It had been less than a month since I walked down the aisle, and my millionaire husband was already standing on the edge of a cliff, completely bankrupt. Everyone laughed, calling me a failed opportunist. I didn’t listen to them. I simply handed him every last penny of my savings and told him: “I believe in you, Link.” We spent the next three years living in abject poverty. We were so broke that when my mother was critically ill, my husband, Lincoln’s, shaky business finances couldn’t scrape together the $30,000 for her necessary surgery. I watched my mother close her eyes for the last time. I hated myself countless times for failing to borrow the money, but I never once thought to hate him. Not until I saw a team-building video posted by one of his employees. The diamond tennis bracelet I had hesitated for so long to buy for myself—Lincoln’s beautiful secretary, Seraphina, seemed to own dozens of them. The bag resting by her hand required a pre-spend of over $300,000 just to qualify for the waitlist. 1 “Mr. Stone, wasn’t that $30,000 originally allocated to Mrs. Stone? Why did it suddenly get paid out as a bonus to Seraphina?” I heard the accountant’s voice drifting from the office. I held my breath, my eyes stinging, straining to catch every sound from inside. Lincoln Stone’s laugh was casual, almost bored: “I told her I wanted to buy it for her, and she refused. “She said I’d already spent over two million on her and was turning her into my ‘trophy wife.’ “She was exactly thirty grand short for that Birkin bag, and she insisted on earning it herself. “If I route it to her as a bonus, it’s not a gift from me. That way, she’ll be happier.” I nearly collapsed. My mother’s life savings—the money that could have paid for the surgery—was instantly rerouted to Seraphina, just to cover the cost of a bag and placate her ridiculous vanity? And what about my mother? Wasn’t Lincoln still struggling just to keep the company afloat? Where, exactly, did that “two million” even come from? “But Mr. Stone, the company has been out of the woods for a while now. We could spare an extra thirty grand for your wife, too. Why did you have to transfer her thirty grand to Seraphina?” Lincoln sighed: “Sera wanted to take a trip a while back, but Vivian snatched the last first-class ticket on the cross-country train. “Sera missed the chance to see the sunrise at the Grand Canyon and was upset for ages. “This, now, is my way of compensating her for what Vivian ‘owes’ her.” A bitter, hysterical laugh caught in my throat. The day I booked that last ticket? That was the very day my mother’s critical condition notice was delivered. I hadn’t told him. I hadn’t wanted to interfere with his work. But a ticket purchase, a matter of speed and luck, was suddenly my fault? I owed Seraphina, simply because she was a step too slow? “Oh? Sis, what are you doing here?” Seraphina’s heels clicked directly behind me. The voices inside the office abruptly ceased. 2 “Vivian?” Lincoln opened the door and instantly gripped my arm. “Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of your mom? Why are you here?” I fixed my eyes on his. “She’s gone.” His breath hitched. “Why?” “We were $30,000 short for the surgery. We couldn’t raise it.” The accountant sharply inhaled, looking reflexively toward Lincoln. I saw a flicker of genuine shock—and something like terror—in Lincoln’s eyes. “How could this happen…?” Watching his belated, self-centered regret, my first impulse was to slap him. I wanted to scream, to demand why he gave that money to Seraphina over my dying mother—all for a ridiculous purse and a childish principle. But I realized I didn’t have the leverage. All my money had been poured into Mom’s previous treatments. I couldn’t even afford the funeral. My substantial savings had been handed over to him, to the very last cent, when he was bankrupt years ago. Now, I had to rely on this man to cover the cost of my mother’s burial! Seeing my jaw clenched and tears finally escaping, Lincoln quickly wiped my cheeks. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle everything. Even if my finances are tight right now, I’ll spare no expense.” Even now, he was still pretending to be poor… “That’s right, Sis. Even though Mr. Stone is going through a rough patch, he’ll definitely do everything he can.” A hand reached out to grasp mine. My gaze dropped to the thick gold band on Seraphina’s ring finger. She hastily pulled her hand back, her smile tight and anxious. And I understood. That ring, too, had been purchased by Lincoln. Perhaps out of guilt, Lincoln insisted on a lavish funeral. He even took the entire week off work. He was constantly by my side. On the day of the burial, I thought I had my emotions under control, but the moment I saw my mother’s portrait, my tears broke like a dam. He stood next to me, frequently glancing down at his phone. Only when a relative approached him would he belatedly tuck the phone away and compose a temporary expression of sadness. “Vivian, something urgent came up at the office. I have to rush over immediately.” He squeezed my hand hard as he said it. “I’ll come back to pick you up when I’m done.” Then he turned and hurried away from the service. The last time he’d rushed like that, he was on his way to see me. I didn’t try to stop him. I pulled out my phone and clicked on the profile labeled @WinterSolstice. Sure enough, a new photo had just been posted. It was a shot of a floor-to-ceiling window in a luxury high-rise overlooking the city lights, with empty wine bottles scattered across the marble floor. @WinterSolstice: If I just pretended to be sad and helpless, would you look at me more? The post tagged a user: @Linc_NYC. Linc. Lincoln. Winter Solstice. Seraphina. I couldn’t recall the trembling state I was in when I first found this account and pressed ‘Follow.’ It was only so I could track the miserable progress of their affair. Later that evening, after the service had ended, the account updated again. It was a selfie of a woman being held tightly around the waist by a man. The woman’s cropped top perfectly outlined her figure. The delicate chain around her collarbone was long enough to wrap around her waist. Her face was hidden. But the hand resting on her hip was wearing the wedding band I knew too well. The caption: @WinterSolstice: I knew you would never leave me alone. @Linc_NYC had liked the post. His comment: The people who love you won’t let you suffer. A quiet, low laugh escaped me. I stood alone in the empty funeral hall. A cold wind blew through. It felt as though the entire world contained only me. And behind me, my mother’s portrait. Lincoln never came back to pick me up. It wasn’t until night had fallen and the funeral home was deserted that he finally called. “Vivian, the company issue got complicated, and then I had to go straight to a press conference. “I got delayed, sweetheart. I’m sorry. “I’ll be done in maybe two hours. Then I’ll come get you, I promise.” I smiled, sitting in the back of a taxi. “Don’t bother. I have a gift for you.” “What?” On the phone, the live broadcast of his press conference was playing. The massive screen behind Lincoln suddenly switched. The sounds that followed were sickening and unmistakable. The massive bed in the river-view luxury high-rise. Two familiar figures entangled in a desperate, brutal embrace. 3 A week earlier, the moment I found the @WinterSolstice account, I began preparing for this day. After my mother’s burial, I finally had the time and mental clarity to deal with them. I am not the kind of woman who swallows betrayal. I wanted revenge—a ruin so public, so devastating, that these two would be disgraced beyond recovery! There was no better opportunity than a live press conference. By the time I arrived, the lobby was already a scene of absolute chaos. Reporters had abandoned questions about corporate finance and shifted entirely to Lincoln’s affair with Seraphina. The moment they saw me, the crowd parted, creating an aisle straight to the stage. “Vivian Stone?” Lincoln looked at me, utterly disbelieving. Seraphina cowered behind him, her face etched with panic. “Sis…” Smack! I landed a savage slap across her face. Lincoln frowned. “Vivian Stone!” Smack! The second slap landed hard on his own cheek. He looked at me, completely bewildered. “Where did you send that $30,000?” Lincoln’s breathing hitched. “You… you know?” Smack! The third slap. “Do you have any idea that we were only $30,000 short! With that money, my mother would still be alive!” At the mention of the woman who had cared for him in his orphaned childhood, Lincoln looked down, silent. The reporters, smelling blood, surged forward. “Ms. Stone, what $30,000 are you referring to? Can you elaborate?” “You want to know?” I made a gesture. The large screen behind the stage quickly changed. “Then take a good, long look.” I had compiled everything over the past week into a professional, devastating slide deck. “This thirty thousand dollars was originally allocated by my husband for my mother’s surgery, but his secretary…” “That’s enough!” My mouth was instantly covered by his hand. Lincoln viciously kicked the large screen, shattering half the panel. “Lincoln Stone! Let go of me!” He had my wrist in an iron grip, pulling me without a word toward the private elevator. Inside the CEO’s office, he slammed the door shut and flung me onto the leather sofa. “You recorded those videos?” I gave a cold laugh. “Yes. What about it? “Did you honestly think I didn’t hear that conversation with your accountant? “I went straight home and started digging up Seraphina’s address. “Mr. Stone, you have a deep reserve of wealth to buy a secretary a luxury high-rise, but you still keep your wife living in a cramped rental apartment!” “Stop it!” Lincoln’s chest rose and fell in ragged gasps. “You don’t understand! She was the one who was there during my hardest days. “She stayed up late with me, monitored the financial reports, and met with clients! “Now that I’m successful, isn’t it right for me to reward her?” I thought I misheard him. “She was there for you? What about me?” Lincoln paused. “Lincoln Stone, was she the one who gave you the seed money after your bankruptcy? “Was she the one who refused to give up your location to the debt collectors, even when they came looking for you? “Was she the one who had a knife held to her side by those collectors? Did she give you every cent of her savings? Who was the person who was squeezing into that tiny rental with you, eating instant ramen, her or me!” Lincoln opened his mouth. He ultimately avoided my gaze. I forced a painful smile. “Don’t want to answer? “Fine, I’ll help you. She did not! From start to finish, the only person who walked through the worst of it with you was me!” “Enough!” He roared, startling me with its sudden fury. He glared down at me. “You’re only saying all this to remind me how much you sacrificed, aren’t you? “I was worried you’d try to cash in, that you’d find out I’d rebuilt my fortune and start demanding a massive payoff! “That would destroy our relationship, which is why I kept everything from you. “But Seraphina is different! Even after I’ve spent two million on her, she still wants to earn that thirty thousand herself! “Do you understand now? That is the difference between you two, and that is why I favor her and have to keep my guard up around you.” I laughed, the sound sharp and unexpected. “So, you thought I married you as a greedy investment?” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Weren’t you?” I turned away, using a bitter smile to hide the burning tears. “Fine. Let’s say I was only after your money. “Then, Lincoln, do you honestly believe a normal woman would sleep with the husband of the person who saved her life?” Lincoln’s breath caught. He must have remembered. Without me, Seraphina would have died in that alley, likely at the hands of those thugs. 4 Seraphina was beautiful. The kind of delicate, helpless beauty that made men feel protective and immediately drawn in. From childhood, she had been constantly harassed. Until the day I walked into that dark alley alone, armed with nothing but a steel pipe. I came out with a fractured lower leg and blood on my mouth. Seraphina, though hysterical and crying, was otherwise unharmed. From then on, she was my loyal “little sister.” I believed in seeing things through, so I introduced her to Lincoln’s company. Lincoln hated incompetence. He complained more than once about how I had saddled him with a “dead weight.” It took constant cajoling and flirting on my part to stop him from firing Seraphina. Without that job, Seraphina would have been sold off to the middle of nowhere by her drunken, abusive father. Then, Lincoln went bankrupt. We were consumed by the daily anxiety of rent and groceries. We no longer had the energy to fight over a “dead weight” employee. But I never imagined that during our hardest, most emotionally exhausting days, Seraphina was never truly struggling. The savings I gave Lincoln to keep the company from sinking? A large portion of it was also used to ensure “Secretary Sera” remained insulated from the company’s bankruptcy. “Name your price. What will it take for you to leave her alone?” Lincoln’s voice was completely devoid of emotion. I stared at him, a cold laugh escaping. “I don’t want your money. “I want her reputation ruined and her life destroyed!” He frowned. “Impossible.” “Lincoln Stone, are you really protecting her this fiercely?” A complex look crossed his eyes. “But you’re too late.” A sudden burst of shouting and crying erupted outside the office door. Lincoln’s head snapped up. “Sera!” He yanked the door open. Seraphina was being dragged across the floor by her hair, her mother—a woman I knew well—slamming her hand against Seraphina’s face over and over. “You little tramp! You can pull this disgusting stunt, but your mother won’t lose face for you!” “Auntie!” Panic flashed in Lincoln’s eyes. Seraphina’s mother, Mrs. Peterson, roared back: “Don’t you come near me! This is my daughter, and my discipline. It has nothing to do with you!” “Mom, I…” “Shut up! Have you forgotten who saved you, and who broke her leg because of you! You could have chosen any man, but you had to choose to be a mistress, didn’t you!” She finished with two more hard slaps, instantly swelling Seraphina’s lip. Camera flashes exploded in a rapid sequence. Reporters recorded the entire scene. Mrs. Peterson and I had kept in contact after I saved Seraphina. I always stopped by to see her on holidays. “Slut! How did I give birth to such a tramp! You love being the other woman so much? Wait until I’m dead, then you can do whatever you want!” She turned, making a move toward the large window, as if to jump. Seraphina was frantic, but couldn’t catch her mother in time. “Auntie!” Lincoln roared, “Sera is not a mistress!” Mrs. Peterson stopped, turning back. A bright red marriage certificate was snatched up from the desk. Lincoln opened it. His and Seraphina’s wedding photo, sealed with a crisp, clear stamp. “Seraphina and I are legally married. “Vivian Stone is the real mistress.”

