He signed up his two children and the elder for the full-service package. Since his wife had a demanding job, he usually handled the drop-offs and pickups. He’d occasionally grab lunch at the kitchen, too. Sometimes on the weekend, he’d even ‘help out,’ chatting with the chefs and scheduling a quick game with other parents in the parking lot. He’d bring in fruit to share with the seniors and kids. Before long, the neighbors were familiar with him, calling him ‘Owen’ or ‘Max.’ “Owen is a Regional Manager for a luxury hotel chain, he’s so knowledgeable.” “I know! He even gave me tips for my job interview.” “Just what you’d expect from a leader. Humble, kind, and genuinely engaging.” So many people praised Owen in their casual conversations that my initial discomfort faded. Maybe that strictness was just the nature of his five-star hospitality background. With a holiday coming up, I planned to pay my staff early and consult with the chefs about a festive menu. In a corner of the hub, Owen was talking to a group of neighbors. It looked lively. Curiosity drew me over. Each person held a document, and Owen was giving a presentation. “Look, we have plenty of grocery stores nearby, and the prices are reasonable. But when it comes to food, confidence is key. Especially in a collective gathering place, we have to prioritize food safety…” His logic was sharp, his pace unhurried. “Local produce isn’t actually expensive. But here at Sarah’s, the serving staff aren’t wearing hairnets. And some of the meat used is frozen, which simply doesn’t meet health standards for a premium service.” One neighbor spoke softly, “But Sarah’s prices are so low, and the food is delicious.” Owen adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. “Affordable, yes, but unsanitary and unhealthy? That’s the real problem. You’re entrusting your children and your parents to this service. If they get sick, that ‘affordability’ will cost you dearly. Since we pay for a service, we have the right to expect normal, healthy food. This isn’t charity from the owner, it’s our right as consumers.” 2 “I noticed the staff didn’t wipe down my table the other day,” another neighbor chimed in. “I told Sarah, and it took the attendant a long time to get over here.” I remembered that incident. It was Children’s Day, and we were swamped with several local preschools. We were short-handed, and the place was packed. I apologized later and gave him a store souvenir. I stopped in my tracks, watching them quietly. It was truly a moment of cold realization, a harsh reality check. I didn’t interrupt them. Instead, I walked to my private office inside the after-school section and pulled out the enrollment agreements. Right there was the section on the meal plan. To prevent future disputes, I had explicitly included a Food Sourcing Disclosure Statement. It clearly stated: “All produce is fresh. Meats may occasionally include quality frozen cuts to maintain low costs. The customer acknowledges and agrees to this sourcing.” Everyone had signed it. … The next day, the neighborhood online group chat was in an uproar like never before. Owen had posted his luxury hotel’s internal food safety guidelines, along with a formal “Proposal for Service & Safety Overhaul of the Community Kitchen & After-School Hub.” The three-thousand-word document covered everything from food handling and restaurant layout to ingredient sourcing and contract terms. He backed every point with screenshots of “expert consultation” and legal precedents. His summary listed four demands. First, he demanded that I stop using any frozen meat and only source fresh, daily-butchered cuts. Second, he demanded I publish a detailed cost breakdown for all ingredients. Third, he demanded I register with the local Food Safety and Regulation Department and obtain all necessary licenses. Fourth, he demanded I conduct professional staff training, hire more employees, and amend the contract to guarantee that I would not suddenly raise prices. The chat filled with agreement. “Total support! I’ve been saying this. My kid is growing, and those chicken tenders must be riddled with bacteria!” “Exactly, we don’t want a scene, we just want our parents and children to eat safely.” “To be honest, I’ve felt like the kitchen food wasn’t healthy for a while now.” “I agree, getting sick would be a nightmare.” I recognized the ID of the person who said the food was “unhealthy.” It was Paige, the neighbor who lived right above me. She had bought a whole tray of our pulled-pork sliders just last night, saying they were a weekend treat for her family. I tossed my phone aside and rubbed my throbbing temples. After the lunchtime rush, I called Owen to meet me. He looked exactly as he did that first day—polished, wearing a suit and shirt, polite and distant. “Sarah, you wanted to see me?” I slid the printed copies of his chat documents across the desk. “Owen, why did you put all this out there without speaking to me first?” He smiled slightly. “Sarah, this isn’t just my idea. I simply voiced what the community was thinking. The group chat is the most efficient and fair way for everyone to express their opinions. It’s transparent, unlike a private conversation.” “Fair and transparent?” I flipped open the document. “You’re demanding fresh, daily-butchered meat and more staff. Where does the cost come from? Did you consider that?” “I apologize.” 3 His expression didn’t change, and his tone remained flat. “That is a cost you, as the business owner, must solve. You can explore other methods of revenue generation or provide premium services.” He made it sound so simple. “I set these prices low because I wanted to ease the financial burden on the community. After calculating my costs, I’m practically breaking even. This is a benefit I’m extending to the residents. Do you know the logistical nightmare involved in obtaining all those licenses and official paperwork you’re demanding?” “I’d have to pay massive fees, and my costs would skyrocket. Did you consider that?” “Sarah!” Owen cut me off. “This is not a benefit.” “When you decided to open this business, you should have figured all of this out. Regardless of how high your costs are, you cannot disregard the residents’ rights.” I was furious. “So, you want to enjoy ridiculously cheap meals, but use the language of consumer rights to make me bear all the cost overruns and legal risk?” “Food safety is non-negotiable.” That hateful smile was still plastered on his face, but his eyes were ice cold. “You can dress it up with pretty words, but why didn’t you consider these issues when you opened the Hub? Adults must pay the cost of their actions. You’re older than me, you should know that much.” I struggled to remain calm and pulled the signed enrollment agreements from my drawer. “I have contracts. They explicitly address the sourcing of the food. Everyone read and signed this section willingly. They agreed to it.” Owen chuckled, flipping to the page I mentioned. He pointed to the clause, reminding me slowly: “Sarah, did you consult a lawyer? Legally, that kind of clause won’t hold up. Even if they signed it willingly, if this goes to court, your supposed evidence won’t stand.” There was a knock on the door. It was Leo, the neighbor who often bought our leftover meals. Seeing Owen, he looked visibly uncomfortable. “Sarah, I… just wanted to ask if there are any leftover pulled-pork sliders from lunch today?” Before I could answer, Owen jumped in. “Leo, I’m discussing the issues with the kitchen with Sarah right now. Don’t worry, once this is settled, you’ll have much higher quality meat to eat.” Leo’s face lit up with surprise. “Owen, you’re the best! I hope you succeed.” He hurried out, gently closing the door, even giving Owen a discreet thumbs-up—forgetting completely that he came in to buy food. That image hit me like a physical blow. … Their gambit failed. I posted a long message in the group chat, firmly rejecting their so-called “Proposal.” I told them explicitly that I opened the Hub and set the prices out of consideration for the community—a service barely breaking even. I framed it as the convenience and benefit I provided. If they were unhappy, they were free to use the expensive, fully regulated after-school centers nearby, or eat at outside restaurants, or simply stop coming here. In short, I would not concede an inch. The next day, the kitchen and after-school hub were still packed. Only a handful of families stayed away. But plastered to the door of my office was a formal notice. It was a joint statement from the residents, co-signed with a property management company, demanding that I comply with their Proposal, or they would pursue their legal rights. The name signed at the bottom was Owen Maxwell. I ripped the document off the door right in front of the diners and tossed it in the trash. After that, the atmosphere in the Hub died. People stopped talking when I approached, and they deliberately avoided eye contact. 4 Even the college students who came for cheap meals would sneak in and out. My employees, knowing the truth, started posting in the residents’ group chat, condemning the agitators. “What is wrong with you people? Sarah works herself to death, and you know how low her prices are—she barely makes a profit!” “Have you all forgotten how good she’s been to you?” Someone immediately shot back: “Of course, you’ll defend her—you work for her! What does she stand to gain if not profit? She’s not running a charity.” Finally, Owen stepped in to play the ‘mediator.’ He calmly told everyone to stop arguing, then specifically tagged me, demanding a statement. I stayed in the group but refused to respond. I watched them openly strategize about how to force my compliance, how to gather evidence, and how to contact a lawyer. “I’ll take the photos. I go to pick up my son every day, it’s no trouble.” “I’ll reach out to my cousin, he’s a corporate lawyer.” Everyone was eager to participate. Owen was directing the operation, coordinating the strategy. “Also, everyone needs to write a statement emphasizing that you were misled into signing the agreement by the owner.” “I’ve contacted a friend who’s a journalist. They’re very interested in the food safety angle. We can take this to the media if necessary.” Owen made sure to remind everyone: “We must be careful. We are simply defending our rights, not looking for trouble. Be discreet when gathering evidence, avoid being noticed, and record all communications.” Paige, who lived above me, was the most enthusiastic. “Owen, don’t worry, I saved a photo of the hair I found in my food last month. We can use that to prove it’s unsanitary.” I remembered that hair. It was her girlfriend’s, and she had joked at the time that she was glad we all had short hair, or we’d be blamed. She had even laughingly threatened to “extort” me. I drank myself to sleep. When I woke up, their deadline had passed. I hadn’t done a thing. Then, they sued me. On the day of the hearing, Owen and a dozen or so residents were there as the plaintiffs. I sat alone at the defense table. The court clerk read the names of the plaintiffs. My gaze swept over the familiar faces—Paige, Leo—and finally settled on Owen. After receiving the summons, the first person I called was an old friend who was a lawyer. He listened to my story, then paced his office, shaking his head in frustration. “I told you years ago not to do these things, Sarah. You can’t build a business on pure goodwill. No good deed goes unpunished.” I banged my hand on the desk. “Tell me the facts.” He fell silent for a moment. “It’s tricky.” He explained that Owen, as an experienced hotel manager, had precisely zeroed in on the service industry’s legal vulnerabilities. The claims he made were, on a legal level, difficult to refute. The clauses I’d written into the contract were, as Owen had suggested, non-compliant and legally invalid. His only advice was private mediation. I would have to concede to their demands, offer them some form of compensation, and they would withdraw the suit. Otherwise, I would face a hefty fine. I hung up the phone, expressionless. Concede? Why should I? I simply messaged the group chat: “See you in court.” The ongoing chatter abruptly stopped for a few seconds. Then, they exploded, tagging me with every kind of insult. Owen, however, sent a single, smug emoji. … The sky on the day of the trial was a heavy, suffocating grey. Owen had invited several reporters and online commentators to observe the proceedings. The gallery was almost completely full. The evidence they compiled was weaponized by Owen’s highly inflammatory testimony and immediately blasted across social media. He and the residents successfully packaged themselves as innocent victims who had mistakenly trusted a negligent, greedy owner. Their carefully curated evidence became daggers aimed straight at me. A barrage of photos detailed how my Hub was unregulated, unsanitary, and unhealthy. Owen read from the residents’ signed affidavits, describing how I had used their urgent need for childcare and low-cost meals to hoodwink them into signing illegal contracts. They accused me of leveraging ‘affordability’ to offer them dangerous food and a substandard environment. Finally, after the lawyers finished, it was the turn of the plaintiff and defendant to speak. Owen, always articulate, was no exception this time. “Your Honor, we didn’t want to go this far. We all live in the same community, we see each other every day, and we all want to build a better home and maintain our health,” he declared. “Not be lured into a financial and health trap.” “The defendant, Sarah Denton, operates under the guise of ‘Mama Sarah,’ basking in online praise, yet in reality, she’s jeopardizing people’s well-being. She weaponized our trust to lead us into a dangerous situation.” “We are not seeking financial damages. We demand an apology, and we demand food safety.” He spoke with forceful conviction, the performance close to tears. The gallery buzzed with sympathy, and the reporters scribbled furiously. My lawyer tried to present the signed contracts again. Owen’s lawyer immediately countered, citing the contract invalidity clause, effectively shutting him down. Just as my lawyer friend had warned, I had no chance of winning this case. From the beginning, I was utterly defeated.

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They say no good deed goes unpunished. I learned that the hard way when a simple act of kindness drove me off the ledge of a high-rise. In my past life, a female colleague told me her father was in critical condition and desperate for surgery funds. Without a second thought, I wired her fifteen thousand dollars and approved a two-month leave of absence. When the day came for repayment, she flipped the script. She blasted me all over social media, claiming I’d sexually harassed her, and demanded seventy-five thousand dollars in damages. I was crucified by the internet. I lost my job. Even my fiancée, the woman I was days away from marrying, looked at me with total disgust. Depression swallowed me whole. I jumped. And then, I woke up. I was back. Back to the exact moment she came to beg for money. She was crying now, a performance that could move mountains and shake the heavens. But I just sat there, cold and detached, downloading a dozen predatory loan apps onto her phone. She likes borrowing money? Fine. Let her borrow until she drowns in it. I have no money for her. And I certainly have no life to spare. 1 I opened my eyes again to the sight of a girl looking at me through a shimmering veil of tears. I glanced up. It was Sienna. The woman who had destroyed my life with nothing but empty words and a innocent face. My arm felt stiff as I checked my watch. June 4th. The exact moment. “Grant? Mr. Miller?” When I didn’t answer immediately, Sienna tested the waters, her voice trembling. I snapped back to reality, locking eyes with her. “Yeah. I’m listening.” “Grant, it’s my dad. He’s in critical condition. The doctors say he needs a liver transplant to survive. If he doesn’t get it…” The tears broke free, rolling down her cheeks like cracks in a porcelain mask. In the last life, this exact display of vulnerability had broken me. Out of sheer humanitarian instinct, I’d lent her the money. When the rest of the office found out, they chipped in, too. I gave her two months off so she could be a dutiful daughter. I never expected her to bite the hand that fed her. When I asked for the money back, she decided the debt was too heavy. So she tried to cancel it by cancelling me. She went online, spinning a tale of workplace harassment, demanding a massive settlement for “emotional distress.” She spoke with such conviction, armed with cropped screenshots and fabricated truths. And then came the line that sealed my coffin: “No girl would ruin her own reputation just to frame a man.” That sentence turned a localized dispute into a nationwide witch hunt. Strangers sent funeral wreaths to my home. They dumped trash at the office entrance. They found my number and called me at 3:00 AM, breathing threats into the receiver. I tried to clarify things, but the truth is boring. Nobody wanted the truth. Even Meredith, my fiancée, accused me of being “improper.” People only believe what they want to believe. The company fired me. My mind shattered. And I ended it all on the pavement below. Thinking about it made the air in the room feel thick, suffocating. I would never let history repeat itself. “Wow. That sounds terrible,” I said, my voice deliberately flat. “So, how many days off do you need?” She blinked, stunned. The coldness of my response wasn’t part of her script. When she didn’t answer, I pressed on. “You are here to ask for time off, right?” Sienna bit her lip, dialing up the fragility in her eyes. “Grant… actually, I wanted to ask if I could borrow some money. The surgery is expensive. We need about fifty thousand.” She dropped her head quickly, perfecting the posture of shame and desperation. Right. I pulled out my phone, opened the app store, and swiveled the screen toward her. Her eyes lit up with anticipation. “Look,” I said, pointing at the screen. “You can use PaydayAdvance. You can get a lump sum pretty fast. Interest isn’t too bad.” “Or there’s QuickCash, and LendTree…” I reached over, took her phone from her hands, and started rapidly downloading every high-interest, predatory loan app I could find. Before I could finish installing the fifth one, she snatched her phone back and fled the office. 