The fallout from my breakup with Rhys had been catastrophic. A total disaster. Seeing him again happened while I was on a video call with my current boyfriend, Dean. I never thought that kind of soap-opera, dramatic nonsense would actually happen to me. Dean’s roommates were goofing off, yelling about wanting a look at the “new girlfriend,” and the next second, someone snatched his phone. The first thing that filled the screen was a sterling silver initial pendant, one I knew intimately, one I hadn’t seen in three years. Then, a profile—a sharp, unmistakable line of a jaw. I recognized the man instantly: Rhys Montgomery, the boy who had defined my entire high school existence. 1 Sweat beaded and rolled down Rhys’s chiseled jawline, disappearing into the open collar of his basketball jersey. He stared at the screen, freezing for a solid two seconds. His pupils blew wide. “…Shit.” The next second, the phone was airborne, the screen going black before someone grabbed it. Dean’s roommate, Leo, held it up, looking annoyed. “What the hell is your problem, man?!” Rhys paused, then let out a sharp, dismissive laugh. “Your taste is still shit.” Dean, who is usually the most mellow person in the world, actually got hot. His voice was low and cold. “My girlfriend is incredible. You don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Yeah, man! Ellie’s beautiful. I’d say way hotter than the top girl in the Finance program. What are you looking at, Rhys?” “If I could date a girl like that, I’d eat instant ramen for three years!” “Get lost! I’d do ten!” His roommates dissolved into a laughing crowd, but Rhys didn’t say anything else. Dean took his phone back. “Sorry about that, El. He must’ve lost his game today. Bad mood.” From the background, I heard a sound of pure, grinding teeth. “I won. By twenty points!” Dean didn’t miss a beat. “Then he’s lost his mind. I’ll pick you up for dinner, El.” After we hung up, I leaned back on my bed. The midsummer sun was blinding, so I covered my eyes with my arm. Rhys. It had been three years. I couldn’t believe he was still wearing that necklace. It was so cheap. I remembered the price tag—something like forty-nine dollars at a mall kiosk. It was a couple’s set, half-off. Mine had been tossed or lost years ago. He seemed unchanged, yet completely different. Same face, but matured, the features sharpened, honed, like an aggressively cut diamond. The innate recklessness in his eyes was something he could no longer hold back. I suddenly remembered three years ago, before the SATs. Rhys had been standing on the sidewalk below my apartment, wearing a jersey then, too, his eyes red-rimmed and begging. “I’ll listen to anything you say from now on. If you don’t want me around her, I won’t ever see her again.” “We promised we’d go to the same college, El—” His voice was raw. In the darkness, I could see a glassy sheen in his eyes. “Just don’t leave me. Whatever you ask, I’ll do it. Please?” He looked so broken, almost on his knees in front of me. But I just looked at him, expressionless, and spoke in a quiet voice. “Rhys, I changed my college applications.” “I’m not going to UCLA.” 2 My relationship with Rhys Montgomery began the way all cliché teen stories do: the new girl replacing the childhood best friend. It ended when the childhood best friend came back for good. I transferred to Palisades Academy during our junior year and immediately took the top spot in the class. Back then, teachers still believed in pairing a studious girl with a struggling boy to be a good influence, so I was seated right next to Rhys. But Rhys had zero interest in academics and an intense, instant interest in me. He was always tugging on my ponytail or snatching my pen and holding it up high, leaning down with a wicked half-smile. “Ellie Stone, you’re miniature.” Once, during History, he slid a folded note across the table. I opened it to find a terrible stick-figure drawing of me. I was about to hiss a complaint when the teacher caught the note, held it up for the class to see, and sent us both into the hall to be disciplined. I was a perfect student. I’d never been humiliated like that. My eyes burning, I shoved Rhys. “Rhys Montgomery, you’re an idiot!” He knew he was in the wrong. He stayed silent for a moment, then quickly folded the note into a paper star and slid it into my hand. I looked at the crumpled star, and I couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing, my tears forgotten. Our relationship evolved quickly. I’d force him to do his homework until he understood every problem, checked his assignments, and forbade him from copying the answer key. In return, he started waiting for me outside my building every day. We walked to and from school together, stopping at the silly accessory shop near the bus stop. On a whim, I bought two initial pendants, keeping one and giving him the other. Rhys was a golden boy at school: handsome, wealthy, a star on the court. There was no counting the number of girls who had crushes on him. One day, one of them cornered me and asked if I liked Rhys. The combination of teenage pride and an undefinable surge of anger made me blurt out: “I would never like someone who has lower grades than me.” The girl’s eyes darted past me. I whipped my head around. Rhys was standing right there, behind me. I had no idea how long he’d been listening. He walked past