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Four years out of prison, I got a call to the principal’s office about my daughter getting into a fight. That’s where I ran into my ex-husband. When I rushed in, he was leaning over the kindergarten principal’s desk, an aura of entitlement radiating off him like heat from a bonfire. “I invested in this school to ensure my daughter is protected, not to let others bully her.” He paused, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. “I heard Sloane’s parent did time. Why would you admit a child like that? Aren’t you afraid I’ll shut this place down?” I knew he was fighting for Sierra’s daughter. What he didn’t know was that the little girl currently sobbing herself sick was his own. Watching Sloane, her small eyes red and swollen, her body wracked with little tremors, I couldn’t stand to listen to another word. I walked straight into the office. Our eyes met, and a flash of pure disorientation crossed Preston North’s face. “Gigi? You were released early? Did you… come back for me?” I shook my head, then nodded. “I’m the child’s mother, Mr. North. You can take whatever frustration you have out on me.” The air thickened instantly. He looked utterly flummoxed, his voice catching in his throat. “You… you married and had a child? Is this some kind of revenge?” I froze. There had been no love for him left for a decade, and surprisingly, no hate either. How could it be revenge? 1 My three-year-old saw me and ran, burying her face into my waist. “Mommy, that girl called me a mongrel, so I pushed her.” My right hand wasn’t strong enough. It was a struggle to lift her, but I finally managed to cradle the still-sobbing Sloane. I murmured a few reassurances, then looked back at the man still frozen in shock. “Mr. North, if you are concerned that my past will negatively impact your—your associate’s daughter, I will promptly withdraw Sloane from the school.” My heart ached for the injustice my daughter faced, but I had no desire to fight Preston on a battlefield where the outcome was foregone. Sierra and her daughter were his unshakeable priority; no matter the truth, in his eyes, we would always be in the wrong. Logic was useless here. Preston’s gaze remained glued to us. He opened his mouth several times, trying to speak. It was only when his eyes met my utterly detached expression that his composure returned. He finally spoke, his voice surprisingly quiet. “It’s… just a small squabble between kids. It’s not serious enough for a withdrawal.” He cleared his throat. “Besides, your daughter admitted Skylar started it.” His immediate concession surprised me. It was like he wasn’t the same man who’d been threatening the principal two minutes ago. “Since Mr. North isn’t pursuing this, I’ll take my daughter and leave.” I gave the principal a brief nod and led Sloane out. The knot of tension in my chest loosened a fraction. Thank God Sloane takes after my mother’s side of the family. He suspected nothing. I called a ride-share. Before the car arrived, Preston hurried after us and grabbed my arm. “Gigi, when were you released? Why didn’t you come to me? Did you really marry someone else?” Before I could answer his barrage of questions, his eyes flickered to Sloane’s small, fearful face, and he asked the question that made my blood run cold. “Is this child mine?” My whole body went rigid. I yanked my arm away, my expression ice-cold and distant. “Your imagination is impressive, Mr. North. The year you personally sent me to prison, you never once touched me. How could I possibly be carrying your child?” He seemed to recall that unbearable year, his lips trembling almost imperceptibly. “I’m sorry. What happened back then, I…” He was interrupted by a familiar, overly sweet voice. “Oh, Gigi. You’re really out?” Sierra approached. She saw Sloane and her face immediately shifted, a practiced look of shock and pity sliding into place. “Gigi, if you need money, you know you can always come to Preston or me. We would help.” She raised her eyebrows slightly, managing to look both concerned and superior. “How could you do this to yourself? Taking money to be a stepmother for some other man’s child?” My fingers twitched. Her air of looking down on me, of inventing a convenient excuse for Preston, was nothing like the single mother who had once knelt and begged me for a scrap of kindness and work. She had recognized me the moment Sloane was admitted. Of course she had. Why else would her five-year-old daughter wander into Sloane’s class just to bully her? Hearing Sierra’s loaded statement, a sliver of guilt flashed in Preston’s eyes. “Gigi, you don’t have to self-destruct. Even if you made mistakes back then, I’ll help you through any difficulty.” He took a step toward me. “Just divorce him. I can take care of you. Actually, Sierra and I are…” The memory of weeping, begging him to believe me, only for him to coldly hand me over to the authorities, was a shard of glass in my memory. I cut him off. “Mr. North, we are long past having anything to do with one another. Save the pretty words for your associate.” I didn’t look at his suddenly pale face again. I took Sloane’s hand and stepped into the approaching car. From the moment he started systematically destroying my life, I stopped believing him. Back home, Sloane was still anxious. She held my hand tightly and whispered, “Mommy, that man was scary. Is he going to come and catch me?” I tensed, then bent down to comfort her. “Sloane, don’t be scared. He’s not a bad man.” The first version of Preston North hadn’t been a bad man. He was, in fact, a deeply righteous lawyer. It was only after he met Sierra that he reserved his most brutal side for me. Preston and I came from similar backgrounds; our mothers both died young. The difference was that my father genuinely loved my mother, while his mother was beaten to death by his father. Preston was home the day his mother was killed. He watched her die in his arms. The fifteen-year-old boy had desperately begged his father to call for an ambulance, but his drunken father only beat Preston until his face was a bloody mess. By the time my father and I rushed over, Preston was barely conscious. After he was saved, Preston became obsessed with sending his father to the electric chair, infuriating the rest of the North family, who disowned him. His mother was dead, and the killer walked free, protected by the sanctity of marriage. It became Preston’s obsession, the driving force behind his choice to become a lawyer. My heart ached for the boy with nowhere to go, so I brought him home. My dad didn’t object and had the butler prepare the sunniest room for him. I put down my sketchbook and spent every day talking to him until the light returned to his eyes. I remember when he was eighteen, he ran home with his law school acceptance letter and swept me into a hug. “Gigi, I got in! Will you be my girlfriend?” I was happier than he was, tears of laughter streaming down my face. “Yes.” That day, he was so happy he forgot all his worries. He promised my father, right in front of him: “Sir, I’ll take care of Gigi from now on. You can finally relax and go fishing.” My father beamed. Not only did he trust me to Preston, but he even let Preston start managing the family business. Even in his younger years, consumed by his heavy, unresolved past, Preston reserved all his tenderness for me. Even after he became a top-tier divorce lawyer, he would personally make me herbal tea when I had cramps. He even put all his assets in my name. It was a love so intense, but when he took it back, he was just as ruthless. Preston’s real breakthrough came when he successfully sent his abusive father to prison. After that, countless women struggling in bad marriages flocked to his firm. Sierra was one of them. When she knelt before us, still breastfeeding, covered in bruises and holding her month-old baby, both Preston and I were stunned. Before I could speak, Preston helped Sierra and the baby up, his face set in a furious mask. He promised, “I’ll take your case pro bono. I guarantee that scum will be punished.” Preston’s fees were easily in the millions. I was surprised but kept quiet. I knew he was driven by a deep need to prevent Sierra from becoming his mother, and her baby from becoming him—a child who lost his mother too soon. But I never imagined that their path to salvation would be the one that violently kicked me into hell. After Preston won her case, Sierra didn’t leave. Instead, she knocked on our door again. “Gigi, I don’t have a job and I have a child to raise. Could you teach me how to be a designer?” I hesitated, but Preston made the decision for me instantly. “Sierra has a foundation in art. She’ll learn quickly. Just let her stay. You love kids, Gigi. Skylar can keep you company.” Sierra added, her face streaming with tears. “Gigi, I truly want a skill. Please help me.” Something felt off, but as she wept and pleaded so humbly, my heart softened. I not only taught her to sketch design concepts but also brought out my treasured raw gemstones to teach her how to identify them. Seeing her diligence, I asked her to design a piece on her own. Then, she got careless. In a flash, my workspace was engulfed in flames. I was shouting for help while desperately trying to extinguish the fire. “Gigi! Gigi!” Preston rushed in. But when he saw Sierra standing near the back, crying for help, he violently knocked over the heavy supply cabinet next to me, sending it crashing down. I had no time to move. The cabinet slammed onto my right wrist and hand. The blinding, agonizing pain made the world go black. Before I lost consciousness, I saw Preston rush past me, holding Sierra and running out. He didn’t spare me a single glance. I woke up in the hospital to the devastating news that due to the delay in treatment, my right hand would never regain its full function. It was the end of my career as a designer. I broke. I grabbed a glass and hurled it at Preston. “Why did you knock over the cabinet? I’m your wife! Why didn’t you save me first?” His expression was full of shame, but he remained still, letting me vent. Finally, Sierra knelt on the floor and cried, “Gigi, please blame me. I’m pregnant with Preston’s child. He couldn’t bear to see me hurt, that’s why he saved me first.” The atmosphere hung in a thick, impossible silence. I stared, thinking I had misheard. I looked at Preston. Finally, his voice came out hoarse. “Sierra is pregnant.” That’s when I finally understood. While fighting for Sierra, he had fallen for a woman who mirrored his mother’s suffering. When both of us were in danger, he was willing to let me be ruined to be her protector. My damaged hand and his betrayal made me paranoid and sensitive. Preston and I started fighting over the smallest things. Every argument ended the same way, with him looking disgusted and saying: “You’re a complete lunatic. Can’t you be gentle, just like Sierra?” Then he would slam the door and disappear for the night. The only time he returned drunk, he forced himself on me despite my resistance. But when he woke up, he acted as if the night never happened, his attitude returning to cold indifference. He pushed me to the brink of insanity. I was diagnosed with severe depression. Even that wasn’t enough for Sierra. She waited for the day my father returned from his trip and rushed over. In front of my father, she tearfully begged me to release Preston. “Gigi, you have everything. Please stop forcing Preston. He wants to start a new family with me. He wants to be a father. Please, let us be happy.” Her vicious scene sent my father—who had been excitedly waiting to play chess with Preston—into an immediate, paralyzing brain hemorrhage. The memory of my father made the tears flow uncontrollably. Sloane’s worried voice reached my ears. “Mommy, why are you crying?” I stroked her head. “Mommy just misses your grandfather.” Just as I spoke, my phone rang. No name, but I recognized Preston’s number instantly. I hung up without hesitation. A moment later, a text came through. [Your father’s personal effects are still with me. Should I bring them over?] My hands shook. It took me a long time to reply: [I will come and pick them up myself.] My chest felt heavy. After cooking for Sloane and tucking her in, I finally fell asleep. But the scarred memories flooded in like a tidal wave. After my father was rushed to the hospital, he survived, but with severe post-stroke paralysis. He couldn’t move and could barely speak. With red, swollen eyes, I sat by his bedside. He gripped my hand tightly. “Di… vorce. Le… ave him.” I understood. Not every man is faithful to his wife. He couldn’t bear to watch me destroy myself for Preston. After a night of sleepless agonizing, I took the divorce papers to Preston. He sat at his desk, signing a contract, not even looking up. His tone was dismissive and clinical. “I will not divorce you.” He sealed the contract with a stamp. “I’m a divorce lawyer. If I can’t manage my own marriage, how can clients trust me?” He didn’t love me, but he wouldn’t let me go. I snapped. I went into a blinding rage. I smashed everything in his office. It was a wreck, and he just watched me, cold and aloof. When I finally collapsed on the floor, weeping uncontrollably, his expression only softened into pure contempt. “Look at you. You have no dignity left as the wife of Preston North.” My heart ached with fury. He had driven me insane, and then he blamed me for losing my composure. He let me stew until I quieted, then drove me home. He placed me gently on the bed, a fleeting, complicated emotion in his eyes, before his voice hardened again. “Your emotions are unstable. I’ll handle everything regarding your father. You will stay home. Don’t go anywhere.” For the next week, I was a zombie at home. Sierra, however, couldn’t wait. She showed up, heavily pregnant, to gloat. “I have to hand it to you, Gigi.” She tilted her head smugly. “Preston stopped your father’s medication. Your dad stopped breathing, and you’re still here sunbathing?” “What did you say?” I stared at her, horrified. Afraid I wouldn’t believe her, she pulled out a video on her phone. My father lay on the hospital bed, his eyes closed, utterly lifeless. Panic flared. I lunged at Sierra. “What did I ever do to you? Why are you trying to kill my father?” But before I could even touch her, she deliberately slammed her hip into the corner of the heavy wooden table. Blood immediately started to run down her legs. The next second, Preston burst in. Seeing Sierra on the floor, her face contorted in pain, he hauled off and slapped me. “You’ve completely lost your mind! If this child doesn’t make it, I will never forgive you!” The sharp sting of the slap brought me back to reality, yet I was already too far gone. “Preston North, I didn’t touch her, but you and she killed my father! I’d rather die today than let you two get away with this!” I grabbed a fruit knife to stab him, but he threw me down hard. “The nurse just reported your father’s vitals! He was fine! How could he be dead?” I looked back at Sierra and saw a flash of cold malice in her eyes. I’d been set up. But it was too late. Sierra lost the baby. That very night, Preston had me arrested. “I didn’t touch her! You can check the monitor on the balcony!” I clutched his sleeve, pleading. He didn’t listen. Instead, he used all his connections to rapidly secure a conviction against me. When I insisted on an appeal, he casually presented a plea agreement. “Gigi, the entire Harrington Group is under my control. If you don’t plead guilty, your father’s medical bills won’t be covered.” The pain was suffocating. I never imagined that the man who had tears in his eyes putting a ring on my finger, saying he finally married the girl he loved, would use such a vicious means to send me to prison. In despair, I signed the plea. When he slid the divorce papers over, I numbly signed those too. “You caused Sierra to lose her child. I have to compensate her.” A month after my incarceration, Preston finally came to see me. He brought only more devastating news. “Your father, hearing that you were in jail, passed away right there. If you hadn’t been so recklessly hysterical, he wouldn’t have died.” He paused, looking down at me. “Behave yourself. When you get out, I’ll be here to pick you up.” There was no hysteria this time. My world had collapsed into ruins. There was nothing left to hold onto. The shock left my mind fractured and foggy. When I was lucid, I wanted to end it all. I wanted to smash my head against the wall. But the guard saved me. When I awoke, she told me I was three months pregnant. A frantic knocking on the door startled Sloane and me awake. My daughter hid under the covers, trembling. I calmed her down, then got out of bed to open the door. It was Preston North. The moment he saw me, he cut straight to the chase. “Did you really get married?” “Of course.” “Then what is this?” I looked at the documents he held out. As I saw the content, my body went instantly rigid.