2 The next day, Sienna was back in the office. I frowned. Wasn’t she supposed to be at her dying father’s bedside? Why was she still here? I had questions, but I kept them to myself. “Grant, I decided not to take leave yet,” she said, hovering by my desk. “Brody heard about my situation. He was kind enough to help.” Brody. I knew him. The guy was obsessed with Sienna. The entire department knew he was trapped in her orbit. In the last timeline, he was the one fanning the flames of the cyberbullying campaign against me. There was a moment—Sienna had thrown herself into my lap, and when I tried to push her off, she grabbed my wrists. Brody snapped a photo at that exact second. That photo was the “smoking gun.” Evidence, they said. “Good for you,” I said simply, turning to leave. Sienna stepped in front of me, blocking my path. I let my annoyance show. “What now?” “The transplant costs fifty thousand. Brody lent me ten, but I’m still short forty thousand. I’m just a junior associate, Grant. I don’t have that kind of savings.” I looked at her, my expression unreadable. “So you want me to lend it to you? Sienna, I’m getting married next month. Between the down payment on the new condo and the vendor deposits, I’m tapped out.” “Maybe you should go back to those apps.” The condo had been paid for months ago. I just needed an excuse. A wall she couldn’t climb. Her face fell. She looked like she was about to shatter. “You’re… getting married?” She widened her eyes, feigning shock. I nodded. “Yes. Houses in this city aren’t cheap. And weddings are worse. Money is tight.” In my past life, because I’d lent her the money, I couldn’t cover the final costs for the wedding venue. Meredith dumped me on the spot. I tried to explain that I had the money, that I’d just helped a colleague, but Meredith didn’t buy it. In fact, she joined Sienna on a livestream to trash me. This time, Sienna gets nothing. And Meredith? She isn’t getting a ring either. Sienna looked down, disappointed, but then pivoted. “But Grant… I heard your family is wealthy. Could you ask them for fifteen thousand? I promise I’ll work hard. I’ll pay you back. I’ll do anything.” The audacity was breathtaking. My parents’ money was their blood and sweat, not a charity fund for grifters. “I told you,” I said, my voice like ice. “I’m buying a house. My hands are tied.” Seeing that I was an immovable object, she finally retreated. I watched her walk away, a knot of tension tightening in my gut. I knew this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. 3 Sure enough, after I refused the money, she vanished for two days. Nobody in the office could reach her. A warning bell went off in my head. What was she planning? I scanned every social media platform—Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, LinkedIn. Nothing. No accusations, no hashtags. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. But I couldn’t relax. I pulled her personnel file from the secure drive, found her parents’ address in a suburb about two hours away, and grabbed my car keys. I needed to know the truth. When I arrived at the address, I didn’t see a dilapidated shack. I saw a construction fence and a massive sign: FUTURE SITE OF OAK CREEK RETAIL CENTER. A neighbor was watching me from her porch, noticing my confusion. “Looking for the Jiangs?” she called out. “They moved. Developer bought that whole row of houses. Heard they got a payout of nearly half a million. They’re in a condo uptown now.” I froze. So, the destitute family narrative was a lie. “Ma’am, do you happen to know where they moved?” The neighbor was chatty. She spilled everything. Just then, my phone buzzed. It was a colleague. “Grant, you need to get back here. Sienna’s mom is in Director Graves’ office.” I didn’t waste a second. I thanked the woman and floored it back to the city. I parked and ran up the stairs. Just as I reached the hallway, I saw Sienna and a middle-aged woman walking out of the Director’s office. I ducked into an alcove near the breakroom. “See?” the mother hissed. “If I didn’t come here and make a scene, they wouldn’t take it seriously. You said this Grant guy was rich and soft. You said he’d pay up if he thought your dad was dying.” She scoffed. “He’s just pretending to be a nice guy. We are getting that fifteen grand out of him one way or another.” “Just… don’t mention the buyout money, Mom.” “I know, I know.” Ha. So it was premeditated. They had marked me as their prey from day one. 4 The moment they left, I was summoned to Director Graves’ office. “Grant, what is going on? Why is a mother crying in my office about you? You’re up for promotion, for God’s sake. We can’t have this kind of noise.” Graves had mentored me. He was tough, but he looked out for his own. “Director, don’t worry. I’ll handle it.” “Look, I know they’re looking for a handout. I told them the company has an emergency loan program. But the optics… you need to manage this.” I nodded, thanked him, and left. I walked straight to Conference Room 3. I booked it in the system: Employee 1-on-1: Wellness Check. The office security cameras were undergoing upgrades this week—a blind spot Sienna had exploited in the last timeline. But she didn’t know that Conference Room 3 had a new presentation screen with a built-in webcam and recording function. I activated it. Then I called her. “Meet me in Conference Room 3.” When she walked in, looking like a tragic heroine, I had to physically suppress the rage boiling in my blood. “You know the company offers emergency loans, right?” I said, keeping my voice steady. “If you don’t know the paperwork, I can get HR to help you.” Sienna hesitated, twisting her hands. “But… a loan means I have to pay it back with interest immediately.” And there it was. She never intended to pay back a dime. In the last life, she didn’t just default; she tried to extort me for more. My voice hardened. “What exactly do you want, Sienna? Are you looking for a solution, or are you looking for a free ride?” Panic flickered in her eyes. She squeezed them shut, forcing out a few fresh tears. “No, Grant! It’s just… the bank won’t approve me. The debt is too scary.” I watched the performance. I wondered if she used eye drops before walking in. I glanced through the glass wall. A shadow moved in the hallway. Brody. The stage was set. Just like last time. But this time, I wrote the ending. “Manager… can’t you just help me personally? I’ll work so hard. I’ll remember your kindness forever.” I said nothing. I just stared at her with dead eyes. Thinking my silence was hesitation, she pushed harder. “If I don’t get the money, my dad dies. That’s a human life, Grant.” “There are ten different ways to get money,” I said. “You just want the one that doesn’t require repayment. Why me, Sienna? Why are you fixated on me?” Realizing the guilt trip wasn’t working, her expression shifted. The sorrow evaporated, replaced by manic frustration. She reached into her purse and pulled out a box cutter. She pressed the blade against her own throat, her eyes wild. “Don’t push me! Don’t force me to do this! Just give me a way out!” She was starting the scene. I played along. I threw my hands up, feigning panic, and stepped back. “Whoa! Put it down! I’m just saying no to a loan, there’s no need to hurt yourself!” “I don’t have the money, Sienna! Why don’t you take the company loan?” Seeing my ‘fear,’ she smiled. It was a terrifying switch. She lowered the blade and softened her gaze into something seductive. “Grant… actually, the solution is simple. If you lend me the money… I can do whatever you want.” She began to shrug off her blazer, revealing the thin strap of her camisole underneath. “Wait—don’t take that off.” She didn’t listen. She lunged at me, grabbing my wrist and trying to force my hand onto her chest. Her eyes kept darting to the door. She was waiting for her cue. “One last chance,” she whispered. “Will you lend me the money?” “No.” She gave me a chilling, knowing smile. Then she pulled away, disheveled, and ran out the door. 5 The next morning, the company intranet exploded. An anonymous post on the internal forum rocketed to the top of the trending list. “Marketing Manager Grant Miller uses power to prey on female subordinates. Attempted assault in Conference Room 3. Victim forced to threaten suicide to escape.” Below the text were photos and a short video clip. The photo showed Sienna, clothes disarrayed, struggling in my arms, my hand seemingly on her chest. The video showed her with the box cutter to her throat, crying, begging me not to “force” her. It was a masterclass in editing. A total inversion of reality. It had Brody’s fingerprints all over it. My fiancée, Meredith, heard about it within the hour. Her friend in Accounting sent her the link. She didn’t ask for my side. She just called me, screaming. “I can’t believe you! You’re an animal! I suspected you were useless, but I didn’t think you were a predator!” “I was going to dump you anyway, but since we’ve been together for years… if you sign the new condo over to me as an apology, maybe I won’t tell everyone what a scumbag you are.” I laughed bitterly. There it was. My parents had bought that condo cash. If I put her name on it, it became marital property—or in this case, a settlement. I used to love her. I would have given her the world. But the last life had cured me of that blindness. “We’re done, Meredith,” I said. “We’re breaking up.” I hung up and walked into the office. It was like walking into a riot. “Grant, is it true?” one colleague whispered, horrified. “You always seemed so professional.” “Power corrupts,” another sneered. “Scumbag.” A few people tried to defend me. “Wait for HR. Grant’s not like that.” “Yeah, innocent until proven guilty, right?” But reason is quiet. Outrage is loud. And then Sienna appeared. She looked fragile, broken. Her eyes were red-rimmed. “He tried to… he tried to ruin me,” she sobbed to a group of sympathetic women. “I wanted to die. No girl would use her own dignity to lie about this.” “It took so much courage just to speak up.” The room turned on me instantly. The few defenders went silent. Some of the younger guys looked ready to jump me. “Thank you,” Sienna wept, looking at the mob. “Your support is the only thing keeping me alive.” Security had to step in to clear a path to my desk. Graves called me in immediately. “Grant! I told you to handle it! Is this how you handle it? If this goes external, your career is over. Forget the promotion—you’ll be lucky to avoid jail.” “Director, I’m being framed. I didn’t touch her.” “I know you, Grant. I believe you. But the shareholders don’t know you. The internet doesn’t know you.” “You need evidence. Hard evidence. Or you’re done.” He was giving me a chance. That was all I needed.