me, his face blank. After that, Rhys stopped seeking me out. He never talked to me in class, never waited for me after school. We sat at the same table, and we didn’t exchange a single word all day. I wanted to explain, but he never gave me an opening. Until a year later. Rhys achieved a score that was nothing short of miraculous, tying for first place with me. That evening, he stopped me in the hall, his expression dead serious. “Ellie Stone, my grades are no longer below yours. Can you love me now?” All these years later, the memory is still blurred around the edges. I only remember the Blue Jacaranda trees blooming that day, the purple petals everywhere, like a sea. And his eyes—they were brighter than a star going supernova. The light seemed to cross a vast cosmic distance, landing directly in my heart. In that instant, I heard my own voice say: “Yes.” And that was it. We were together. The passion of youth is uncontrollable, a wildfire. We were inseparable. Rhys introduced me to all his friends, even got my name—Ellie—tattooed on his rib cage. When I said I was applying to UCLA, he declared he’d go there with me. His mother was ecstatic about his sudden ambition. Since my grades didn’t suffer, both our parents and teachers conveniently looked the other way. We became the only officially public couple at the Academy. I honestly believed we would go the distance. Until I realized there was a girl who mattered to him more than I did. 3 Rhys had a childhood best friend, a Qing Mei Zhu Ma, named Lyra Abbott. Years ago, Lyra’s father, who worked as Rhys’s dad’s driver, had saved Mr. Montgomery’s life during a boating accident. He didn’t make it back to the surface. Rhys’s dad was a decent, honorable man. He immediately brought Lyra and her mother into their home, promising to treat Lyra like his own daughter and take care of them forever. Lyra had grown up attached to Rhys’s hip. Even when we started dating, she didn’t back off, constantly trying to tag along with us. Rhys and I fought endlessly about it. Eventually, Lyra seemed to ease up. But a couple of days later, she reappeared, leaning heavily on Rhys. “Sorry, Ellie,” she murmured, “I know you didn’t want me to walk with you, but I twisted my ankle. Rhys insisted on taking me home.” Rhys’s attention was completely fixed on her. His brows were furrowed as he scolded her. “You hurt your foot and didn’t tell me? Were you planning to hop home on one leg, Lyra?! Get on!” I still remember that walk. Rhys carried Lyra on his back, walking several paces ahead of me. She chattered on about their childhood stories, and I couldn’t get a word in. She whimpered, “Rhys, my foot hurts so bad!” I had never heard his voice sound so gentle. “Hurts bad, huh? What can I do?” “I need a slice of that fancy German chocolate cake from the corner bakery. The most expensive one!” “Done. I’ll drop you off and then go get it for you.” “Rhys, can we go back to walking together? When I walk alone, those shady guys from the vocational school stare at me. I’m scared.” Rhys’s jaw tightened. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Don’t you dare walk alone if I’m not with you.” Lyra smiled and turned her head to give me a quick, subtle look. “Okay.” The setting sun stretched their figures long and inseparable across the sidewalk. I fell further and further behind, but Rhys never once looked back at me. It wasn’t until he set Lyra down at her door that he finally turned around. “I have to go get Lyra’s cake, so I won’t be able to walk you all the way tonight.” “Ellie. Just go home.” I looked at him for a long time, then turned and walked away alone. 4 That incident led to a cold war between us that lasted an entire week. Initially, Rhys didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. “I’ve always seen Lyra as my sister. How could I ignore her when she was injured?” I kept my face perfectly neutral. “She could’ve called her mother. She could’ve called your driver. Why did she have to wait for you there? You see her as a sister, but does she see you as a brother? Do you honestly believe she’s not in love with you?!” Rhys’s eyes flickered away. Finally, he sighed and pulled me into a hug. “El, I only love you. I swear. I’ll talk to her and set boundaries. I’ll keep my distance. Okay?” I closed my eyes. “Okay.” Rhys did talk to Lyra. I don’t know what he said, but I watched Lyra run out of our classroom crying, and she didn’t seek him out again. I thought the drama was finally over. But one day, Rhys found me, his brow furrowed, and stammered out the words. “Lyra said this guy from another school has been harassing her. He keeps coming on too strong. She asked me to come out tonight and pretend to be her boyfriend to get him to back off.” He caught my expression and quickly added: “Just for one night. Just enough for the guy to get the hint.” “Didn’t we agree? One day, it’s a twisted ankle and you have to carry her home. The next, she’s being ‘harassed’ and you have to be her fake boyfriend. What’s next, Rhys?!” Rhys wasn’t generally known for his patience, but he was always gentle when he was trying to reassure me. “If her father hadn’t died saving my dad, Lyra would have her own protection now. I genuinely can’t abandon her. Just this once. If you don’t trust me, you can come with me, okay?” When he put it that way, I knew arguing further would lead nowhere. I had