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My freshly laundered delicates. Blown off the line by a freak gust of wind. They landed, of course, right in the apartment patio below. The man who lived there was Rhys. A master mechanic whose reputation for talent was only surpassed by his notorious temper. Every woman in our building lusted after him, and every single one had been turned away by his ice-cold stare. I had no choice. I had to swallow my pride and knock on his door. The door opened. Rhys stood there, shirtless and steaming, still damp from a shower. He looked down at me, his voice a block of ice. “Problem?” My face instantly burned. “Rhys… could you let me in to—to retrieve something?” He followed the direction of my trembling finger. His gaze settled on the tiny scrap of black lace draped over his railing. 1 My name is Eliza. I run a bespoke designer boutique, The Atelier, in the heart of the Historic Riverwalk District. My life used to be like the slow, quiet trickle of the river itself—calm, contained. Until Rhys moved in. He opened his custom auto shop, Rhys’s Customs, directly across the street from me. In the summer heat, he was always in the same uniform: a black work tank top, combat boots, and olive-green cargo pants. His forearms were ropes of muscle, hard and ridged like granite. That face was brutally handsome—all sharp contours and untamed, feral masculinity. But the words that came out of his mouth could curdle milk. Zara, the owner of the trendy nail salon next door, is a sucker for a handsome face. The day Rhys moved in, she practically skipped over with a platter of organic fruit. She was back in less than three minutes, her eyes red-rimmed. I asked her what happened. Zara slammed the platter onto my counter, her chest heaving with outrage. “I asked him if he wanted to split some artisanal fruit, and he said my offering was ‘hog feed!’” “I asked if he had a girlfriend, and he told me to ‘mind my own damn business.’” “Eliza, seriously, is that man mentally ill? He’s got the face of a god, and the mouth of a sewer rat!” I glanced through my window to the street. Rhys was easily hoisting a massive V8 engine block with one hand, as if it weighed nothing. Sweat traced a path down his temple, over the sharp line of his throat, and disappeared into the soaked fabric of his tank top. Pure, unadulterated testosterone. Definitely a sight to behold. I pulled my gaze back and focused on stitching the silk knotted buttons of my latest design. “Best to leave that kind alone.” I truly had no intention of crossing his path. We were oil and water. He revved his engines; I listened to classic jazz. That was the arrangement until the day a rich kid in a Maserati came to the shop. He was a referral from an old client, supposedly looking to commission a gown for his fiancée. Instead, his hands started wandering, using the measuring session as an excuse to brush my waist. My hand, holding the soft tailor’s tape, froze. I looked up at him with cold steel in my eyes. “Sir, keep your hands to yourself.” The rich kid smiled, a sleazy, entitled smirk. “What are you doing, playing the virgin? You open a boutique like this in a historic district, it’s just for show, right? You’re part of the package.” He lunged to grab my wrist. “BANG!” A noise like a shotgun blast. The steel security door across the street was kicked open. Rhys strode across the cobblestone street, a heavy steel pipe dangling from one hand. His face was thunderous, absolutely devoid of mercy. The rich kid recoiled in shock. “Who the hell are you?” Rhys didn’t waste words. He didn’t even look at the guy. He slammed the pipe—a piece of heavy scaffolding—onto the slate steps outside my door. Sparks flew, hissing on the damp stone. “Get out.” One syllable. That was all. The rich kid took one look at Rhys’s bulging, scarred muscles, then at the pipe now slightly bent from the impact. He cursed under his breath and scrambled back to his car. I stood there, shaken but safe, looking at Rhys. “Thank you.” Rhys turned, but he didn’t meet my eyes. “Too loud.” He tossed those two clipped words over his shoulder, retrieved the steel pipe, and walked back to his garage. I stood rooted to the spot, watching his retreating silhouette. I decided right then that this man was not only verbally toxic but emotionally ice-cold. That evening, I locked up and headed home. As I stepped into the elevator, a familiar shadow followed me in. Rhys. The cramped cage instantly became suffocating. He carried the heavy, unmistakable scent of motor oil and a faint undercurrent of tobacco. I subtly retreated into the corner, trying to slow my breathing. He pressed a button. The floor right below mine. Of course. The hostile new neighbor was the hostile new neighbor. 2 The elevator climbed slowly. The air felt thin. Rhys’s presence was a physical weight. I stared at my shoes, trying to shrink into myself. This was an old building; the elevator was small and rickety. It felt packed with four people, but with just the two of us, the tension was unbearable. “Ding.” The third floor. An elderly couple was waiting outside, ready to step in. The moment the old woman saw Rhys’s severe, grim face, she froze, clutching her husband’s arm. “Oh… we’ll take the next one, dear.” The doors hissed shut. I fought the urge to laugh, biting the inside of my cheek. Rhys must have sensed it. He turned his head and gave me a quick, sharp look. I immediately straightened my expression, pretending to examine the emergency instructions. “Something funny?” he asked suddenly. His voice was low, gravelly, and rough around the edges. I jumped, looking up. My gaze met his dark, flat eyes—two pools of dead water, totally unreadable. “No.” I instinctively denied it. “…The old woman was afraid of you.” I couldn’t help but add the truth. Rhys let out a humorless, short puff of air. “A lot of people are.” He turned away from me. The elevator reached the fifth floor. His floor. The doors opened, and he stepped out. Just as the doors began to close, he turned back suddenly. “Stop attracting stray dogs, Eliza.” “I won’t always have time to sweep up your pests.” He didn’t wait for a response, just slammed his apartment door shut. I stood alone in the cage, staring at the closed metal door for a long moment. Was that a warning, or was it… concern? I got home, took a shower, and tried to put the whole weird exchange out of my mind. Life went back to normal. Rhys and I returned to being barely on nodding terms. More accurately: I nodded; he ignored me. But my focus on him definitely sharpened. When I left in the morning, I subconsciously checked his window. When I locked up at night, I noticed if the lights were still on at his shop. Even while doing the books at my counter, my eyes would drift across the street. I watched him work on engines, watched him argue with difficult clients, watched him standing bare-chested, drinking water straight from a bottle. I absorbed the rumors, too. The women in the building muttered that Rhys was an ex-con. Some said he was a disgraced former soldier who’d cracked under pressure. Others whispered about organized crime. The stories were fantastical. I wasn’t interested in gossip. I believed only what I saw. He was intimidating, cold, and cruel-mouthed. But he had chased off a potential attacker for me. And when he worked on an engine, the sheer intensity and focus in his eyes… It’s not something a truly bad man could fake. This appreciation lasted right up until that embarrassing night. A sudden, fierce windstorm swept through the district. I was on my patio, pulling in my laundry, when the gust hit. My hand felt suddenly light. My favorite piece—that tiny sliver of black lace—flew out of my grip like a kite with a broken string. I watched, horrified, as it cleared the railing. And landed, floating like a dark flower, right on the patio below. On Rhys’s patio. My head went instantly numb. I was screwed. 3 I peered over the railing. The black lace trembled in the wind, threatening to drop onto the ground floor patio, which would be even worse. I checked the kitchen clock. 10:30 PM. Rhys was likely just getting back from the shop. Do I go, or do I not? If I didn’t, tomorrow morning, the entire building would see a woman’s underwear hanging out on Rhys’s railing. My reputation would be destroyed. If I did, I would have to face the Ice King at his most unguarded. I bit my lip. My pride demanded a rescue mission. I threw on a light cardigan, slipped into my flip-flops, and crept downstairs like a thief. Standing outside Rhys’s door, I took a deep, steadying breath and knocked. “Knock, knock, knock.” Silence. I knocked again, harder. “KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!” Still nothing. Was he asleep? Just as I was about to give up, the lock rattled. Click. The door opened a crack. A wave of wet heat and steam washed over me. Rhys stood behind the doorframe. He’d clearly been in the shower. His hair was slick and dripping. His upper body was bare, water tracking paths down his wide shoulders, over the hard planes of his chest, and into the low-slung, threadbare grey sweats that barely held on to his hips. The waistband rested precariously low, exposing the faint, sexy shadow of his V-lines. I took one look and instantly snapped my gaze away, a shock of adrenaline running through me. It was criminal. A walking fire hazard. “Late-night visitors? You trying to wake the dead?” He was clearly annoyed, his brow furrowed, his tone hostile. I swallowed hard, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. “Rhys, I apologize for the interruption.” “I… I have something that fell onto your patio.” Rhys leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms, looking utterly impatient. “What something?” “A piece of clothing.” “What kind of clothing?” He wasn’t going to let this go. My face felt like it was melting. My voice was a tiny squeak. “Under… underwear.” Rhys froze. A flicker of something—amusement? surprise?—cracked his cold expression. He quickly scanned my figure, his eyes lingering on the jacket I was clutching around myself, and then he stepped aside, letting the door swing wider. “Come in.” I ducked inside, feeling like a trapped field mouse. His apartment was identical to mine, but shockingly barren. Just a sofa, a coffee table, and no television. A pile of tires and toolboxes sat in the corner. It screamed single male, zero frills. I scurried toward the patio. The culprit was still there, swaying gently. But it was draped over the high corner, just out of my reach. I sighed in frustration and gestured toward it. “Rhys, could you please grab that?” He walked over, took one look, and let out a soft sound of disgust. “Wait.” He didn’t hesitate. He mounted the patio railing, scaling the corner like a black panther. He reached out a long, heavy arm. His calloused, heavy hand closed around the tiny, fragile scrap of lace. The black fabric looked impossibly small and vulnerable against his brute strength. He dropped back down and held it out to me. “Here.” I snatched it back and shoved the crumpled mess into my pocket. My fingertips inevitably brushed the center of his palm. It was searing hot. And rough. I yanked my hand back, my heart hammering against my ribs. “Thank you.” “Don’t mention it.” He grabbed the towel from the back of the sofa and roughly rubbed his hair, sending droplets flying. I couldn’t look at him, turning to flee the apartment. “Hold up.” His voice stopped me at the door. I stiffened, turning back to him awkwardly. “Something else?” Rhys hung the towel around his neck, the pose pure, raw masculinity. He took a slow, deliberate step toward me. The pressure of his body overwhelmed me. He stopped directly in front of me, looking down. The space between us evaporated. I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. “Eliza.” It was the first time he’d ever used my name. It sounded low, guttural, and possessive. “Next time you hang your clothes, use a damn clip.” I flushed furiously and bolted out of his apartment. 4 The next time I ran into Rhys, he was back to his usual poker face. It was as if our late-night, half-naked encounter had been a hallucination. I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. But I started having trouble sleeping. When I closed my eyes, all I saw was his rain-slicked chest and those bottomless black eyes. I was becoming obsessed. To distract myself, I accepted a massive commission: twenty custom gowns for a period drama’s principal cast. The deadline was tight, the standards were insane. I practically moved into my shop, barely going home. Late one night, I finally finished the last sample. I checked my phone: 2:00 AM. The entire Riverwalk District was asleep. Only the streetlights cast long, sickly yellow shadows. I dragged my exhausted body out of the shop, locked up, and headed toward the building. The deep autumn air cut right through my thin trench coat. I wrapped my arms around myself and hurried. Inside the building, I pressed the elevator button. When the doors opened, a familiar shadow once again stepped into the cage. Rhys. He leaned heavily against the elevator wall. He wore his usual black tank top, but had a leather jacket pulled over it. His face was etched with fatigue; there were faint smudges of dark shadow under his eyes. In the small space, beneath the motor oil and tobacco, there was now a faint, coppery scent of blood. My heart lurched. I immediately checked his hands. His right hand hung at his side. The knuckles were scraped raw, peeling back the skin, and a dark stain of dried blood covered the black leather of his jacket. “You’re hurt,” I blurted out. Rhys glanced at his hand, utterly indifferent. “Just a scrape.” “That’s more than a scrape.” The wound looked deep, the flesh torn. It was clearly from blunt-force trauma. “Mind your business.” His voice was cold and dismissive. Any sympathy I’d felt instantly evaporated. Fine. I wouldn’t bother him again. I stayed silent, watching the numbers climb. At the third floor, the elevator lurched violently. The lights flickered, buzzing with a sharp electric crackle. Then, everything stopped dead. My stomach dropped. I lunged for the emergency bell. Nothing. Worse, my phone had zero service. In the sudden darkness, I could only hear my own frantic, shallow breathing. “Don’t move.” Rhys’s voice cut through the dark, steady and powerful. A moment later, a beam of light cut the blackness. He’d turned on his phone flashlight. The light hit his face, making his features harsh and his eyes chillingly calm. “It’s an old problem with this piece of junk,” he muttered. He walked over to the panel, pressed a few buttons, and kicked the door. No luck. “Might as well sit. The building maintenance crew won’t check until morning.” He slid down the wall and sat, stretching his long legs out. I watched him, uncertain. “Sit down.” He patted the floor beside him. I hesitated, then sat on the opposite side, maintaining a careful distance. Minutes crawled by. The air became thick and heavy. The coppery scent of blood grew stronger. I couldn’t stand it. I dug through my sewing kit bag and pulled out a travel-sized bottle of alcohol spray and a couple of large, waterproof bandages. They were necessary for my line of work. “Give me your hand.” I looked at him. Rhys looked up, a wry, challenging smile touching his lips. “What, you trying to take advantage of the situation?” I laughed, a sharp, angry sound. “Fine. Let it get infected, then. See if I care.” I started to put the supplies away. A large hand shot out suddenly and locked around my wrist. The grip was fierce, his palm hot. He pulled me slightly closer and held the injured hand out to me. “Do your worst.” I glared at him, then lowered my head and began to clean the wound. He didn’t flinch when I sprayed the alcohol. When the bandages were secure, I started to pull away. But he didn’t release my wrist. Instead, his thumb began to gently stroke the soft skin of my inner wrist. Right where my pulse hammered—a frantic, uneven drumbeat. “Eliza.” He looked at me in the dim light, his voice raspy and hoarse. “Are you falling for me?” My mind went completely blank. I opened my mouth, ready to issue a denial. “If you didn’t like me, why do you constantly stare at me?” He closed the distance between us, his intense male scent engulfing me. “If you didn’t like me, why didn’t you run away from me?” “If you didn’t like me…” He lowered his head, his nose almost touching mine, our breaths mingling. “Why is your heart running like a runaway train?”