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Christmas Eve. Downstairs in the office, nearly half the team had fresh bouquets delivered from their boyfriends. Tessa, my team lead and closest work friend, nudged me with her elbow. “Harper’s man is an actual Art Curator and Rhodes Scholar, not some corporate schmuck like the rest of ours. He knows romance better than anyone, I guarantee it.” I had certainly set the bar high. Two years ago, Rhys Ashworth sent nine hundred ninety-nine velvet crimson roses—enough to fill the entire reception area. Last year, it was a gallery-quality neon art installation spelling out “I Love You,” supposedly embedded with countless pink diamond dust. When it came to public displays of affection, Rhys never let me lose. But this year, my phone was silent. A tomb. I started to panic, convinced something terrible had happened. I cashed in my unused vacation days, booked the first available flight, and crossed half the globe in a single, desperate journey. I was shivering, clutching my worn coat, when I saw him. He was standing beneath a sprawling, snow-dusted Christmas tree right outside his London apartment, kissing another woman. 1 Seeing the familiar angles of his face—the way his brow furrowed in concentration even when he was relaxed—I froze solid. Rhys gently lifted the girl, helping her tie a handwritten wish ribbon onto a branch. “Babe, tomorrow is Christmas.” he whispered, his voice the same soft rumble I’d fallen asleep to on countless video calls. “Santa always makes sure your wishes come true.” The girl’s wide, doe eyes sparkled as she looped her arms around his neck, leaning in to pout. “Will he really make all my wishes come true?” Rhys winked, his hand falling in a casual, possessive slap on her behind. “Of course.” The intimate familiarity of that small, dismissive gesture was a knife twist deep in my gut. I ducked behind the nearest corner, shrinking into the shadowed doorway of a closed bakery. I was a thief, spying on the happiness of my own fiancé and his girlfriend. Tears, hot and unexpected, flooded my eyes. Eight years of a long-distance relationship. This was the first time I had ever checked up on him. The girl giggled, a soft, cloying sound, and playfully tapped her fist on Rhys’s chest. “Now put me down, you big tease.” He steadied her waist with one hand and pressed the back of her head with the other, pulling her close for a deeper, more demanding kiss. I lost it. Fumbling with my phone, I unlocked it. I took a few shallow, shaky breaths to try and level the earthquake in my chest. If he just admits it. If he tells me she’s just a fling, a momentary slip… I can self-destruct later. I can pretend I never saw this. “Rhys, who are you with?” I texted, my thumb hovering over the send button. A familiar jingle rang out from his pocket, just yards away. The girl immediately drew back and complained, her bottom lip stuck out. “Your phone has been going off all night. Which little siren is trying to lure you away now?” She turned her face away dramatically. Rhys instantly held up three fingers in a mock-oath. “Gen, I swear, you’re the only one. Where would I even find anyone else?” He pulled her back into his arms, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “I cut off my engagement for you, babe. Been right here with you in London for six years now.” Six years. Eight years we’d been together. And he’d been with her for six of them. A choked laugh escaped me, a ragged, ugly sound. I sank to the snow-dusted ground, my limbs suddenly too heavy to hold me. Tessa’s text popped up on my screen, a cruel reminder of the life I’d left. Tessa: Did you make it to London safe? Tessa: Don’t play too hard with the fiancé, remember work when you get back! 😉 The tears came faster, heavy and burning. My colleagues had helped me pick out a new dress for our “reunion date” and chipped in for a beautiful set of matching leather bracelets. We all thought Rhys would be ecstatic to see me. The voices faded as they moved away. I risked peering around the corner and watched the girl—Gen—take Rhys’s arm. She leaped onto his back with a lightness that felt like a mockery. “Quick, practice carrying me over the threshold for our wedding!” she chirped, delighted, like a little sparrow. Wedding? He was planning to marry her? What, then, did our tumultuous eight years—our promise of marriage—even mean? I booked a cheap, awful hotel room that had a direct sightline to Rhys’s apartment. A quick, painful dive into the art world gossip confirmed the details. The girl’s name was Genevieve, or Gen. She was Rhys’s student. In the hallowed halls of the Royal Academy, they maintained a cool, professional distance. But here, outside, they were co-habitating. They were passionately in love. While the Academy wouldn’t necessarily block a relationship between a Professor and a student, a high-profile curator like Rhys—engaged to one woman while living with and impregnating another—would be finished. I stood at the window for hours in an act of self-flagellation. I watched Rhys gently peel off her clothes. I watched him trace the line of her jaw and kiss her eyelids. The two shadows, obscenely intertwined on the wall, shifted and moved until the yellow light of their window was the only thing burning on the dark street. It burned a hole straight through my chest. Around 4 AM, Rhys finally replied to my text. Rhys: I was at the studio all night, trying to hit a deadline for the gallery. So sorry, Babe, totally forgot to send a proper Christmas blessing to my future wife. He sent a quick $500 Venmo transfer, labeled “For your trouble.” I stared at the cold, clinical number. The pain in my chest was sharp and dense. For every previous holiday, no matter where he was in the world, Rhys had always flown back to me. I used to tease him that he couldn’t live without me. He would nuzzle my neck and whine. “It’s true. The husband can’t live without his wife. Just wait until I finish my post-doc, then we’ll get married. Never separate again.” Five years ago, he earned his PhD. I asked when he was coming home. He told me sheepishly that a friend had convinced him to open a gallery in Paris and he couldn’t leave yet. Three years ago, when the gallery moved to London, I asked again. He mumbled about an adjunct professorship at the Academy. The wedding date kept moving. I grew sensitive, anxious. Was he seeing someone else? To calm my fears, he would video call every Sunday night. But now, scrolling through our messages, his last text was from two weeks ago. After that, it was a long, pathetic solo performance from me. I didn’t touch the Venmo money. My finger tapped the screen lightly. Harper: I’m coming to see you tomorrow for Christmas. The dreaded Rhys is typing… appeared on the screen. It stayed there. For three agonizing hours. He finally sent a cutesy dog meme. Rhys: Oh, I hate the thought of you flying all that way! Let’s just do a long video call. I need my wife rested! Rhys could have chosen to be honest. But he was still hiding. Perhaps I was no longer important enough to warrant the truth. I didn’t give him any more time to prepare. As soon as the sun cracked the horizon, I knocked on his door. When Rhys opened it, his eyes weren’t fully awake. He assumed I was a delivery driver and motioned toward the living room. “Just leave the package on the coffee table.” I followed his gaze. A pink silk teddy—rumpled and tossed carelessly—was draped over the sofa. Acid surged up my throat. My eyes stung violently. “Rhys…” My voice. The man’s spine went instantly rigid. His eyes cleared, snapping into focus. “Harper?” he gasped, astonishment warring with panic. I only nodded, a tiny, numb gesture. The bedroom door clicked open. Gen, wearing only a thin, white bra and panties, walked out, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “It’s too loud out here,” she murmured. Rhys’s face drained of color. He scrambled to peel off the sweater he was wearing and quickly wrapped it around her, his eyes darting back to me. His explanation was desperate and hollow. “Harper, this is Gen. She’s my student. She had a terrible fight with her boyfriend and I was worried about her safety, so I let her crash here.” Gen looked instantly pale and pathetic. She bit her lip and eyed me timidly. “Hello, Mrs. Ashworth.” I managed a clipped nod. The forced smile I attempted evaporated immediately. Rhys cooked. He cleared the table, making a feast of French toast and eggs. Eight years. He had finally learned to cook and clean for a woman. Only it wasn’t me. Gen announced she had to leave for class. Rhys immediately reached for his car keys to drive her. I swallowed the rising tide of anger and hurt and looped my arm through his with a cheerful smile. “Take me with you. I’d love to see the campus.” Rhys pulled over one stoplight before the school entrance. Gen quickly avoided his hand as he went to undo her seatbelt, turning to me with forced