to agree. “One night. And I’m going with you.” Rhys smiled, cupped my face, and kissed me hard. “My girl is so understanding. I love you the most!” 5 That night was my first time in a bar—really, it was a grungy but upscale lounge near the college campus. Lyra was indeed surrounded by a guy who was tall and built. He wasn’t unattractive, but he had a sleazy vibe, constantly trying to hook his arm around her. Rhys stepped forward, shoved the guy’s hand away, and pulled Lyra into his side. His eyebrows were pressed low as he glared at the guy. “Keep your hands to yourself. She’s my girlfriend.” Rhys had taken mixed martial arts since he was a kid. When he gave someone the cold shoulder, his presence alone was enough to make the guy back down. Someone jumped in to smooth things over. “How about Truth or Dare? Mitch is paying tonight, guys, drink up!” Mitch Riley—that was the guy harassing Lyra. I heard his family was involved in some shady local business, collecting protection money from the area shops. He was from a vocational school, met Lyra through a mutual friend, and had been pursuing her relentlessly. This dinner was clearly his way of checking if Lyra really had a boyfriend. Rhys scoffed and tossed a black Amex Centurion Card onto the table. “Don’t worry about it. Everything tonight is on me.” Everyone’s eyes were immediately drawn to the card. One girl’s eyes lit up. “Is that the legendary Black Card? Lyra, you’re holding out on us! You have a boyfriend this hot and rich and you didn’t tell anyone?” Lyra laughed, leaning into Rhys. My fingers curled into my palm. Rhys glanced at me subconsciously, but I turned my head, refusing to meet his eyes. Mitch Riley’s face darkened. His friend’s girlfriend, probably nervous about a fight, raised a bottle. “Okay, let’s play Truth or Dare! Spin the bottle!” The first few rounds were harmless, most people choosing Truth and answering easy questions. I was finally starting to relax, thinking the night would pass without drama, when the bottle stopped directly in front of Lyra. She smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I choose Dare.” My heart sank instantly. A terrible premonition washed over me. Sure enough, the girl next to her squealed excitedly. “You have to pick a guy here and kiss him. A deep, French kiss!” Lyra’s face flushed, and her eyes immediately found Rhys. Rhys’s expression stiffened. He instinctively frowned. “I choose—” In the face of Mitch’s increasingly ugly expression, Lyra didn’t hesitate. She pointed straight at Rhys. Rhys’s face was thunderous. “Change the dare.” The girl challenged him. “You guys are boyfriend and girlfriend, right? What’s the big deal? Kiss, kiss!” Everyone started chanting. Mitch looked openly skeptical. “Are you really her boyfriend?” Lyra forced a soft smile. “Of course.” Her beautiful eyes turned pleadingly to Rhys. She reached up and placed a hand on his forearm, her red lips parting. “Rhys…” My blood ran cold. Rhys stood stiffly, letting Lyra lean in. The moment before their lips were about to connect, I lunged to my feet! He flinched, turning his head slightly. Lyra’s kiss landed on his jawline. A near-miss, a coward’s kiss. He reached out in a panic to grab me, but I violently shook his hand off. Ignoring the shocked faces of everyone at the table, I bolted for the door.

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My husband, Ryan Marshall, was having an affair with his boss, and they crashed during a business trip. The doctor’s verdict: even if we saved him, he’d be a vegetable. I swore I would save him—sell the cars, sell the house, whatever it took. But just as I finalized the sales on our condo and car, he was gone. I ended up with the proceeds from the house, the car, a massive life insurance payout, and a hefty corporate compensation package. Oh, and the eighty-plus million in my husband’s secret accounts. I was completely, irrevocably financially free. Then, his parents tracked me down, dragged me to court, and accused me of murder. 1 Inside the police station interrogation room, one detective, Detective Miller, spoke in a conversational tone, as if we were chatting over coffee: “So, how did you two meet? When was that?” The other, Detective Reed, was strictly taking notes, giving me an occasional, deeply scrutinizing look. I rubbed my face. I hadn’t slept well in days. From the accident to the ICU, to selling everything to save him, to his funeral—it had all been a blur. A grotesque, exhausting dream. I was still waiting for the earth to snap back into place. I managed a bitter twist of my lips. “We met last year, on April 16th. A blind date.” “That’s very specific. Why do you remember the exact date?” Miller asked. “It’s my son’s birthday.” I knew my expression must have been on the verge of tears. Miller seemed slightly taken aback, but then asked with a joking air, “You’re so young, a graduate from a top school, and you work in the City Planning Division. Why would a woman like you need a blind date?” I’m five-foot-five, and while I wouldn’t call myself striking, I’m not ugly. I have a Master’s degree and passed the civil service exam right after graduation. I felt a slight flush of embarrassment. “I’m not originally from here. I went to school here, and the people at the Division have always been kind to me, but…” I paused, feeling awkward, but continued anyway. “Everyone is