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Five years after the divorce, my ex-husband submitted a wedding planning request to my company. I meant to refuse, but my assistant, Paige, insisted the request was direct: he had specified my name and was offering triple the standard fee. For the money, I agreed. I was giving the bride a final dress fitting—all business, nothing personal—when she snickered. “I heard the reason the Kellers kicked you out was because you couldn’t conceive?” “Heh. A woman who can’t give the family an heir… what’s the difference between her and someone who cheats?” “Not like me. I’m about to give the Kellers their golden grandson. They’re so thrilled, they spent millions just for this wedding.” She peered down her nose at me. “Don’t think I don’t know. You’re only here today because you regret divorcing my husband.” “Just a warning: if you dare try to hook up with him, I will make your life a living hell!” I smiled. My twin daughter and son, Leo and Luna, had just turned two. As for Dean Keller, how could a sterile man possibly father a child? Besides, my event planning company is now valued at over a billion dollars. I didn’t have the time to regret walking away from a piece of trash. 1 I let the smile fall from my face, kneeling to gently smooth out the train of her gown. “Then congratulations are in order.” Tessa Marlow froze, then kicked the toolkit next to my hand, sending brushes and cosmetics skittering across the floor. She loomed over me, her voice dripping with disdain. “Humble yourself for a few broken dollars. Pathetic.” “A barren woman is useless and disgusting. No wonder he divorced you.” “I think this job is fake. You just can’t bear to let go of my husband!” I chuckled softly, calmly picking up a fallen foundation compact. “Mrs. Keller.” “You, more than anyone, should know the real reason why Mr. Keller and I divorced, shouldn’t you?” At the sound of my words, Tessa’s face flickered. Back then, she was a financially-supported student the Kellers had taken in, living temporarily at our estate after graduation. She seemed sweet and demure, and I genuinely grew fond of her. I bought her whatever she fancied, and she was always the first person I thought of when bringing back gifts from business trips. Everyone said we were like sisters. I never imagined that day I came home early from a trip, excited to give her a little something, I would find her and Dean—naked and intertwined—in the bathtub. They were so consumed by the moment, they didn’t even notice me standing frozen in the bathroom doorway. Rage hit me like a physical blow. I started sobbing, throwing every cosmetic, every bottle, every object in the bathroom at them. Dean scrambled to cover himself, immediately shielding Tessa in his arms. He rounded on me, his face red with fury. “Sierra Rhys! Haven’t you caused enough drama?” I had been married to him for five years; I loved him deeply. I gave him two options: kick Tessa out, or divorce me. But that night, Tessa slit her own wrist. She collapsed at my feet, weeping hysterically. “Mrs. Keller! I was wrong! I never should have touched Mr. Keller!” “Please! I’m begging you! Don’t post those photos online!” “If you agree, I’ll even kill myself!” I didn’t understand what she was talking about, but Dean had already grabbed my phone. He opened my photo album, and there, inexplicably, were dozens of nude photos of Tessa. Dean’s eyes went bloodshot. For the first time, he hit me. “Sierra! I am so disappointed in you!” His strength was terrifying. He beat me so severely I landed in the hospital with a broken hand, cracked ribs, and a punctured eardrum. I remember it clearly: when the doctor called him to sign off on my emergency surgery, he snapped, “Tessa can’t even sleep because of her! She’s ruined everything!” “That woman? Just let her die!” It took three surgeries before I finally pulled through. When I woke up, I understood everything. I filed for divorce. The rumor about me being barren? Just the dirt the Kellers threw on me to cover up Dean’s cheating and the violence. Five years had passed. I was done hating. Now, I was perfectly happy with my husband, Rhys, and my two beautiful twins. Thinking of all this, I offered only a cool, detached smile. “Do you truly believe I’d regret leaving a man who cheats and assaults his wife, Mrs. Keller?” “I will finish this order and leave. Rest assured.” Tessa seemed to recover. She jutted her neck out and yelled, “Just keep being smug! You’ll regret it when you see my husband!” My assistant, Paige, walked in holding a steaming cup of coffee. She heard the tail end of the exchange and whispered in my ear, “Ms. Rhys, what happened?” I simply smiled, indicating it was nothing. I re-organized my toolkit, stood up, and brushed imaginary dust off my skirt. “Mrs. Keller, the dress is perfect. Shall we move on to makeup?” Tessa snorted, plopping down in front of the vanity. She smoothed her hair, her tone careless. “Honestly, having a hand-me-down like you do my makeup feels like bad luck.” “But my husband has a kind heart. He said he felt sorry for you—a bitter ex being kept by some old man—so he threw you some money.” She didn’t bother to lower her voice. The bridesmaids and several female relatives instantly clustered around, their eyes wide with curiosity and judgment. The foundation brush paused in my hand. “Kept?” 2 “Mrs. Keller, slander like that can land you in serious trouble.” I put the brush down. “Can you prove what you’re saying?” She shot up from the chair. “Am I lying?!” Tessa pointed to herself, her voice rising. “I’m a Senior Director at this very hotel!” “I’ve seen you here a dozen times! You walk in and out of here every day, with a different old man every time! I have witnesses!” “I’m not slandering you! If you don’t believe me, let’s check the security footage!” I understood instantly. She seemed to be entirely unaware that my husband, Rhys Easton, is one of the wealthiest men in the state. And this entire hotel is his property. The “old men” she was referring to were my company’s shareholders, meeting in the conference room. Were we suddenly doing something wrong by holding board meetings in our own property? The surrounding guests started whispering, their eyes glinting with malicious amusement. “So that’s the ex-wife. Doesn’t look like much, no wonder he left her!” “She left Dean, and now she’s a makeup artist?” “Makeup artist is probably just a side gig! Didn’t Tessa just say she’s being bankrolled by an old man?” “Tessa’s a Director here, why would she lie?” “Haha, look at the pink diamond Tessa is wearing. That woman couldn’t earn that in a lifetime!” “Tessa, you better keep your distance! Who knows what kind of filth she’s picked up, selling herself like that.” Paige finally reacted, her voice trembling with indignation. “You! Do you even know who Ms. Rhys is?” “She personally came to handle the makeup and styling for this wedding, and you’re slandering her!” “Ms. Rhys?” Marilyn Keller, Dean’s mother, strode out of the back room, laughing a sharp, grating sound. “Sierra Rhys, I can’t believe after five years divorced from my son, you still can’t stop lying!” “Tessa is carrying the Keller heir! How dare you shout at her!” Marilyn had always hated me. She spent my entire marriage to Dean trying to break us up. Now, her face was a mask of pure disgust. She shoved me aside. “We were kind enough to let you earn a measly tip, and now you’re trying to inflate your own importance?” “A discarded woman! Who do you think you are?” “The way you treated Tessa just now… you could have upset my precious grandson!” “I am ordering you now: Kneel down and apologize to Tessa! Or do you think I won’t call your company and have you fired instantly?” Tessa slandered me first, and now she wants me to kneel? However, the job was halfway done. Getting paid was the priority. I took out my phone, my voice flat. “If you aren’t happy with my service, I can arrange for someone else to take over.” “But you’ll have to run that past Mr. Keller first, as he personally requested me.” Paige immediately backed me up. “That’s right! Our contract specifically names Ms. Rhys as the lead consultant for this wedding!” “Unless Mr. Keller approves, you can’t back out and then try to stiff us on the fee!” Tessa slapped Paige across the face. She pointed a furious finger at my assistant. “Stiff you?!” “What kind of family are the Kellers? We would try to weasel out of a few hundred, a few thousand dollars? What a joke!” A few hundred, a few thousand? I pulled Paige behind me, my anger finally peaking. “I think you misunderstand, Mrs. Keller.” “It’s not a few hundred. It’s three million dollars.” “Furthermore, I will be reserving the right to press charges for the assault on my assistant.” “Three million?!” Tessa shrieked. “A wedding planner of your caliber is trying to extort three million from the Keller family!” “Did leaving Dean make you this poor and desperate?!” At that moment, Dean rushed into the room, looking frantic.

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Today was Noah Bellwether’s college graduation, and it was also the seven-year anniversary of the day Daphne and I started dating. We had made plans months ago to go snorkeling in the Maldives. I’d booked the flights, reserved the overwater bungalow, and meticulously planned every excursion. But she stood me up. 1 Because Noah had called her last night, extending a heartfelt invitation to his ceremony. At the end of the call, his voice had dropped into a pitiful, wounded whine. “But, Sis… I’ll be so bummed if you don’t come. It just won’t feel right without you…” That was all it took for my girlfriend, Daphne Wells, to lose her mind, her heart swelling with protectiveness. She’d instantly promised him she’d be there. “Liam, I can’t make the Maldives anymore.” I pulled her into a hug, trying to salvage the moment. “Couldn’t you skip it? I thought…” She cut me off before I could finish, pressing a swift, silencing kiss to my mouth. Then she wrapped her arms around mine, her voice dripping with affection. “We’ll have plenty of anniversaries in the future, darling, but Noah’s graduation is a once-in-a-lifetime thing.” “Liam, wait for me. I promise I’ll make it up to you when I get back.” I was too dizzy and lost in the fog of the kiss to think clearly. My ability to reason evaporated, and I didn’t push back. She was gone by early morning, taking a redeye flight upstate. “Hey, who’s this dude on Daphne’s feed? They look awfully cozy.” At the bar, my best friend, Mark, nudged my elbow and shoved his phone into my hand. “Happy graduation, little brother. May your life journey from here on be nothing but smooth sailing.” Daphne had just posted it. The accompanying picture was a beaming selfie of her and Noah. She was wearing his cap and gown, her eyes crinkled with pure joy, leaning impossibly close to him. “Are you blind? It says ‘little brother.’” A sour, rotten feeling twisted in my gut. I tossed the phone back to Mark. He just raised his shot glass, his voice laced with mocking sincerity. “Come on, guys. A toast to Daphne’s little brother!” I kicked his barstool over and slammed back the whiskey in my glass. The liquor burned a fiery path down my throat, but the sudden rush of alcohol couldn’t stop the sight of their blinding smiles from filling my mind. I lowered my gaze and gave a bitter laugh. If she hadn’t stood me up, I’d be underwater right now, somewhere off the coast of the Maldives, proposing to her. I’d spent months preparing for it, secretly rehearsing the words countless times. But she’d packed up and left to attend her “little brother’s” ceremony—she’d even taken off the matching anniversary ring I’d given her. 2 Noah Bellwether was the college student Daphne had sponsored. Four years ago, right when my first startup finally hit its stride, she’d gotten this spontaneous, high-minded idea to help fund a struggling student. “Liam, we came from nothing. Now that we’re finally comfortable, it’s our duty to give back.” Even though we were still pinching pennies, I couldn’t dampen her enthusiasm. After a few inquiries, we chose Noah: a clever, hardworking kid from a poor background. Four years. That was his entire college life, and the vast majority of our relationship. In the beginning, he’d regularly update both of us on his grades and his progress. I don’t know exactly when it happened, but slowly, that changed. He started directing all his updates—his grades, his life details—only to Daphne. I’m a man. I knew what his lingering eyes and overly solicitous texts meant. But my simple, idealistic Daphne didn’t. We’d had one fight about it. Just one. I’d let my frustration get the better of me, admitting that I was uncomfortable with my girlfriend having such an intense connection with another man. “Liam, how could you think that about Noah? He’s just a kid, he’s our little brother.” She’d slapped a hand over her chest, emphatically defining the boundaries of their relationship. Her expression was one of such profound conviction that it felt like my mere suspicion was a stain on their pure sibling bond. After that, I never questioned her about him again. On one hand, the company was growing exponentially, and I was drowning in work, scrambling to meet targets. I figured having someone to keep her company wasn’t the worst thing in the world. On the other, I had absolute confidence in our relationship. More accurately, I had confidence in myself. Daphne was so fiery, so driven, so vibrant. Why would she ever fall for a poor, timid, and emotionally needy college kid like Noah Bellwether? The alcohol in my stomach was churning. I staggered into the restroom, threw up, and then stared at my reflection in the mirror. Crow’s feet around my eyes… A creeping hairline… The eight-pack abs that were slowly dissolving into soft tissue… And Noah? He was no longer the awkward kid we first met. He was a blossoming young man, in the prime of his life. He was the person I used to be. And the person I was now? Just the “old guy with some cash” that Daphne occasionally mentioned. 3 I was still reeling from the hangover when Daphne burst into my office, Noah in tow. I’d slept on the couch here out of convenience after drinking with Mark. Seeing them standing together in front of my desk made my head spin, but when I saw the resumé in Noah’s hand, I understood instantly. He was here to find his “smooth sailing.” “Liam, take a look at Noah’s resumé. See what position you think he’d be a good fit for.” Daphne placed the single-page document directly on my desk. I scanned the few lines of text and frowned, sinking into contemplation. “This…” Noah had majored in Automotive Technology—a field that had absolutely zero overlap with our Financial Technology firm. Daphne, my girlfriend, also happened to be our Head of HR. She knew this. She also knew that I was strictly professional, refusing to hire unqualified cousins or family friends, no matter how much they begged. She was here because she wanted my approval of Noah. She wanted him to have a job, and she wanted it to be a respectable one. “Our Noah has great grades, lots of internship experience, and he’s a fast learner. He’d be perfect for…” Hearing her call him “Our Noah,” combined with the fresh memory of her sycophantic anniversary post, sent my jealousy boiling over. I pointed to the college transcript, with its multiple failing grades, and the “practical experience” section that listed only hotel dishwashing and bussing tables. I looked her dead in the eye. “Daphne, are failing classes what you call ‘great grades’? And is washing dishes what you call ‘extensive experience’?” “You…” She was clearly stunned by my bluntness. Her face turned bright red, and she seemed incapable of speech. Noah, standing beside her, tugged timidly at her sleeve. “Sis, it’s okay.” “If Liam doesn’t think I’m a good fit, that’s fine. I really am not that impressive. I’ll just go look for another job.” My head was pounding. I didn’t want to fight. “Look, how about this, Noah. You can start in Customer Service. Once you prove yourself, I can move you into…” Daphne immediately objected, hands on her hips, her face a thundercloud. “Liam Archer, what is that supposed to mean? Customer Service? He’d have to work twelve-hour shifts and overnight! Are you kidding me?” “I’m not…” I didn’t understand. Why could everyone else start at the bottom, but not Noah Bellwether? Noah stepped up again, gently pulling at my sleeve, his lips quivering. “Please don’t fight because of me, Liam. It’s not worth it. I’m happy to do Customer Service. Liam must be doing this for my benefit.” “Even though my health is always a bit fragile and I might struggle with the overnight shifts, I’ll find a way to overcome it.” He looked absolutely devastated, as if he felt responsible for our argument. Daphne’s tone immediately softened toward him. “Don’t worry, Noah. I’ll find you a better position, I promise.” She shot me a disgusted glare, grabbed his arm, and stormed out without a backward glance. The whole encounter had made my headache worse. I watched Daphne’s receding figure. Suddenly, my girlfriend of seven years felt like a stranger. 4 I’ve known Daphne Wells for twenty years. We’ve shared the better half of our lives together. We first met at the orphanage. I was seven; she was six. My mother died young, and my father ran off with a rich woman. My frail grandfather raised me until he passed away, leaving me an orphan. Daphne’s story was even sadder; she was abandoned on the doorstep just days after she was born. Our bond was forged in the fire of a bullying incident. Back then, I was a lot like Noah Bellwether four years ago. I was an orphan, painfully insecure, and smaller than the other boys due to malnutrition. The older boys loved to pick on me. One time, they had me pinned down on the rooftop, beating me. Blood was streaming from my nose, and my head was ringing. I remembered thinking, I hope they just kill me. Just as I was losing consciousness, Daphne arrived like an angel descending. “The teachers and the police are coming! You garbage better run now!” She screamed at them, then activated the school’s fire alarm, sending the bullies scrambling in fear. Later, on the rooftop, she cleaned the grime and blood from my face and asked why I didn’t fight back. “The less you fight, the more they’ll hurt you,” she said. She said a lot of things that day. But the light radiating off her was so intense that I only saw her lips moving. I didn’t hear a single word. Years later, we were accepted into the same university. When she found out, she clapped a hand over her mouth in delighted surprise. “Liam Archer, what a coincidence! We got into the same school!” I stared blankly at her smiling, crinkled eyes, unable to respond. Daphne, it wasn’t a coincidence. I stole a peek at your application. When summer break ended, we took a twelve-hour, worn-out Greyhound bus north to start our new lives. I studied Computer Science; she studied Finance. In our junior year, I won a scholarship for my thesis and got a few thousand dollars in prize money. I drank too much that night—the first time I’d ever been drunk—and made an absolute fool of myself in front of her. “Daphne, I’ve been in love with you for a long time.” The secret I’d kept for a decade finally spilled out. She lost her usual sharpness, looking at me with a bewildered expression. “Huh? Liam, you… you like me?” She looked so adorable in her confusion that I suddenly wanted to kiss her. Liquid courage took over, and I did it. Thankfully, she didn’t get mad. She didn’t push me away. We’ve been together for so long. We were so good together. When did the shift start? She changed the background of our couple photo she used to announce our relationship. She stopped making my profile her pinned post. We stopped having heart-to-heart talks before bed, and she started forgetting our anniversaries. The relationship-tracking app she begged me to develop hadn’t seen a new update in months. Somewhere along the way, she started drifting. But I wouldn’t let her go. 5 After that fight, Daphne was distant and cold. She didn’t want me to touch her, and barely spoke to me. She refused to sleep in our bed, instead hugging a duvet and retreating to the guest room. It was the middle of winter, and while I was showering, she even turned off the hot water. Later that night, I grabbed my own pillow and crept into the guest room, squeezing myself onto the small twin bed beside her. I sniffled, trying to sound pathetic. “Daphne, I’m sick. Don’t you have any pity for me?” She turned her back to me, ignoring me. Moments later, she spun around and kicked me right off the bed. “Good! Be sick! I hope you get sick, you heartless man!” I hadn’t been prepared. My head cracked hard against the corner of the nightstand, leaving a small gash. Daphne gasped, her eyes immediately filling with remorse. “Oh, Liam, you’re bleeding!” She scrambled up, rummaging through the medicine cabinet for a bandage, which she carefully and intently pressed onto the wound. Seeing her fussing over me, my heart warmed. See? She still cares. I took advantage of her distraction, grabbing her small hand and kissing it. “Don’t be angry anymore, okay?” “Liam, you’re so good to everyone else. Why can’t you be that way with…” She let out a heavy sigh. I didn’t wait for her to say that name, the one that always grated on my nerves. I flipped her over and pinned her beneath me. “Daphne, I’m freezing. Hold me.” If I kissed her until she was senseless and lost, maybe she wouldn’t bring him up again. But when she finally came to, her face flushed, she immediately whispered, “Liam, Noah really is a good person. Please, just see this through and give him a chance.” The hand that had been tracing the curve of her cheek froze. I can’t describe the disgust and frustration of hearing another man’s name come out of her mouth at that moment. It felt like I was being strangled by a tight vine. I mumbled a meaningless excuse and fled to the balcony to smoke a cigarette. When I returned to the room, the source of my agitation was sleeping soundly. I pinched her soft cheek. She winced and frowned in her sleep, but I still felt unsatisfied. I reached out and pulled her close, wrapping her in my arms. I didn’t sleep all night. But the next morning, when I saw the simple bowl of oatmeal she’d cooked for me and the small note she’d left behind, all the dark clouds in my heart vanished. I gave a self-deprecating chuckle. Daphne always knew exactly how to reel me back in. So the man who won the personal battle compromised in the professional one: I transferred Noah Bellwether out of Customer Service and into the Executive Office. I had a selfish motive, though. I figured having that slick, pathetic kid under my direct supervision was better than having him hovering around Daphne. What I didn’t realize was that I, the successful CEO, a 985 graduate with a growing business empire, was about to be played for a fool by a poor, small-town college dropout.