sweetness. “Thank you, Professor and Mrs. Ashworth, for the lift. I’ll get out here.” She gave Rhys a meaningful, miserable look and then hurried away. Rhys’s eyes were glued to her retreating figure. As if remembering something crucial, he threw his own door open and sprinted after her. My nails bit deeply into my palms. I could taste the metallic tang of blood from where I’d chewed the inside of my mouth. Rhys pulled a hot compress and a small packet of ginger tea from his coat, pressing them into Gen’s hand. His tender, low instructions drifted back on the cold wind. “Remember, the first day is always the worst. Be sure to take care of yourself, okay?” Tears spilled instantly and without warning. I scrubbed them away frantically. Rhys watched her walk through the gates. Only when she was gone did he turn back and seem to remember I was still in the car. He explained in a low, conspiratorial voice, “Gen is an orphan. I’m just a mentor, Harper. It’s a student-professor connection. Please don’t overthink it.” I nodded. Just a mentor. As soon as we walked onto the main quad, we ran into a group of his students. Their eyes bounced between Rhys and me, the tension evident. One of them finally spoke up with a grin. “Is this Professor Ashworth’s American girlfriend?” Before Rhys could answer, I reached into my designer handbag, pulled out a handful of the high-end chocolate truffles I’d bought, and distributed them. “Not his girlfriend, actually,” I corrected, my smile bright and cutting. “His Fiancée.” They looked up, surprised, then started congratulating us, offering their clumsy, enthusiastic well-wishes. Rhys’s brow furrowed. He squeezed my wrist, his voice tight. “Harper, let’s go. I want to show you the chapel.” I waved goodbye to the students with exaggerated warmth, assuring them that our wedding was soon and that they would absolutely be invited. Just around the corner, I saw Gen’s pale, wobbling figure. She dabbed at her eyes and hurried away, a picture of wounded innocence. Rhys turned on me, his voice sharp and cold. “What the hell was that, Harper? What are you trying to pull?” I straightened my back and met the contained fury in his eyes. “Pull? Did we not finally save the money for the wedding? Didn’t you promise we would marry as soon as we had the fifty thousand dollars?” I raised my voice, the final sentence a scream ripped from my chest. “Or is it that you don’t want to marry me anymore? Have you fallen in love with someone else?” My aggression shocked him. His face hardened, and he bit out a single, ugly word. “Shrew.” He took off after Gen. I couldn’t hold the facade any longer. I leaned against the cold stone wall, the fight draining from me, and let the tears flow. My phone started a frantic, non-stop vibration. It was my mother. I hit the answer button. My mother’s sobbing flooded the speaker. “Harper, your father had a sudden brain aneurysm. He needs emergency surgery, now.” “I didn’t want to bother you, but the doctors say he’s critical. I’m afraid I won’t raise the money in time…” The pain in my heart was instantly eclipsed by terror. I quickly opened my savings app to transfer the money. But after entering my password, the screen flashed: INSUFFICIENT FUNDS. There should have been exactly $50,000—my entire wedding fund. I tried again, disbelief numbing my fingers. Still insufficient. Trembling, I pulled up the transaction history. Three minutes ago, Rhys had transferred the entire fifty thousand dollar balance out.

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The day I got my license suspended for a DUI, I didn’t panic. My best friend did. In the life before this one—that other timeline where I was too naive to see the knife coming—she had borrowed my car for our annual family memorial trip back home. On a dark, winding road, she hit and killed an octogenarian. She pushed it all onto me, telling the highway patrol I was the one driving. Even my boyfriend stood by her, a willing accomplice providing the perjured testimony that pinned the murder on me. I was torn to shreds—literally. The dead man’s family cornered me, and I died after being stabbed eight times, my soul unable to rest. When I opened my eyes again, I was back. Back to the day my childhood friend asked to borrow the car. 1 “Willow, I need your car for the weekend trip back home. Can I just grab your keys?” Sutton Miller, my best friend since kindergarten, saw my frozen silence and must have mistaken it for consent. She reached for my purse, ready to fish out the key fob for the brand-new SUV my dad had just given me last month. The next second, I snapped back into the present. Seeing her hand reaching for my bag, I instinctively snatched it back and clutched it to my chest. “Willow, what the hell? I’m not stealing your stuff. I just need the car keys.” I looked at her, my eyes narrow with a lifetime of paranoia. “No. I’m driving home myself for the memorial this year.” Sutton clearly wasn’t used to hearing the word “no” from me. She frowned, her voice tightening with impatience. “Just take one of the other cars your family owns. You guys have, what, three?” “This is my new car. The one Dad just got me last month. Go ask someone else, Sutton. You can’t borrow mine.” My voice was firm, but before the last word left my mouth, a strong hand ripped my bag away, found the key fob, and tossed it to Sutton. “Willow, why are you being so cheap? It’s just a loan. It’s not like she won’t give it back. Can’t you just take a bus back home for once?” I stared coldly at Dean Thompson, the man who was supposed to be my boyfriend, yet who always, always, backed Sutton up. I had been so blind in the last life, utterly clueless about the affair between these two rats. Sutton and I were best friends, practically sisters. We grew up a few hours apart in the same rural community before my parents moved to the city. Last time, when she asked to borrow the car for the memorial, I hadn’t hesitated. It was brand new, yes, but I handed her the key without a second thought. Then came the tragedy. She hit an eighty-year-old man on a dark country road. There were no cameras in the village, it was late at night, and I hadn’t gotten around to installing a dashcam in the new SUV yet. So she pinned it on me. She somehow got ahold of my driver’s license and planted it at the scene of the accident. The police tracked me down via the license. I was already shaken, ready to explain that the car had been loaned out, when Dean, my boyfriend, stepped up and told the cops I was the one driving. The license was mine. The vehicle was registered to me. The person closest to me testified against me. Any attempt to defend myself was useless. The victim’s family found me and demanded a massive settlement. I refused, protesting my innocence. Seeing my refusal, the furious family swarmed me, pushing me into the highway where I was hit and run over by a semi-truck. There was nothing left. 2 The memory of the asphalt and the crushing weight of the truck—the feeling of that betrayal—was enough to burn through my anger and ignite a cold resolve. I stepped forward, shoved Dean aside, and snatched my bag back. Before he could speak, I snapped, “Dean, what the hell is wrong with you? Whose side are you on? You’re my boyfriend, not hers! Why do you always take her side?” My gaze flickered between them. “Unless… there’s something going on between you two?” I didn’t finish the sentence, but the panic in their eyes was immediate. They had me pegged as their cash cow, the easily manipulated source of money and favors. They weren’t ready to drop the mask just yet. “Willow, how can you even think that? Our twenty years of friendship… is all that worth nothing just because I wanted to borrow your car?” Sutton immediately played the victim, the tears springing up with practiced ease. I shrugged, uncaring. “Say whatever you want. I’m not lending you the car.” “But you can ask him. He has a car. Why are you only focused on borrowing mine?” I pointed to Dean. Dean immediately balked. “No. I need my car to go back to my parents’ place. My dad has bad knees; we need the car.” I let out a cold laugh. “Looks like he won’t lend it either. Guess you’ll have to take the train, Sutton.” I grabbed the keys, spun around, and walked away. After breathing in a few gulps of fresh air, I finally calmed down and drove home, my brow furrowed the whole way. Something still felt wrong. Suddenly, an idea struck me, and I pulled over to the side of the road, opening my State Department of Motor Vehicles app. What I saw made my blood run cold. Unbeknownst to me, when Sutton had borrowed my car before I got the new one, she had racked up driving infractions and used my license to take the points—eleven points in total. My current license was essentially a ticking time bomb. One minor violation, and it would be immediately suspended. I glanced in my side mirror and saw a State Trooper walking toward my car—I’d been stopped for too long on the shoulder. An idea, daring and dangerous, clicked into place. Last time, Sutton had somehow gotten my license and planted it, which led the police directly to me. This time, I absolutely would not allow that to happen. She wants my license to frame me? Fine. I’ll hand it over to the police myself. Now. Let her try to frame a woman who is legally not allowed to drive. I grabbed the household disinfectant spray I kept in the cup holder—the one with a high alcohol content—sprayed it around the car, and then, without hesitation, sprayed a quick mist into my mouth. The Trooper tapped on my window. When I rolled it down, he immediately smelled the sharp, artificial alcohol scent. His expression hardened. He pulled out a breathalyzer. “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to blow into this.” I complied, blowing lightly. Seeing the number flash on the screen, the officer immediately stated, “Ma’am, you are over the limit. You’re being charged with a DUI. Please present your driver’s license and registration.” I nodded obediently, handing over the card. I even asked, with genuine, relieved enthusiasm, “A DUI means a six-month license suspension, correct?” The officer looked at my overly cheerful expression, confused, assuming I was in shock. “Now you’re scared, huh? How many times do we have to say it? Don’t drink and drive. You just don’t listen.” “Your license will be suspended for six months, and you’ll be fined one thousand dollars.” I happily paid the fine, surrendered my license, and called a ride-share service to take me home. Lying in my own bed, I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. No one could frame me now. My license was already with the state. I told my parents that the new SUV had a major issue and was in the shop, so I couldn’t drive back home for the memorial. Since my family had other vehicles, my dad immediately offered to drive us himself. 3 We set off the day before the memorial, long before dawn. It was about a three-hour drive, so I slept most of the way. I woke up as we pulled up to the old family property. The house was generally empty, only visited during the holidays and for the annual memorial. The three of us spent the entire afternoon cleaning it up. The next morning, my parents and I got up early, gathered our offerings, and prepared to head up the hill. We hadn’t walked far when we noticed a commotion up ahead. I lowered my head and tried to keep walking with my parents, but then someone in the crowd called out my name. “Well, look who it is. If it isn’t Xie’s daughter. Don’t you say hello anymore?” I looked up. It was one of the locals from the community. I only came back a few times a year, and my relationship with these people was purely a nodding acquaintance. I didn’t even know half their names; there was no real need to stop. But since I’d been called out, ignoring them would be rude. I managed a tight smile and was about to move on when someone pulled my arm. “Willow, look at Sutton, though. She brought us all these wonderful gifts. She’s got a car and a nice place in the city, and she’s got such an outstanding boyfriend. You should be more like her.” I walked over and saw Sutton and Dean at the center of the crowd, soaking up the attention. Were they not even trying to hide it anymore? Being addressed as a couple, right out in the open? Sutton saw me and seemed to realize the locals had jumped the gun. She quickly tried to clarify. “Actually, me and Dean are just friends. Please don’t misunderstand.” But the locals didn’t listen, instead chiding her for being shy and trying to keep a big secret like a new relationship. I let out a cold laugh. “Dean, when exactly did you become Sutton’s boyfriend? I must have missed that memo.” Panic flashed in Dean’s eyes. He rushed over and grabbed my sleeve. “Willow, honey, I came all this way specifically to see you. I wouldn’t have even found your family’s place if Sutton hadn’t driven me.” He turned to my parents with a fawning, eager expression. “Mr. and Mrs. Reid, I’m Willow’s boyfriend. I apologize, I haven’t had a chance to buy you proper gifts yet. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you here.” The crowd burst into surprised murmurs. So, they had been the ones who misunderstood! The villager who had been the loudest looked embarrassed and shot a passive-aggressive remark at Sutton. “Oh, so he’s not yours after all? You should have said something sooner. You got us all confused.” Sutton looked mortified. She hadn’t expected the coincidence of me showing up right next to her property and being pulled into the crowd. I yanked my hand out of Dean’s grasp and pressed the attack on Sutton. “Sutton, since when did you buy a place and a car in the city? Why didn’t you tell me?” “You must have spent a fortune on all these gifts.” Sutton was silent for a few seconds before defending herself with self-righteous indignation. “We’re neighbors. We’ve known each other for years. Of course, I should buy them gifts. Willow, you shouldn’t forget where you come from.” The locals, who had just received her gifts, immediately rallied to her defense and started pointing fingers at me. “She’s a city girl now, looking down on the rest of us here in the country.” “I don’t know what her parents taught her. She’s a disgrace to the community.” “Your dad’s old man gave him a basket of eggs when he went off to college! Now he makes money and he forgets everyone!” My family hadn’t done anything, yet in the locals’ mouths, we were the villains. With so many people openly accusing us, my dad was about to step in and defend me when a group of people suddenly burst into Sutton’s yard. “Is Willow Reid here?” The leader’s voice was loud and commanding. Everyone in the yard instantly turned and fell silent. 4 I quickly stepped forward. “Officer, I’m Willow Reid. How can I help you?” The officer studied me, seeming to confirm my identity. “You are a person of interest in a fatal hit-and-run case. We need you to come with us.” My eyes widened in disbelief. “That’s impossible, Officer. I haven’t driven my car in days.” My dad, too, was instantly alarmed. “Absolutely not, Officer! My daughter would never do such a thing!” The officer didn’t argue. He held up a transparent evidence bag containing a blood-smeared driver’s license. “This is your driver’s license. It was recovered at the scene. Whether you were driving or not, we require your cooperation in this investigation.” I looked at the license in the bag, the horrifying realization of their new plan clicking into place. Before I could speak, Sutton stepped forward, her voice dripping with fake sorrow. “Willow, how could you leave the scene? That was someone’s life!” “You always drove too fast. I’ve told you countless times, Willow, why don’t you ever listen?” She sounded so heartbroken, so convincing, that if I wasn’t the victim of her frame-up, I might have been moved. “Wait a minute, Officer, this isn’t right,” my mom suddenly realized. “You said she was involved in a car accident, but my daughter didn’t drive her car home this weekend.” “We did not find the vehicle at the scene, only some fragments of a bumper,” the officer confirmed. At that moment, Dean stepped forward, a smug look of heroic revelation on his face. “I know where the car is!” We all looked at him. A sickening sense of dread welled up inside me. Dean, looking utterly confident, said, “Come with me, officers. I’ll show you where she hid the vehicle.” The group left Sutton’s yard and started walking toward our family property. Dean led the police into our house. Our seldom-used backyard, which was usually cluttered with old junk, now contained an extra vehicle—my SUV. But I had parked that car in my garage at my apartment complex in the city! How did it get here? “Officers, this is the vehicle,” Dean declared, pointing. “Willow was the one driving. She hit the victim, fled the scene, and parked the car here.” “She told me everything. If you had arrived any later, she was planning on driving it further up the mountain to hide it.” Dean’s expression was earnest, but as his eyes met mine, a flicker of triumph crossed them. Everyone, except my parents, who had been with me all day, now looked convinced that I was the killer. “Willow, you should just turn yourself in,” Sutton urged, stepping forward. “It’s the only way to get a lighter sentence.” My parents were completely lost, their minds reeling from the shock. I watched the officers take a step toward me. I had to act, or I would go down for murder again. “Officers, that driver’s license is not mine,” I stated loudly. “I have proof!” Dean and Sutton assumed I was just terrified. Dean pointed to the evidence bag. “Look closer. Your name is right there on it! How can it not be yours?” The officer, however, ignored them and listened to me. He took the license out of the bag and inspected it closely. Then, in front of everyone, he said: “This license is a forgery. It’s fake.