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My parents were textbook examples of playing favorites. On my birthday, our house was empty. Just me and the silence. Meanwhile, Scarlett—my sister—posted a nine-grid photo of her opulent cake on Instagram, my parents beaming around her like she was the sun. I called the house, the sound of laughter echoing on the other end, but I still gathered the nerve to ask, my voice small and cautious: “Why… why didn’t I even get a ‘Happy Birthday’?” A beat of silence, then Victoria’s laugh, light and easy, floated through the line. “Well, Scarlett is beautiful, isn’t she? She’s a statement when we take her out. You? Small eyes, no real features. Honestly, we only kept you out of pity. We should have dropped you off at the fire station years ago.” Then Scarlett, her voice a soft, poisonous whisper, took the phone. “Seriously, Lena, you know you’re adopted, right? Did you actually believe you were ours?” 1 I stood frozen for a very long time. After that, I went quiet. Not literally mute, but the words just… stopped coming. But the desperate need for my biological parents’ love never died. So, I secretly posted a search for my birth family online. Scarlett saw it. She screenshotted the post and immediately shared it to the school’s anonymous bulletin board with the caption: “Fake princess looking for her real parents. Which family misplaced this ugly kid?” I cried for hours. Late that night, I walked past my parents’ slightly ajar bedroom door. I heard Scarlett’s laughter, sharp and bright. “It’s hilarious. She actually bought it! We should hire someone to pretend to be her real parents. I can’t wait to see her beg us to keep her—” I heard the clink of glass. My father, Richard, had taken a sip of something. “Have fun with it, Scar.” My mother, Victoria, chimed in. “Just don’t go too far, dear.” The fingers I had clamped around the doorknob slowly went slack. Scarlett moved fast. The very next day during a break, she called me out in front of the entire class, a mocking smile fixed on her face. “Your birth mother is here.” The woman was huddled against the wall, her fingers anxiously twisting the hem of a washed-out shirt. She stammered a greeting. “M-Miss, hello…” “Don’t call her ‘Miss,’ you should call her ‘sweet daughter,’” Scarlett teased, carefully watching my reaction. I didn’t say anything, but the other students swarmed us, whooping and shouting, camera lenses flashing. “Oh my God, Lena, isn’t that Maria, your family’s housekeeper?” “The ‘real vs. fake daughter’ drama is happening in real life!” “Quick, get a video!” Dozens of scornful eyes landed on me, as if I were truly the wicked usurper from a novel, some interloper who had stolen their parents’ love and behaved abominably. I didn’t offer an explanation. I just looked at Maria. “Do we need to do a DNA test?” Maria panicked, her lips trembling. She could only look to Scarlett. “Why bother with a DNA test?” Scarlett grabbed my shoulder and turned me toward the window glass. “Look at yourselves! Those small eyes, the flat nose—you’re practically stamped from the same mold…” Ever since I’d been brought back from the countryside, Scarlett had relentlessly picked apart my flaws. She called me ugly, clumsy, and said I couldn’t possibly be their biological child. I was small then; all I could do was cry. But I had secretly compared myself to them. When I was six, Scarlett smeared my face with lipstick, took a photo, and called me a monster. My father was in hysterics on the sofa. I cried and begged my mother to side with me, but she simply said, “Your sister is so beautiful, she’s allowed to be spoiled.” I couldn’t think of a single thing to say back. I just stared in the mirror, trying desperately to open my eyes wider. I remember thinking: if my eyes were as big as Scarlett’s, maybe I would finally be pretty enough, finally be loved by my parents. When I was ten, my sister ripped up my perfect test paper. I tried to piece it back together, weeping, and my mother walked past, saying, “Your sister is beautiful, just let her win this one.” For my twelfth birthday, I pretended to run away, imagining my parents would panic and come looking for me when they realized I hadn’t come home. But no one came, all the way until late evening. Cold and starving, I slunk back home. When I arrived, they were recording Scarlett’s ballet practice. “Did you run wild for long? Glad you finally remembered to come back,” my father said, not even looking up. I instinctively defended myself. “I wasn’t running wild…” Scarlett cut me off with a sweet smile. “Oh, come on, sis. I personally saw you and some friends heading into the arcade.” I knew she was lying, but I had no proof. I just stood there, trembling, denying it. “Enough. Is your sister going to lie about you?” my father asked impatiently. My stomach rumbled, loud enough for them to hear. Maria wrung her hands. “I’m so sorry, Miss Lena, but the leftover dinner was fed to the dog…” I was desperately hungry. I asked quietly, “Could I just have a bowl of instant noodles?” “Absolutely not,” my father said, his voice cold and hard. “Scarlett is delicate, so she gets a late-night snack. Why do you think you deserve the same?” “But I’m starving…” I tried to plead. My mother cut me off. “Whose fault is it you ran off and lost track of time? Now go to your room.” In the middle of the night, Scarlett slipped into my room and deliberately chewed a handful of potato chips, the crunch-crunch-crunch loud and maddening. My stomach betrayed me again, rumbling. “Want some?” She dangled a chip in front of me. I swallowed hard and nodded. “Then bark. Bark like a dog. If you sound convincing, I’ll give you one.” The pain in my stomach was agonizing. I closed my eyes and let out a humiliated whimper: “Woof.” “Louder. I didn’t hear you.” “WOOF!” She smiled brilliantly and held a chip out toward me. Just as I reached for it, she let it drop to the floor. Her designer slipper landed perfectly, squarely on the chip. “Oops, my bad. But hey, it fell on the ground. You can still eat it.” She paused, tilting her head. “After all, little puppies love things that fall on the floor, don’t they?” I felt heat rush through my entire body. Finding a surge of courage from some unknown place, I lunged and snatched the bag of chips from her hand. I devoured the chips like a starving animal, stuffing them into my mouth. She just watched me, smiling sweetly, letting me have them. Then the screaming started immediately. “Mom! Dad! Lena stole my food! Waaahhh!” She was the picture of innocent distress. The result was familiar: my mother called me a thief, and my father’s open hand slammed across my face, making my ears ring. Even then, I forced myself to chew and swallow every chip in my mouth. I couldn’t bear the feeling of being punished and left to starve through another sleepless night. The outcome was, as always, being locked in the dark utility closet and having my breakfast withheld. The next day during gym class, the sun was a blinding white glare. I collapsed. The back of my head hit the concrete with a dull, sickening thud. The pain was immediate, my head was instantly cracked and bleeding. Meanwhile, Maria was still stammering through her pre-prepared lines. “W-when you were born, the original plan was to swap you with Miss Scarlett, but we got caught, but the Master and Madam were kind, so they kept you on as the second daughter…” Maria trailed off mid-sentence, forgetting the rest of the script, her face turning crimson. I looked at her and quietly said, “Mom.” I took Maria’s arm and walked home with her, initiating the departure. My mother frowned slightly when she saw us, but quickly put on a bright smile. “Well, look at that, Lena found her biological mother!” I nodded calmly. My father played along. “In that case, you should pack up and move back in with your real parents, shouldn’t you?” Before I could speak, Scarlett rushed to pack my things. She shoved my suitcase down the stairs and said, “Don’t thank me.” “That’s all my stuff?” “Uh-huh. All your clothes and everything else were bought with our money. You thought you could take them?” I opened the suitcase. Seeing my main belongings were there, I closed it. “I have one more request.” Scarlett immediately shouted, “What is it? If you want money, we won’t give you any.” “I want my legal identity separated from yours.” My mother blinked, looked at my father, and, seeing his nod, went to get the family records. And just like that, my name was legally severed from theirs. Looking at my lonely page in the official document, my first reaction was relief.

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I’d just settled into the Officer’s Quarters with my husband, Commander Marcus Cole, and our three-month-old daughter. Three months old. And his eight-year-old adopted daughter, Piper, used a gun she’d somehow hidden in Marcus’s study to shoot her. Right in front of me. The gun was pointed at my baby. My daughter only managed two choked whimpers before her breath simply vanished. I went crazy, screaming for a medic, for justice—anything. But it was too late. Because Piper was just a child, my mother-in-law and Marcus only gave her thirty minutes of standing at attention. Her biological mother, Sienna Reed, arrived and theatrically fell apart, claiming I was trying to destroy their lives. But all I wanted was my baby back! I cried until my chest felt shredded, demanding accountability. Marcus and his mother just looked at me with cold disapproval. “Piper is just a child, Gen! Are you going to ask for an eight-year-old to pay with her life just because your daughter is gone?” I had nowhere to turn. My heart tore itself apart, and I died in that bitter winter. Then I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the morning of the day she died. 1 I didn’t hesitate. I immediately ordered my personal detail to secretly take my daughter to my parents’ safe house. But even this time, Piper managed to shoot another infant. I’d barely stepped back into the Base Housing when a deafening gunshot ripped the air from the street below. BAM! A small bundle wrapped in an O.D. green tactical blanket lay in a growing pool of crimson blood. A cold dread washed over me. I lifted my gaze to the second-floor study window. Piper peeked out, gave me a look of pure, chilling provocation, and then pulled back. My mother-in-law and Marcus rushed down. The moment my mother-in-law saw the scene on the ground, she let out a piercing scream and nearly collapsed. Marcus staggered forward, bending down for a look, his voice shaking. “Genevieve, the baby… it’s not breathing.” I didn’t dare look closer. I bolted for the second floor. Piper’s door was shut, locked from the inside. I slammed my foot against the solid wood. “Piper! Open this door! Who did you shoot?” The room went quiet for a moment, then I heard Piper and the nanny giggling. “Miss, what if they call the cops? The mistress will be after me…” “Who cares? It’s not like we meant to. Besides, I’m only eight. What are the police going to do to me?” The brazenness of their conversation was like an ice pick to my ear. I was shaking uncontrollably. I kicked the heavy door again with all my strength. “Get out here! You just committed murder!” Marcus, a step behind me, grabbed my arm, his eyes red-rimmed. “Gen, you need to calm down! Don’t terrify the child!” I glared at him, pure hatred in my eyes—it was the exact same script as the first time. Our daughter was dead—he thought—and his only concern was protecting his little terrorist. My mother-in-law wiped her tears and tried to sound reasonable. “Sweetheart, I agree Piper went too far this time, but Gen, don’t be so unforgiving.” “The baby was only three months old. Gone is gone. You’re young, Gen. You can always have another one.” I froze, then the realization hit me—they thought the dead baby was mine. But my daughter was already safe, spirited away by my security detail. Then who was that small, bullet-ridden body on the cold asphalt downstairs? Marcus came closer, trying to hug me, promising, “Gen, I swear I’ll get justice for the baby, but Piper is still small and doesn’t understand…” Before he could finish, I shoved him away, hard. “Doesn’t understand? Then why doesn’t she try shooting herself to see what she understands then!” With that, I grabbed a sturdy wooden stool from the hallway and smashed it repeatedly against the bedroom door. The wood groaned and splintered. The entire floor seemed to shake. “Piper Cole! Get out now, or I’ll tear this door off its hinges!” How dare she murder someone and hide comfortably inside? Even if the body downstairs wasn’t my flesh and blood, I would get justice for that innocent infant! A scream came from inside. “Stop smashing! If you break the door down, I’ll shoot myself!” Gasping for breath, I turned and stormed into the kitchen, grabbed a heavy butcher knife, and slammed it against the door. The blade bit deep into the wood, stuck fast. “Shoot! If you don’t, when I get in there, I’ll make sure you pay for a life!” Piper finally gave in and unlocked the door. Her small face was a mask of annoyance and impatience. “Who did you shoot?” She jutted out her chin, swaying carelessly. “Your daughter, obviously. Who else?” I slapped her. The sharp crack echoed. Half her face instantly flushed red. Tears welled in her eyes. She clutched her cheek, disbelief etched on her face. “You hit me? My real mom never hit me! You evil woman—” I slapped her with my other hand. “It’s precisely because your real mother indulged you that you grew up to be this monster!” Then I grabbed her by the collar and hissed, “I’m asking you again! Who did you shoot?” Only then did fear creep into her eyes. She covered her face and mumbled, “It was… your daughter. But I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to see what happens if you shoot a baby…” “How was I supposed to know she’d die?” I looked into the room. The window was wide open, letting in a chilling gust of air. The nanny was huddled in a corner, shivering and silent. They were both well over eight years old. How could they not know the danger of a loaded gun? Marcus stepped closer, trying to intervene. “Piper knows she made a mistake, Gen. You’ve let out your anger. Let’s… let’s bury the baby now.” The sheer absurdity of his statement stunned me—a life was gone, and the only requirement was a half-hearted apology? My mother-in-law rushed forward, tightly hugging Piper, gently caressing her swollen cheek. “You hit her so hard. You’ve ruined her face…” She only had a swollen face. The baby downstairs lost her entire life! I pushed my mother-in-law away and grabbed Piper by her braid, dragging her toward the open window. “You said you didn’t know what happens when you shoot? Why don’t you experience it firsthand, then?” Piper was hysterical, snot and tears running down her face. She struggled wildly. “No! Shooting kills people! If you kill me, you’ll have to pay too!” So she did know about paying with her life. Yet she did it anyway. In two lifetimes, I could never fathom how a child’s heart could be this wicked. A sharp pain shot through my arm. Marcus had violently pulled me away. The force of the movement sent my forehead smashing against the window frame. Warm blood immediately streamed down my brow bone. Marcus shielded Piper behind him, his face a mask of revulsion. “Is this ever going to end? The baby is dead! Why are you fighting with a child? This is your fault for not securing the weapon properly in the first place!” Marcus and his mother stood shoulder to shoulder in front of Piper, looking at me as if I were a threat. I saw it clearly in the first life, and now again: they were the true family. My three-month-old daughter and I were nothing. I clutched my forehead, my hands trembling as I reached into my pocket for my phone to call the MPs. Marcus snatched it away and threw it to the floor. “This is a family matter! Why are you calling the MPs?” “Piper is under ten. Even if you drag her to the police station, what are they going to do?” I leaned against the wall, rising slowly. I looked at him, despair absolute. “Is it because you don’t care, even though it’s your biological daughter who died?” Seeing the blood covering my face, a flicker of something—maybe guilt—crossed Marcus’s eyes. “Gen, we… we can have more children.” “But Piper, I only have this one adopted daughter.” What a noble Special Forces Commander! What a dedicated family man! I was once charmed by his supposed loyalty to his family. I never thought that “loyalty” would become the blade that gutted me. He had never considered my daughter and me to be his true family. All he cared about was the bloodline he acknowledged, and apparently, an adopted daughter was far more important than his own flesh and blood. I turned to go downstairs, but Sienna, who had rushed back, slammed into my shoulder. She lunged past me to hug Piper, her eyes blazing. “How dare you hit my daughter? I wouldn’t lay a finger on her, and you, you wicked woman—what gives you the right?” I was shaking with rage. “Why don’t you ask your daughter what she did first?” “Your daughter died, and you blame my Piper? Clearly, your daughter was weak and meant to die!” My hate for Sienna was immense, but right now, my heart ached for the child who had just been shot. Who was she? Why was she here on the compound? “Sienna, you’re a mother. If that was Piper lying dead, could you still say that?” Sienna’s pupils constricted. She pointed at me and shrieked a curse. “You poisonous shrew! Your own daughter dies, and you curse mine? I hope your daughter is dead! She deserved it!” I picked up the cracked phone and headed straight for the stairs. My mother-in-law yelled urgently, “Stop her! She’s calling the MPs! She’s going to the police!” Sienna was unconcerned. “So what if she calls them? Piper is only eight. Are they going to lock her up in juvie?” “You idiot! If she takes this public, what about the Commander’s reputation? We’ll have to pay a massive settlement!” Sienna’s face paled as the financial implications hit her. She turned on Marcus, her expression twisted with malice. “Marcus, look at the wife you married! Her daughter’s dead, and all she cares about is scheming against us!” Marcus’s face was iron-gray as he chased after me, but I had already hit the emergency distress button. Marcus tore the call box off the wall. Seeing that I had already alerted the security detail, he was so enraged he slapped me. “I said this was a family matter! Did you have to broadcast it to the entire post?” “Sienna and Piper have already had a hard life. Are you trying to destroy them? I never knew you were this cruel!” I pressed a hand to my chest and smiled a bitter, desolate smile. Yes, I was cruel. I wished this entire house of monsters would burn to the ground alongside my daughter! I said nothing more, only stumbled down the stairs. I needed to know who that child was. I had a terrible hunch, but I didn’t dare confirm it. Seeing my silence, Marcus panicked and followed me. Just as I was about to step out of the Officer’s Quarters gate, he grabbed my shoulder, his grip bone-tight. “Gen, don’t make this worse. Please. I checked the baby. She’s… she’s gone.” “Let’s bury her properly, and we can move past this. Okay?” I pulled away, my face expressionless. Then my eyes widened in a sudden, horrific realization— The granite ground where the infant had been lying was now empty. I whirled around, grabbing Marcus’s collar. “The baby? Where did you take the baby?” The rhythmic sound of boots approached. A squad of MPs quick-marched into the courtyard, snapping to attention. “Report, Madam. What is the emergency?” Marcus slapped a hand over my mouth, forcing a smile. “Nothing, fellas. My wife was just distressed and pressed the wrong button. You can go back now.” My mother-in-law and Sienna hurried down the stairs. My mother-in-law pointed at me. “She’s lost her mind! Fighting with her husband and calling the MPs! The disgrace!” The patrol leader looked confused but saw it was a domestic issue within the Officer’s Quarters and wisely didn’t press. He saluted and led his men away. Only when the sound of their boots had faded did Marcus remove his hand. “Gen, you think I don’t hurt when a child dies?” “You want to broadcast this to the entire post? How is Piper supposed to live her life? Where does that leave my reputation as a Commander?” I wiped the cold tears from my face. “Does any of that compare to a human life?” I frantically searched the area for any sign of the child. I scanned every corner of the housing area. The small body was gone. My gaze landed on the equipment warehouse in the backyard. Piles of military-green weapons crates sat in the corner. Seeing me walk toward the warehouse, Sienna rushed over and gripped my arm. “The warehouse is restricted access, Madam. You shouldn’t go in there.” I coldly shook her off and charged inside. The sharp smell of metal and military-grade oil assaulted my nose. In the deepest corner, a partially opened weapons crate showed a faint edge of the O.D. green blanket. I trembled so hard I felt my teeth rattle. A gut-wrenching scream tore its way out of my chest. “Are you… are you even human?!” Sienna actually looked proud, clearly pleased with her quick thinking. “If I hadn’t reacted fast, you’d have pinned this on us. It’s just a body, and we can’t afford the settlement for a Commander’s daughter.” Piper hid behind Sienna and stuck her tongue out at me. “Evil woman! Your own daughter died, and you just want to shake us down for money? Shameless!” “Your baby was only three months old, and you think you can bankrupt us? Then you should have had a dozen more and become a millionaire!” My mother-in-law and Marcus came in, urging me to let it go. Marcus put a supportive arm around me, whispering, “Tomorrow, I’ll get a bank transfer—five thousand dollars for you. Calm down. It’s just a baby. We can have another one.” I was so choked with fury and grief I could barely stand. I had only one thought: I must know who this child was. “Bring… bring the baby out. We’ll… we’ll bury her properly.” Marcus frowned, glancing into the dark corner of the warehouse, clearly disgusted and unwilling to touch the crate. I laughed a hollow, bitter laugh. “This is your flesh and blood, Marcus. And you’re too squeamish?” Marcus took a deep breath, as if accepting his fate, and instructed the duty officer to move the crate. But Sienna blocked the way, her eyes fixed on me with suspicion. “Commander, she’s setting a trap! The moment we bring the baby out, she’ll call the MPs again!” “Then she’ll charge Piper, and how much money will we have to pay? Piper’s life will be ruined!” Piper clutched Marcus’s sleeve, tears streaming down her face. “Daddy, I don’t want to pay! If we pay, how will Mom and I live?” Marcus put down the tools and sighed at me. “The child is gone, Gen. Let’s not disturb her any further.” I closed my eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I turned and stumbled toward the exit. Sienna was desperate. She grabbed my wrist, squeezing hard. “Where are you going? Don’t even think about calling the police!” “You’re staying right here until spring. We’ll tell everyone your daughter went missing—that it was an accident!” By spring, the body would be too decomposed to clearly identify a gunshot wound. My mother-in-law retrieved a pair of handcuffs from a cabinet. She and Sienna quickly cuffed my hands to the stair railing. “Gen, sweetheart, you behave, and you’re still my good daughter-in-law.” I struggled, but the handcuffs only dug deeper into my wrists. I looked at Marcus, my final plea. “Do you… do you really think I’m doing this for money?” Marcus averted his eyes. “Gen, just stay put. Don’t damage the post’s reputation any further!” Piper seized the opportunity, rushing forward and delivering a hard slap to my face. She made a mocking face. “You were so tough! Go ahead, hit me! Nah, nah, nah!” I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood. I was trembling like a leaf, but my hands were cuffed. I couldn’t even defend myself. “You are a born monster! A terrible seed!” Piper was ecstatic with her power. She kicked me hard in the stomach. My postpartum incision screamed in pain. I clamped my mouth shut to keep from crying out. I held onto a sliver of hope that Marcus, remembering our marriage, would let me go. But he was busy comforting Sienna, and casually dismissed my pain. “It’s a child, Gen. How hard could she kick? You terrified her earlier; let her blow off some steam.” Piper kicked me again, screaming triumphantly, “Your daughter deserved to die! She should have died!” “Who said my granddaughter died?!” A furious roar, like thunder, exploded behind us. My father, General Robert Harrison, stood in the doorway of the Officer’s Quarters, holding my very much alive daughter, flanked by his own security detail.

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The first time I asked for a week off, I prepped the trash can with seven fresh liners before I left. Seven bags. I figured it would last exactly until the day I returned. When I got back, though, my own suitcase was sitting outside the front door. Blair Harrington was standing on the steps, arms crossed. “We can’t afford a housekeeper who calculates every move, Jenna.” 1 After I confirmed the week of leave with Mrs. Harrington—Blair—I started my usual final sweep. The hardwood floors were buffed until they reflected the overhead lighting. Every piece of decorative furniture was perfectly aligned. Leo’s textbooks, stationery, and next season’s clothes were all organized neatly at the foot of his bed. Finally, I made my way to the kitchen and started on the trash can. I knew Blair’s particular neuroses. She was obsessively clean—no overnight trash allowed. But she absolutely hated dealing with the liners, convinced they were unsanitary. I pulled out a fresh liner, carefully opened it, and secured it over the rim. Then another. Then another. I stopped at seven. One bag per day, exactly enough until my return. This way, for the next seven days, all she’d have to do was pull out the full bag. A clean, new one would always be waiting underneath. I finished the task and spoke quietly at the entryway. “Blair, everything is squared away. I’ll be back next week.” That week back home felt impossibly long. I’d wake up before dawn, worrying that Leo hadn’t had breakfast yet. Hearing the faucet run, I’d remember the patio plants needed watering. When I finally closed my eyes at night, I could feel the invisible dust I hadn’t reached yet. I was restless, aching to get back to my routine. I bought the earliest train ticket available. The scenery outside the window was stunning—like a postcard of the Shenandoah Valley—but I barely registered it. Instead, I mentally inventoried Leo’s uniforms, thinking they needed pressing. I reminded myself to rotate the ficus in Blair’s study to catch the morning sun. As the train pulled into the station, I pulled out my phone and texted Blair. “Blair, I’m almost there. How’s Leo’s appetite been? Should I make that heritage chicken soup tonight?” I carried the treasures I’d brought back: a genuine free-range chicken from my family’s farm—the kind that always made Leo recover faster after a bug. My dad’s specialty coffee beans that Mr. Harrington always raved about. And my mother’s homemade apple butter, which Blair loved. She didn’t text back on the ride home. I figured she was busy, or maybe helping Leo with homework. It wasn’t until the taxi pulled up that I saw her, standing near the front steps, throwing things toward the driveway. 2 I rushed out, dropping my bags and the box of preserves. “Blair, I’m back. Don’t worry about that, I’ll take care of the trash.” I started to walk past her, but then I stopped, realizing what she was holding. It was my worn, canvas duffel bag. I looked at the pile on the curb. Everything was mine. My duvet, the travel mug I drank from, my toiletries. All cleared out of the small room I’d occupied for a decade. My heart started to pound. I looked up, a surge of anger tightening my chest. “Are these my things? Why are they out here?” It was then I took in her face. Normally poised and soft, it was now a mask of frigid indifference. “What happened? Is the house being renovated?” I asked, utterly confused. Before I could finish, she let out a frustrated sigh and hurled my duffel bag onto the pile, like tossing out garbage. She folded her arms again, her voice low and sterile. “Jenna, you’ve been with us since you graduated college, haven’t you? This is your tenth year.” I nodded slowly, dumbfounded. “That’s right, Blair. I came straight here.” A cold smile touched her lips. “And for ten years, you’ve been excellent. Never missed a day. You were truly meticulous with Leo.” The momentary relief that washed over me was instantly obliterated by her next sentence, which landed like a physical blow. “But Jenna, we don’t need a calculated housekeeper in this house.” I was completely blindsided. “Calculated? Blair, what are you talking about?” I fought to keep my voice steady, desperate to defend myself. “I’ve never stolen anything, I’ve never padded an expense report. What exactly have I calculated?” I met her cool, assessing gaze, my chest heaving. The sheer unfairness of it all was overwhelming. “Blair, I’m going to be frank. I have no idea what I did.” Blair inhaled sharply. “Before you left, did you or did you not line the kitchen bin with seven or eight new trash bags? I went to pull the top one yesterday, and hallelujah, I found a whole chain underneath!” I nodded, the realization sinking in. “Yes. I know you hate touching the dirty liners, so I set it up for one a day, right until I got back. Is that… a problem?” Her voice ratcheted up, edged with indignation. “I know you thought it was helpful, one a day. But is that how you live? It’s wasteful!” Richard Harrington walked up behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder. “It’s true, Jenna. We teach Leo about being resourceful, making things last. You came here and lined the bin with a week’s worth of bags. That’s not being thoughtful, that’s being extravagant. You’re setting a bad example for our child.” Blair picked up the thread, her voice turning completely detached. “So, we’ve decided. A housekeeper and an employer are fundamentally not family. We don’t share the same values. Your method is certainly caring, but we’re tired. We’ll pay you through the end of the month, plus an extra two weeks’ severance. You need to find a new placement. See who else can handle your kind of… care.” 3 I stood frozen. Was that it? Providing a small, thoughtful convenience was a firing offense? Looking at the profound disapproval on Blair’s face, a wave of helplessness crashed over me. Maybe our principles truly were incompatible. I took a deep breath, trying one last time to salvage it. “Blair, please. How about this? Everything I do, I’ll clear with you first. You approve it, and then I do it.” “Are you trying to cling to this job?” Blair’s brows knitted tighter. “I said our values are misaligned. Do you understand what that means?” She turned toward the door. Watching her back, the memory of the last decade flooded me, and a bitter ache rose in my throat. I took a desperate half-step toward her, my voice trembling. “But Blair, I’ve been here since I graduated. Ten years. Does that count for nothing?” The floodgates opened. The raw injustice spilled out. “My degree was in PR, but you begged me to stay after that one cleaning gig. You said you loved how meticulous I was, and I gave up a corporate offer for you! And now, because of a few trash bags—bags I set out to help you—you throw me out?” Blair whirled around, her eyes blazing. “What is that supposed to mean? Are you trying to threaten me? Yes, I hired you, but your legs work fine. No one chained you to this job!” Her words extinguished the last ember of my fighting spirit. I had the offer—a decent starting salary in a downtown firm. But Blair’s relentless pleas—‘Just help me out,’ ‘I don’t trust anyone else,’ ‘We need you, Jenna’—had won out. Seeing the devastation on my face, Blair’s tone softened slightly, but the message remained the same. “We can’t keep you here just for ‘sentiment.’ It wouldn’t be fair to us, and it wouldn’t be fair to you. We’re not a good fit anymore.” I stood there, surrounded by my belongings, my feet planted on the same manicured lawn I’d walked across for ten years. From inside the closed door, I heard Blair’s muffled voice to Richard: “It’s too calculated. She had to organize those few trash bags for you down to the minute. You can’t trust someone like that in your home.” I looked down at the box of home-grown chicken, coffee beans, and jams at my feet. I could almost hear my parents’ voices from yesterday. “Jenna, you work hard for them. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington are good people, you make sure to show your gratitude!” I let out a harsh, bitter laugh. Sentiment. Gratitude. It was only me who valued it. To them, it meant nothing. I stared at the closed mahogany door, gritted my teeth, and crouched down to gather the things they had discarded. I rolled up the duvet, shoved the toiletries into a plastic bag, and packed everything back into the duffel. Then the thought hit me. Ten years of my life, packed and organized, required only one suitcase, a backpack, and a bedroll. It was terrifyingly light. Just like me. I tossed the non-essentials into the curb-side pile of garbage. Then I picked up the duffel, shouldered the bedroll, and walked away without a backward glance. The neighborhood was the same, perfectly manicured, but standing on the sidewalk, I had no idea where to go. For ten years, my world had been the organic market, the Harrington house, Leo’s school, and the local upscale grocery. Outside of that, there was a gaping void. The college degree, the PR knowledge, it had all been replaced by recipes and cleaning schedules. I was only in my early thirties—young for this line of work. But who would hire a former housekeeper who was ten years out of date for a corporate job? My resume was a wasteland. To the next family, I would just be another under-qualified hire. Panic, cold and suffocating, washed over me. The last of my resolve finally crumbled. Why? What had I done wrong? For ten years, I treated that house like a second home. I did what I was hired for, and often, much more. And all I got was an explanation of “misaligned values,” before being tossed out like trash. Tears sprang to my eyes, hot and unexpected. I stumbled forward, towing the duffel bag, my vision blurred. I walked until I bumped into someone. 4 I raised my wet, blurry face. Standing in front of me was Michelle Lindstrom, who lived a few blocks over. I’d seen her several times, usually with her shy, quiet daughter, Willa, in the neighborhood park. I’d overheard the gossip: Divorced, tough bringing up a kid alone. The nastier whispers implied she was the “other woman.” I never paid much attention, and I certainly didn’t think she would remember me. I quickly looked down, wiping my face with my sleeve, trying to slip past. “Excuse me.” But she didn’t move. “You’re Jenna, right?” I looked up, surprised. Her eyes were calm, not prying. She was simply looking at me. She held out a tissue. She bit her lip, looking slightly embarrassed. “I saw it,” she said quietly. “I saw them put your things out on the curb. And I saw you talking to them.” She studied my emotional state carefully. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I was just passing by.” I didn’t know her well, and I didn’t want to talk. But under her steady gaze, my carefully constructed composure instantly dissolved. I opened my mouth, intending to speak.