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“Your insurance card. Let me use it for the paperwork.” Derek was lying in the hospital bed, his face a sickly yellow. I looked at him. “The total treatment is going to be around $120,000,” he said. “My coverage won’t touch that.” “What about your savings?” He was silent. I smiled. A slow, cold thing. Married for five years, living AA for five years. He made $6,000 a month; I made $4,500. Mortgage split fifty-fifty. Living expenses split fifty-fifty. I thought it was called fairness. Until today, when I learned the truth— He had saved $220,000. I had saved $8,000. 1 Three days ago, Derek was diagnosed with lung cancer. Mid-stage. The doctor said we needed surgery immediately, followed by aggressive chemotherapy. “What are the likely costs?” I asked. “Surgery and chemo, conservatively, between $100,000 and $120,000.” My mind went instantly blank. A loud, high-pitched ringing. Derek squeezed my hand. “It’s okay, Ava. We’ll face this together.” I nodded. When we got home, I started to crunch the numbers. My savings: $8,300. Credit card limit: $3,000. Total: a little over $11,000. A drop in the bucket. I called my mother, Eleanor. “Mom, Derek’s sick. We might need to borrow some money.” She didn’t hesitate. “Your father and I have $12,000 in the emergency fund. I’ll transfer it tomorrow.” My throat tightened. That evening, Derek’s mother, Lydia, called. “Ava,” his mother’s voice was anxious, “How are you going to treat Derek’s illness?” “Surgery first, then chemo.” “Do you have enough for the expenses?” “I’m working on it.” Lydia paused for a moment. “Your father-in-law and I have $25,000 set aside. It’s all yours.” A wave of warmth washed over me. “Thank you, Lydia.” After hanging up, I added it all up. My parents’ $12,000, his parents’ $25,000, my $11,000. $48,000. Still short by at least $50,000. I looked at Derek. “How much do you have saved?” He hesitated. “I… I’ll have to check my accounts.” “Roughly?” “Maybe… thirty, forty thousand?” Forty thousand, plus the $48,000 we had. That was $88,000. Still short by a third. I sighed. “I’ll go to the bank tomorrow and see about a personal loan.” Derek didn’t say a word. The next day, I took time off work and rushed between three different banks. The most I could get for a personal loan was $30,000, and the interest rate was brutal. I bit down on my lip and signed the documents. Back at the hospital, Derek was on the phone. “…I know, but now’s not the time… Just leave it there. Don’t touch it…” He quickly ended the call when he saw me walk in. “Who was that?” “A colleague,” he said. “Asking about the diagnosis.” I didn’t think much of it. That evening, I told him about the loan. “$30,000. Thirty-six months to pay it back. It’s going to be $1,000 a month.” Derek frowned. “The interest is that high?” “We don’t have a choice. This is life or death.” He nodded. “Thank you, Ava. I know this is hard.” I took his hand. “We’re husband and wife.” He looked at me, his eyes reddening. In that moment, I felt that our five years of AA, of splitting every bill, had been worth it. At least in a crisis, we were in this fight together. But I didn’t know the real ledger—the one I hadn’t seen yet. 2 The surgery was scheduled for three days later. We needed a $30,000 deposit before they would start the procedure. I transferred the entire $30,000 from the new loan. Once the payment went through, I felt a slight easing of the pressure. Around noon, I went home to grab a change of clothes. Derek’s phone was sitting on the nightstand. The screen lit up. A text notification from an account simply labeled “M.” The message read: “$220,000. Confirmed receipt.” I froze. $220,000? What was $220,000? I picked up the phone, my thumb hovering over the screen. It was locked. I tried his birthday. Wrong. I tried our wedding anniversary. Wrong. I tried his mother’s birthday. It opened. I tapped the message thread with “M.” The more I read, the more my hands shook. “Derek, your brokerage account is killing it. Almost double in five years.” “Not bad. Started with $120k. Now it’s $220k.” “Does Ava know?” “No. We’re AA, separate accounts, separate lives. I keep my earnings to myself.” “Smart man. That’s real economic independence.” “Haha. The key is I know how to invest. With her salary, she can’t save much anyway.” I scrolled up. Older messages. “Every month I get my $6,000 paycheck. I send $700 to my mom, put $3,000 into my investment account, and keep $2,300 for myself. It’s perfect.” “What about the mortgage?” “AA, right? She pays half, I pay half. $1,200 each.” “And living expenses?” “Also AA. $600 each.” “So how much does your wife save a month?” “She makes $4,500. $1,200 for the mortgage, $600 for living, $400 for her parents. She spends maybe $800 to $1,000 on herself. She probably saves $1,300 to $1,500.” “So you save $3,700 a month, and she saves $1,500?” “Roughly. But she doesn’t invest, so her money just sits in the bank, earning nothing.” “You’re a piece of work, man.” I put the phone down. My hands were trembling. Five years. He saved $3,700 a month. I saved $1,500 a month. He saved $220,000. I saved $8,000. All because he was a “savvy investor.” And where did my money actually go? I pulled out my own phone and opened my banking app, checking the spending log. Mortgage: $1,200. Check. Living expenses: I realized I paid far more than my $600 share. Groceries, utilities, cleaning supplies, paper towels—I bought all of it. The holiday gifts for his parents, the nice shirts and shoes I bought him. The “joint account” $600 only covered basic produce. Everything else was my personal expense. At least $800 more a month out of my pocket. Plus the $400 for my parents, the travel expenses, and gifts for family gatherings. If I was lucky, I was saving $600 to $800 a month. Five years. I saved $8,000. He saved $220,000. That was his definition of “fairness.” That was AA. I sat on the edge of the bed and laughed out loud. I laughed until the tears started to fall.