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Ten years after the shelter I was responsible for collapsed, the Brigadier General’s wife personally sent me to a court martial. I served my decade, then retired from the service, changed my name, and went to ground on the edge of nowhere, a poor line cook and server in a dusty diner. I saw Sloane Hastings again in a documentary interview ten years later. The reporter shoved a microphone in my face, barely giving me time to register the lights. “Mr. Reese, General Hastings searched for you for a decade. Everyone is waiting for the two of you to mend things!” Just as the woman finished, Sloane walked in. Her uniform was impeccably tailored, crisp, and starched. She commanded attention the second she entered the room. A decade had passed, but she was still sharp, still stunning, though the brash confidence of her youth had been tempered by a quiet, formidable authority. She was a Brigadier General now—a star on her shoulder. She looked at me for a long time, and I could sense a thousand unspoken things hanging between us. But in the end, it was just a gentle greeting. “Rhys. It’s been a long time.” “Yeah. A long time,” I answered flatly, my face betraying none of the seismic shifts happening inside me. I thought of the massive casualty count from the shelter collapse, the disaster that had destroyed my life. I thought of how Sloane was the first to hand the investigative team proof of my alleged bribery. The moment the lie was exposed, my life was incinerated. My parents disowned me on the spot, and the victims’ families wanted nothing less than my death sentence in court. But no one knew that the one who enabled her little darling, Garrett Wells, to alter the blueprints, cut corners, and then fabricated the evidence to send me to prison, was the very same “devoted” Brigadier General standing here. 1 “Ash, why didn’t you tell me you were released?” “How have you been all these years?” I didn’t answer. I just tugged the sleeve of my oversized cotton jacket further down, trying to cover the dense cluster of needle marks on my forearm. Sloane was about to say more when the cook’s rough shout cut across the room: “Rhys! You daydreaming? Dishes up!” I grunted an acknowledgment, ducked past Sloane’s intense gaze, and turned away. In my peripheral vision, she started to lift her hand, but ultimately didn’t call out to stop me. The order was hers. Spicy Kung Pao Chicken, a plate of chili-seared beef, and a small flask of that rocket fuel whiskey unique to the border town. I frowned. She always hated spicy food. But I, always, had to have the heat. Too bad the stomach cancer meant I hadn’t dared to touch spice in months. I set the plates in front of her. My voice was monotone. “Your meal is complete.” I turned to leave, but her grip locked around my wrist. “Ash, these are all your favorites. Sit down… stay with me for a minute. Please?” I froze. I remembered the night before she submitted the “evidence.” She’d coaxed me to eat and sleep just like this. I woke up to a ten-year nightmare. “Just a few words,” she pleaded. I took a deep breath and sat down opposite her. She poured a shot of the whiskey and slid it to me. “The day you were released, I planned to be there. But everyone told me you were dead.” I let out a soft laugh. “I didn’t die, General. Sorry to make you worry.” Sloane snapped her head up. Her eyes were dark, fathomless. “Ash, what happened back then… I owe you an apology.” “Your father’s sixtieth birthday is in three days. He… he still thinks about you. Come back with me. I promise I’ll make things right.” Make things right. Ten years ago, to cover up her affair with Garrett Wells and to help him avoid prosecution, she hadn’t hesitated to fabricate evidence of bribery and send me to the military prison. And my parents, without a second thought, immediately disowned me. Her words triggered a flash of agonizing memory, and the familiar, gnawing cramp seized my stomach. I couldn’t help but stand up. “An apology? An apology for what?” “For your dirty business with Garrett? Or for how you fabricated evidence, and personally sent me to a cage for ten years?” My voice had risen. Too loud. Instantly, the curious, probing stares of the surrounding patrons shifted to us. I didn’t look at her again. I turned, lifting the thick, greasy cotton curtain of the kitchen door, leaving her completely behind. I thought I would never have to see Sloane Hastings again. After all, how much genuine remorse could a person feel after sending their spouse straight to hell? But early the next morning, as I started my shift, she was waiting at the front door. She rushed forward when she saw me, blocking my way. “Ash, you were the youngest engineering expert in the entire corps. Your talent shouldn’t be buried here.” I gave a cold laugh. “But wasn’t my life destroyed by you ten years ago? Doesn’t it disgust you to say that now?” Sloane’s throat bobbed. A fleeting, painful stiffness crossed her face. She started to explain, but I pushed past her and walked inside. She didn’t leave. She ordered a small plate of food and a pot of tea, and sat there, occupying a booth for the entire day. I ignored her, busy with my usual routine. Just before the end of my shift, my stomach suddenly seized up. I sucked in a sharp breath. My body staggered backward uncontrollably, my elbow catching a glass of a customer’s red wine. It splashed all over the woman. She leaped up, furious. Before I could even apologize, her palm smacked hard across my face. “Do you know what brand this jacket is, you idiot? You couldn’t pay for it if you bussed tables here for a goddamn year!” She wasn’t finished. She followed the slap with a kick straight to my stomach. I curled up on the floor, the blinding pain making my vision blacken. Then, she grabbed the bottle of wine from the table and poured it over my head. I couldn’t hold it in anymore. A searing cough, and I vomited a mouthful of blood. The scarlet liquid mingled with the red wine, staining my shirt and the floor beneath me. The woman still wasn’t satisfied. She raised her foot to kick again, but a powerful force shoved her back. Sloane stood over me, her uniform crisp, her eyes blazing red with a chilling intensity. “Try to touch him one more time.” The woman was clearly intimidated by the General’s fury. She muttered a few curses and quickly slunk out of the diner. Sloane spun around and crouched down, her voice trembling. “Ash, the blood…” I wiped my face. My fingertips were red and sticky. “Just wine,” I lied. I pushed away her attempt to help me up and staggered toward the back exit. I quit the job. The work was only to cover chemotherapy and medication. Since I wasn’t going to survive much longer, there was no point in continuing. Besides, my biggest wish now was to be as far away from Sloane and the Sinclairs as possible. Clutching my meager wages, I went to the military hospital to pick up my test results and get some painkillers. I had just gotten the report when I rounded a corner in the hallway and ran straight into a familiar figure. My adopted brother, Garrett Wells. And right next to him were Sloane Hastings and my parents. Garrett saw me first. The bag of prescriptions he was holding clattered onto the floor. He stared, eyes wide, as if seeing a ghost. “…Rhys? You’re not dead?” I looked at the bag on the floor. The words ‘Pathology Lab’ and ‘Garrett Wells’ were stark and sharp. I looked at his meticulously styled hair, his expensive clothes, and Sloane’s intimate proximity. What more did I need to understand? Even after ten years, seeing it with my own eyes, my heart still felt like it had been violently pierced by an ice pick. I managed a slight smile. “Tough to kill. Sorry I didn’t quite get there.” A flash of something dark and insidious crossed Garrett’s face before he turned on the waterworks, looking near tears. “Brother, I know you hate that I married Sloane.” “But you were divorced, and you made a mistake… she couldn’t wait for you forever, could she?” Sloane’s brow was deeply furrowed. She spoke with a strained calmness. “Dad and Mom are here. Ash, just swallow your pride. It’s Dad’s birthday tomorrow. They’ll forgive you.” I laughed bitterly. “You know the truth of a decade ago, all of you. Why should I apologize?” That’s when my parents finally noticed me. My father, Mr. Sinclair, looked much older, though his spine was still ramrod straight. My mother’s eyes, however, held only suspicion and scrutiny. “Why are you so thin?” Mother frowned, her voice sharp. “Did you get involved with something you shouldn’t have?” “You came out of prison and didn’t return to the base. That only means you’re guilty!” I paused, and then laughed until tears streamed down my face. Ten years. They didn’t ask how I was doing, or how my health was. Their first words were to accuse me of drug use. Father’s brow tightened at Mother’s words. “Your mother’s right! You’re alarmingly thin!” He lunged and grabbed my arm. “Come on! To the lab! You’re taking a drug test right now!” His voice was loud, instantly drawing a crowd. In the struggle, he shoved me. I stumbled and fell to the ground, my forehead slamming against the corner of a chair. Blood immediately welled up. The searing stomach pain returned. Cold sweat instantly soaked my clothes. Sloane stepped forward, her voice complicated, a mix of concern and judgment. “Ash, I didn’t notice yesterday, but you really… Listen to your parents. Go get the urine test.” “The least we can do is take you to rehab. It’s not too late to turn your life around.” Garrett, ever the concerned brother, weakly added, “Brother, I know you’re bitter, but don’t make things worse!” The same condescending tone. As if I were truly the criminal. I swatted away my father’s hand, unsteady as I stood. “Fine. I’ll go.” I limped into the urinalysis room. The result, of course, was clean. My parents looked embarrassed but offered no apology. They merely glanced at me and said stiffly, “Forget it. Your father’s sixtieth birthday dinner is tomorrow. Make sure you attend.” I stepped back, putting distance between us, and raised my hand in a crisp, perfect military salute. “Report, Commander. When you disowned me and published it in the papers ten years ago, I ceased to be a Sinclair.” “I won’t be attending your sixtieth. Happy Birthday, sir.” I turned and walked away from the hospital, ignoring their curses and attempts to call me back. On the morning of Father’s sixtieth, I threw up blood again. The pain was constant now. The spasms of agony made it almost impossible to stand. I knew my condition was worsening rapidly. Every day was torture. Perhaps I wouldn’t last another month. Sloane knocked on my door as I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth. “General Hastings,” I leaned on the door frame, my voice hoarse. “You’re married. As a wife, coming to see your ex-husband so often is inappropriate.” Her eyes darkened. “Rhys, I know you hate me. We can talk about us later.” “But today is your father’s birthday. You have to be there. Let’s talk this out, as a family.” I didn’t want to go, but I was so weak that she half-forced me into her car. Once inside, Sloane frowned, continuously looking me over. “Ash, why are you so thin?” I rubbed the needle marks on my arm and gave a hollow laugh. “Stage IV stomach cancer. Would you believe me?” Sloane froze, then smiled weakly. “Don’t joke. You’re just exhausted.” “Yeah,” I turned my head to look out the window. “Just joking.” The birthday banquet was held at the Command’s reception hall. We arrived as the party was already underway. I retreated to a corner, a transparent ghost. My parents, too, maintained their distance, never introducing me to anyone. Garrett, however, acted as the proud Sinclair son, arm-in-arm with Sloane, greeting guests. I was redundant, from start to finish. As the banquet neared its end, a swarm of reporters suddenly rushed in, surrounding Garrett. “Mr. Wells! Is it true that General Hastings was once your brother-in-law?” “When did you and the General start dating? Was there any intimacy while Rhys Sinclair’s marriage was still active?” “Was Mr. Sinclair’s imprisonment related to an emotional dispute?” The flashbulbs were blinding. Garrett’s face was chalk-white. He suddenly sank to his knees in front of me, crying hysterically. “Brother! I beg you to forgive me! Sloane and I only got together after your divorce!” “Please don’t slander me in front of the press!” Mother immediately charged forward, slapping me hard across the face. “You demon! Do you hate your brother that much?!” Sloane helped Garrett up, her eyes on me filled with pure disgust. “Rhys, you refused my help time and again, only to attack Garrett like this? You absolutely sicken me!” I was stunned. I rushed to explain. “This wasn’t me. I swear I didn’t know anything about this.” Father was trembling with rage. “Bastard! Still lying!” “The last urine test came up clean, and I thought you’d changed, but you’re worse than ever—trying to destroy your brother!” He roared. “Aide! Bring the rod!” The heavy, dark ceremonial cane was brought forward. Father raised his hand and brought it down hard. CRACK! My jacket ripped. Skin tore open. Blood instantly seeped through the fabric. My throat clenched. I coughed up blood, but I grabbed the window ledge, refusing to fall. A flicker of distress crossed Sloane’s eyes. She tried to calm the situation. “Ash, just apologize. Swallow your pride. Garrett is your brother, he’ll forgive you.” “Apologize?” I lifted my head, my mouth tasting of copper. My gaze swept over every single one of them. “I didn’t do it. Why should I apologize?” Under the stunned gaze of everyone present, and the frantic clicking of cameras, I violently tore open my broken jacket, standing before them in nothing but a tattered undershirt. A dead silence descended upon the hall. My emaciated, skeletal torso was a canvas of fresh and old scars: whip marks, cigarette burns, dark bruises crisscrossing everywhere. On my arms, in addition to the chemotherapy ports, were the deep, dark indentations of being long-term bound. I pointed to the deepest scar on my chest and looked at Sloane. “This. This is from when I refused to take the fall for Garrett. You had people torture me until I broke and confessed to falsifying the data.” I turned to my ashen-faced parents. “You asked why I’m so thin?” I laughed, the sound hollow and full of release. “Ten years of wrongful imprisonment, and long-term abuse. I have stomach cancer. Stage four. I don’t have many days left.” “How could a diner waiter possibly hire military journalists?” The heavy cane clattered onto the floor. I took a step back, my spine pressed against the cold glass of the window. “Listen to me,” my voice echoed clearly in the auditorium. “It wasn’t cancer that killed Rhys Sinclair.” “It was my own parents, and my own wife.” Without a moment’s hesitation, I turned and leaped from the window…

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It was one in the morning when the neighbor from upstairs hammered on my door, claiming a burst pipe was flooding their apartment and he wanted to check if we were affected. I reached for the knob, but before my fingers closed around it, the text exploded across my vision. [DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR! THAT’S NOT YOUR NEIGHBOR!] [Didn’t the old guy upstairs go to Malaysia last week to find his second spring? NO ONE is up there!] I snatched my hand back from the cool brass of the doorknob. Just then, the emergency alert pinged from the building’s official text message service. [ALERT: Unit 1307 has experienced a major plumbing failure. Property management will inspect the entire line. Unit 1207: Please open your door so we can check your ceiling for seepage.] My unit. The Scrolling Feed rolled across my sight again. [Who does plumbing checks at 1 AM?! They’re working together!] [Be a good girl, Liz, hide and wait! Your True Love Hero will descend from the heavens to save you!!] I gave a curt nod, as if acknowledging the voices. Then I turned, grabbed my emergency climbing rope, and, to the digital screams of the Feed, I shot out the balcony window. I was reborn. Last lifetime, I’d listened to these idiotic voices and lived a miserable life. This time, I’d rather fall to my death than become a baby factory. 1 I hung suspended nearly a hundred feet in the air, my fingers locked white on the window ledge. The heavy, frantic thudding against the front door was a drumbeat against my ribs, shocking me into a cold sweat. [Why isn’t Liz waiting in the room for the Male Lead? Why is she being so reckless?] [If Liz dies, who will the Male Lead have his sweet romance with? Go back inside! He will protect you!] I gritted my teeth, rage boiling in my chest at the sheer, blinding stupidity of the comments. Last life, I had hidden, waiting for a savior. The result? Mitch—the man outside my door now—had smashed his way in, slashed my face, broken my legs, and brutalized me. Only when I was half-dead did the so-called savior, Owen Parker, finally arrive. He heroically subdued Mitch for the police, rushed me to the hospital, and was the image of the attentive, caring man. He married me in my dazed, traumatized state. Everyone called me lucky. So lucky to have a good man like Owen marry me, even after what had happened. I married him and birthed three children in quick succession, living what appeared to be a perfectly happy, complete life. But the sweet romance was a lie. Owen had strong-armed me into marriage, seized my massive inheritance from my deceased parents, and imprisoned me in that house, using me as a human incubator. The truth slipped out one night when he was blackout drunk: he had hired Mitch. He knew I was alone with a fortune. The assault, the rescue—it was all a grotesque plot to acquire my wealth. Discovering the truth, I set the house on fire, taking him with me. But God, or fate, gave me a second chance. A rebirth. In this life, Owen Parker would never succeed. The cold air whipped past, extinguishing the fury and restoring a sharp, cold logic. I analyzed the building’s exterior—narrow window ledges, barely palm-width. My only path was to traverse them, reach the stairwell window, and crawl inside. I focused, mapping the route in my mind like a complex climbing pitch. The massive CRASH of the door giving way sent a fresh surge of adrenaline through me, signaling that time was up. Go, Eliza, go. I bit down hard on my inner cheek and began to edge sideways. My fingers ached, but the two-meter span felt like a mile. Just as Owen opened the window to peer out, I flipped over the ledge and tumbled into the pitch-black stairwell. I collapsed onto the cold concrete landing, gasping, weak-limbed, but an electrifying joy shot through me. The Feed, however, was in chaos. [Liz is so brave! She actually ran away! What about the Male Lead?] [Don’t worry. Our Liz is a damsel in distress. That was just a fluke escape. The Male Lead will still have his hero moment!] I scoffed at the idiotic comments. They called me “Liz,” but their loyalty was entirely to the “Male Lead,” not caring if I lived or died. The pure, unadulterated cult of the savior. Taking a deep breath, I kept low and moved quickly down the stairs while Mitch was still searching my apartment. I reached the ground floor and my heart sank. The exterior security door was bolted shut. That monster had locked the entire building, trapping me inside. The irritating Feed scrolled across my eyes again: [Liz, stop running! Find a place to hide and wait for the Male Lead to rescue you.] [Why is a girl so strong-willed? Isn’t it better to be a small, cherished wife in a man’s arms? All you need to do is have babies to be happy.] [The Male Lead is going to be a future investment magnate, he won’t mistreat you!] I felt a surge of bile. With my parents’ money and connections, any idiot could become an investment magnate! That wicked, criminal sociopath, a “Male Lead”? The Feed’s moral compass was utterly broken. The windows on the lower five floors were barred with heavy security grates—no jumping out there. Mitch would be coming back down. I had to run. Where? I forced my gaze away from the Feed and focused on escape. Think, Eliza, think. An idea sparked: the old climbing adage, “The darkest place is under the lamp.” Mitch would search for me away from my apartment. He wouldn’t expect me to double back. I started moving immediately, carefully ascending the stairs. I was breathless in the darkness, every step cautious, terrified of running right into Mitch. Reaching the fifteenth floor, I heard frantic footsteps above—he was descending. I pressed myself against the doorframe, praying Mitch wouldn’t pause on the landing. Clang! The motion-sensor light clicked on. Heavy footsteps approached from above. A thick shadow stopped on the landing, then started toward the door leading to the residential hallway. I watched the shadow stretch toward me and felt a cold despair. My body trembled. Was this it? Was I caught already? 2 The flimsy door was flung open, but Mitch only gave a cursory glance at the empty landing before turning to continue his search down the stairs. Hanging in a wide-legged straddle above the door frame, my lips were bloodless, my limbs shaking. He didn’t look up. I let out a silent, shaky sigh of relief and slowly dropped to the ground. Thank God for my climbing obsession; my upper body strength had saved me. I waited until the landing light went out, then crept upward toward my floor. I reached my front door—or what was left of it—and slipped inside, running straight for the master bedroom. I locked the door and scrambled into the walk-in closet, curling up amongst the coats. Only in that tight, dark space did a sliver of safety return. I pulled out my phone to dial 911, only to find I had no signal. Damn it. My heart sank. I immediately regretted moving into this brand-new development where few units were occupied. No neighbors to call on. As I frantically tried to think of a next step, the sickening comments reappeared: [Oh good, Liz is using her phone! She doesn’t know the Male Lead installed a tracker/trigger app! One call to the police and it alerts him!] [She can’t escape now! Get ready for the hero’s rescue and the start of a beautiful, redemptive, forced romance!] A cold jolt ran through me, and I nearly dropped the phone. But I forced myself to hold on. I needed the Feed for intel. They could not know I could see them. I climbed out, feigning panic, and quickly changed into my most athletic gear. I deliberately left the phone nestled under a pile of scarves in the closet. Heavy footsteps sounded outside the bedroom door. I scanned the room and snatched up a heavy brass lamp from the bedside table, taking position behind the door. The footsteps stopped. Mitch’s harsh, raspy voice sliced through the silence. “Don’t hide, Eliza Reed. I know you’re in there.” “Come out now, and it’ll be less painful…” I stood rigid, lamp in hand, waiting to launch my attack. BAM! BAM! BAM! Mitch began slamming against the door. His voice grew furious, laced with a familiar, toxic resentment. “Women are supposed to get married, have kids, and serve their men!” “You non-marrying, non-birthing gold-diggers are a plague on society! I’m doing a public service, I’m going to teach you how to be a good, proper wife and mother…” I listened to his vile sermon, the ice in my eyes hardening. The thin door quickly splintered. It was about to give. I carefully released the deadbolt. When Mitch slammed against the door one last time, I pulled it open and flung myself to the ground. I timed it perfectly. As he stumbled forward, I swung the lamp with all my remaining strength at the back of his head. A flicker of triumph died immediately. The staggering Mitch somehow twisted, raising the claw hammer he held to block the blow. His yellowed teeth split into a sickening smile. “Eliza Reed, you should just lie down and wait for me.” He lunged. My jumping heart stalled for a second, then kicked back into overdrive. I lifted my foot and drove it hard between his legs, then spun around and ran. “Aargh! You little bitch! I’ll kill you!” Mitch shrieked, doubled over, staring at me with pure venom. He swung the hammer wildly, catching me as I scrambled away. I tripped and landed hard on my left shoulder. Excruciating pain shot down my arm. Fractured. My face was contorted with agony, but I didn’t waste a second. I crawled up and bolted for the door. The Feed was screaming: [Liz, stop struggling! You can’t fight a man! Just surrender to the Male Lead’s embrace!] [He’s waiting on the thirteenth floor! Just knock, and he’ll open! Don’t waste time!] 3 The sight of the Feed, directing me straight to Owen, stiffened my resolve: I would die before I went to the thirteenth floor. Gritting my teeth against the searing pain, I stumbled toward the elevator, stabbing at the down button. “You bitch! Where are you going to run?” Mitch’s bellow echoed behind me. I nervously swallowed as I watched the elevator indicator slowly descend. Too slow. I spun around and staggered toward the fire exit stairwell. I slammed the heavy steel door shut, twisted the deadbolt, and ran down. I ran and ran, my mind racing. The entire unit was locked down. My only chance was to reach the second unit—Unit B—and try to escape that side of the building. To do that, I had to lose Mitch. A plan flashed into my newly clear mind. I spotted a stack of flattened moving boxes and cardboard debris piled near the utility closet. I have to take the risk. I sucked in a breath and charged back to the elevator, hammering the ‘Open’ button, my eyes fixed on the descending floor number. Mitch was close. The elevator doors opened. I ripped off my jacket and tossed it inside, then slammed the button for the lobby. I pulled my hand back just as the doors closed. I quickly pulled off my hair tie, dropped it conspicuously near the elevator, and dove into the pile of cardboard boxes, folding myself into a tight ball. Seconds later, rapid footsteps arrived, getting closer. Through a small gap in the boxes, I saw the thick shadow stop right in front of my hiding place. My heart hammered against my ribs. I froze, praying, Don’t look down, don’t look down. Mitch paused, then moved toward the elevator doors, which had just opened on the ground floor. He let out a scoff of contempt, then turned and ran back toward the stairwell, pounding down the flights. When the sound of his footsteps completely faded, I sagged against the floor. Time was critical. Dragging my aching body, I reached the corridor connecting the two building units. The door was locked. I used my good arm to smash the glass windowpane next to the door, carefully climbed through the jagged opening, and found myself in Unit B. I sprinted down to the ground floor. My stomach twisted with fresh despair. That door, too, was secured with a thick, heavy steel chain. I bit my lip. No escape at the ground floor. I ran back up to the sixth floor, intending to use the narrow ledge and my climbing skills to jump to the ground-level landscaping. As I reached the sixth floor, a door opened. A man in flashy loungewear and heavy eyeliner, clutching a bag of recycling, was heading toward the stairs. I saw a lifeline and grabbed his arm, the words spilling out, laced with a desperate sob. “Someone is trying to kill me! Please, you have to let me hide in your apartment!” The young man was startled, but he quickly ushered me inside, throwing his recycling down. He spoke in a bright, concerned voice. “Don’t worry, sis. I’ll call the police right now.” He pulled out his phone, frowning. “Damn. No signal?” Exhausted, I collapsed onto his sofa. “The man… he’s using a signal jammer to block calls.” The young man muttered, “That’s messed up. Hey, don’t worry, my door is solid steel. They aren’t getting in here. You just stay here until daylight, and I’ll take you to the station myself.” I forced a grateful smile. “Thank you. Where’s the bathroom?” He pointed. As I entered the restroom, washed my hands with cold water, the Feed returned. [The Male Lead is so smart! He anticipated Liz’s movements and was waiting in this unit!] [Liz finally walked into the trap, teehee! The Male Lead prepared a special dark room for her! The exciting, sweet, forced romance is about to begin!] I stared at the comments, an icy dread creeping up my spine. My teeth ground together. 4 I started to re-examine the man. His face was obscured by thick makeup. He’d casually mentioned he was a streamer, but there was no camera, ring light, or even a decent PC setup in the living room. I was too trusting. “Sis, you alright in there?” His voice, muffled through the door, carried a faint edge of doubt. I watched the shadow on the bathroom door. He was holding something long—a rope. In a panic, I cranked the shower handle, letting the water blast out. I shouted back, “Hey, sorry! I think I need a quick shower. I’ll be a minute!” The voice outside chuckled. “Take your time, sis.” The shadow disappeared. I wiped a stray tear from my eye and frantically searched for a new escape. My eyes fell on the window’s blackout curtains. The rushing water masked the sound of my efforts. I yanked the curtains down and tore them into long strips, tying them together. I tested the knots, then climbed out the window. The makeshift rope was not long enough. It stopped just above the third floor. Dangling in the dark, I looked down at the lawn, took a deep breath, and let go. I landed hard on the soft grass, rolling several times and slamming into a decorative garden bench before I stopped. My entire body screamed with pain. I managed a quiet sob, pulled myself up, and began to limp away. [Why is Liz so stubborn? Isn’t it better to just enjoy being the Male Lead’s pet?] [It’s fine. When she gets to the gate, she’ll find out the guard is paid off. She can’t escape the complex.] The Feed had given me my next direction. I immediately changed course and headed for the underground parking garage. I stared at the empty, echoing space with despair. Those monsters would find me here. Five hours until dawn. Where could I possibly hide? Heavy footsteps echoed in the garage. I saw only a few cars scattered across the vast space. Desperate, I dove under the nearest large SUV. I saw four legs approaching. Mitch’s foul cursing reached my ears: “That little bitch can really run. I’m going to have so much fun with her when I catch her.” “Hold on, Mitch. No fun until the wedding. What you’re doing is a felony right now. Once she’s my wife, you can do whatever you want.” Owen’s cultured voice was soft, but the icy malice in it made me tremble violently. “The little fool hurt her shoulder and leg. She can’t be far. Let’s search the cars.” I was flat on the concrete, watching their shoes as they started their meticulous search, even peering under the vehicles. As they began to approach the SUV I was under, the blackness of utter despair welled up in my heart. Was I really going to be caught?

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