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It was Christmas Eve, and I had just finished hand-rolling three hundred pieces of porcini mushroom and ricotta agnolotti. Garrett, my husband, took every single tray and gave them to Lila. Lila was my closest friend—and Garrett’s sister-in-law. 1 We had moved together, trading the genteel charm of Savannah, Georgia, for the high-tech bustle of Seattle, Washington. I married the older brother, Garrett Reed. She married the younger, Owen Reed. Those agnolotti were my favorite, a labor of love Garrett had spent months learning to make when he was courting me, traveling to different Italian chefs across the South to master the delicate dough. He’d called it our exclusive flavor. At seven that evening, the snow was falling outside in heavy, silent drifts. I had just pinched the final piece of pasta closed when Owen called. His voice was strained with a mix of confusion and irritation. “Harper, where is she? Didn’t Lila say she was having dinner at your place tonight? Mom and the whole family are waiting for us back at the estate.” My stomach dropped. I looked back at the empty, meticulously clean kitchen. “Garrett didn’t bring her back? They left here around three this afternoon.” The line went silent for a long moment, then Owen’s voice came back, sharp with suppressed fury. “Garrett took Lila? Where did he take her?” My hands went instantly cold, the dusting of flour on my fingertips feeling like ice crystals. Garrett returned hours later, bringing a blast of the cold night air and a distinct scent of women’s perfume. Lila’s favorite, that cloyingly sweet, hard-to-find artisan scent. “Where are the agnolotti?” I asked him. He shrugged off his expensive, custom-tailored coat, revealing a pristine cashmere sweater. He answered with unnerving ease. “I gave them to Lila. She and Owen are having issues, and she’s barely eating. I wanted her to have a taste of home to cheer her up.” He walked toward me, attempting his usual comforting embrace, but I stepped sideways, dodging him. “Garrett, I spent the entire afternoon making those.” My voice was trembling. “Why didn’t you call me? Why didn’t you tell me?” The gentle expression on his face dissolved, replaced by a flash of impatience. “It’s really not a big deal, Harper. Why are you still so small-minded about things?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Lila is the family’s cherished darling. She’s your friend, she’s my sister-in-law. Can’t you just cut her some slack? She moved here from a smaller town, she doesn’t have a support system—if we don’t look out for her, who will?” My eyes instantly stung with tears. And what about me? I moved here from a small town, too. I’m directionally challenged and chronically anxious. In this city, without him, I can barely find my way home. But in his mind, Lila’s sensitivity was a delicate trait; mine was just being small-minded. “She has Owen, she has your parents, she has you—the protective older brother. Who do I have?” I stared him down. “Garrett, I only have you.” My words seemed to sting him. He frustratedly pulled at his tie, took a thick wad of bills from his wallet, and tossed it onto the kitchen counter. “It was just a meal. I’ll replace it!” “I’ll take you to the most exclusive restaurant in Seattle. Order whatever you want! Stop being so petty over something this trivial. It makes you look like a child.” The cash scattered across the granite, a silent, mocking testament to my wasted hours and high expectations. A wave of nausea hit me, violent and sudden. I rushed to the bathroom, throwing up until I was dry heaving. Garrett followed, but offered no comfort. He just stood in the doorway, watching me with a cold stare. “Harper, have you made your point? You’re going to ruin Lila’s marriage with your pointless jealousy.” “If you keep this up, we have nothing left to talk about.” The door slammed shut behind him, the force of it rattling the wall. I slid down the cold tile, resting against the porcelain. Every bit of strength had been drained from me. Just then, Lila posted on Instagram. A single photo, centered in a nine-square grid. The background was the buttery leather of Garrett’s flashy Porsche 911 Carrera. She was in the passenger seat, smiling a picture of contentment, clutching a sleek insulated food container—the one holding my agnolotti. The caption: Thank you, big brother. You always know exactly what I need. Beneath it, Garrett’s mother, our mother-in-law, was the first to comment: As long as Lila is happy! If Owen gives you any trouble, you tell me. Your Big Brother and I will handle him! The rest of the Reed relatives chimed in: “Our Lila is so resilient. Not like some people who can’t think about anyone but themselves.” “Right? A man’s fortune is made by the wife he chooses. Garrett is truly blessed.” I stared at the blindingly cruel comments, my chest tightening as if an invisible fist were squeezing the air from my lungs. It was clear. In their eyes, I was the one who didn’t belong here. 2 The next morning, Garrett acted as if nothing had happened, bringing breakfast home. “Harp, I was out of line yesterday. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.” He softened his voice and wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Look, I got you that artisan French pastry you love. It’s still warm.” I didn’t turn around. My voice was as cold as the snow outside. “Garrett, I think we need some time apart.” His arms instantly went rigid. “Harper, what are you talking about? Over a box of pasta?” “Can you please act like an adult? Lila and I truly have a sibling bond. She and Owen are struggling, and it’s my responsibility as the older brother to look out for her.” “I’m just concerned about her. I haven’t done anything to betray you. Do you really need to escalate this to separating?” I finally turned to face him, asking deliberately, “Have you ever considered that your ‘concern’ has crossed into a demolition zone for our boundaries?” “Have you considered how Owen feels? How I feel?” “Does your life, our life, and our marriage, always come second to Lila?” My questions left him speechless, his face cycling from pale white to an angry red. Finally, he exhaled, looking utterly defeated. He sighed wearily. “Fine. I promise. I will keep my distance. No more private meet-ups outside of family functions. Just work and group texts. Are you satisfied now?” He believed this was just another routine fight, a truce he could buy with a simple apology and a promise. But he didn’t realize that some things, once broken, can never be fully restored. For a while, Garrett kept his word. His interactions with Lila were limited to polite nods at family dinners, and his texts to her were only sparse messages in the family group chat. He started coming home on time. He bought me thoughtful little gifts. He patiently helped me, the lifelong directionally-challenged wife, explore the corners of this unfamiliar city. The atmosphere in our home softened, returning to its comfortable, sweet rhythm. I even started to wonder if I had been too sensitive. Until I found the old iPad, almost forgotten, shoved into a drawer in his study. It was logged into a second, separate social media account I’d never seen, with only his close family members and in-laws as followers. Its feed was an entire world I hadn’t known existed—a private world belonging to him and Lila. He’d taken her to her child’s PTA meeting. The photo showed the three of them—Garrett, Lila, and the kid—smiling brightly, looking like a perfect little family. The caption: Our little champ. He had spent the night by her hospital bed when she was sick, taking a photo of her sleeping profile. The caption: Your big brother is here. Don’t worry. He had even taken her to see her favorite musician on our wedding anniversary, simply because she’d fought with Owen and couldn’t get a ticket. His post showed the stage lights, captioned: Your wish is my command. Every single post was filled with “heartfelt” comments and praise from the Reed family relatives. “Our Garrett is so responsible. So much better than that brat Owen.” “Lila truly has good fortune, having such a great older brother.” “This is what real family looks like. So much love.” I felt like a ridiculous intruder, a thief in the night, spying on my husband’s and my best friend’s blissful life—a life from which I was clearly, painstakingly excluded. With trembling fingers, I scrolled back to the Christmas Eve chat log. Lila messaged him: Big brother, is Harper going to be mad? These agnolotti looked like she made them just for you. Maybe I should send them back. Garrett’s reply: Don’t worry about it. She’s not that small-minded. Enjoy them. I’ll sort it out if she complains. Lila: Brother, you’re so good to me. If only I had married you… Garrett: Stop that foolish talk. But remember this: no matter what happens, your brother is always your rock. My blood felt like it froze solid in that moment. All our arguments, all our periods of cold silence, were just me being a “small-minded” nuisance in his eyes. And all his concessions, all his promises to me, were just empty gestures meant to placate me so he could more comfortably remain Lila’s “rock.” My entire life felt like one huge, embarrassing joke.

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