enthusiastic, especially the older established women.” Miller nodded, understanding. “Ah, yes. The local network. The established social circle loves to play matchmaker for the younger folks.” He then asked, “And when did you get married?” “Last year, July 5th.” “So you knew each other for less than three months and got married? That’s fast. Why the rush?” Miller sounded genuinely shocked now. I gave a small, weary smile. “I was pregnant.” “A shotgun wedding,” he summarized, sounding satisfied. “He was almost three years older than me—already thirty. I worried about having children later. I wanted to keep the baby. We talked it over. Given how things were progressing, we would have married eventually anyway, so we just went ahead and filed the paperwork.” “Do you think you knew him well?” Miller suddenly asked. I was puzzled by the shift in topic, but answered, “He was kind, genuine, and incredibly thoughtful. He was so gentle with me. I—I rarely encountered someone like that, besides—” Thinking of Ryan, I felt the familiar rush of warmth and a lingering blush, but the immediate realization that he was gone slammed the door on that feeling. A wave of profound sadness choked me, making it hard to speak. Miller passed me a glass of water, letting me compose myself. After a moment, he prompted, “Besides what?” “Besides that, his circumstances were exactly what I wanted.” I didn’t mince words. “And what circumstances were those?” Reed pressed, his voice flat. “He had a respectable job, he was good-looking, and his salary was significantly higher than mine. Our union was a strong alliance, not a one-sided rescue. To be honest, I leveraged his status, and my quality of life improved several steps.” “Our investigation shows your family is also well-off. They bought a place for you here when you got married, correct?” “Yes. My parents had already set aside money for a condo. When Ryan and I decided to marry, as a sign of my commitment, we bought a place after we got the license, and I put him on the deed for half the property.” 2 “No big wedding, he didn’t take a dowry, and my mother said we could hold the ceremony later. He understood. He said since we’d just purchased the condo, my parents shouldn’t worry about the cost of a wedding right away.” “A two-bedroom condo in this area, even a starter, is easily over seven hundred thousand dollars.” I blushed slightly. “It wasn’t a full purchase. We took out a mortgage for over five hundred thousand, which I was paying off with my government pension and savings.” “A family that can put down a hundred thousand plus is not ‘simple,’ as you say.” “My parents run a small business. Since I’m not from here, even with my government job, I have no deep roots. Finding an ideal partner who isn’t intimidated by my drive, or who doesn’t pull me down, is difficult.” “With your qualifications, you had it easier than most.” “I didn’t want to compromise myself or lower my standard of living just to get married. I’m an adult. I knew what I wanted.” I was deliberately open about what most people tried to avoid discussing. “So even though he was nearly three years older, you chose him,” Miller summarized. “The age gap was not an obstacle in the slightest. I thought he was the best man I had ever met! Marrying him was my good fortune!” I said, feeling a spike of anger at the underlying skepticism in the detective’s tone. “Alright, alright. Just calm down.” I took a long moment to regain my composure. Miller then continued with the standard questions: where I was, what I was doing when Ryan crashed. I answered everything truthfully, then looked at him in weary disbelief. “Why on earth do his parents think I would murder my husband?” Seeing my agitation, Miller gestured for me to lean back and take a deep breath. “Why were you so quick to sell your car and property after the accident?” 3 “I had about thirty thousand dollars in liquid savings. Everything else was tied up in the stock market—frozen assets. The doctors said his situation was critical, and even if he survived, he’d likely be a vegetable. But I didn’t care. I just wanted him alive. As long as he was breathing!” I broke down, shouting the last words. I touched my face, realizing I was crying again. After several minutes, when I was able to speak, I continued, “He was in the ICU. You know the cost—a minimum of ten thousand dollars a day. My money ran out fast. The money I’d borrowed from friends dried up, too. Selling the car and the condo was my last, desperate option.” “You didn’t know where your husband kept his money?” “No. After we married, we kept our finances separate. He handled his, and I handled mine. For household expenses, I covered the mortgage and utilities, and he covered social obligations and the renovations.” “Renovations?” “He paid for the full renovation of the condo and furnished it with all the appliances.” I said, feeling slightly uncomfortable revealing this. Miller nodded and asked, “Given Ryan’s condition, did you ever consider telling your parents or asking his parents for financial help?” “His condition was so touch-and-go; I didn’t want to worry my parents unnecessarily. I planned to tell them once he stabilized. And I was afraid of how his parents would take it, especially his father. My mother-in-law and father-in-law adored Ryan.” “We understand that your mother-in-law is not his biological mother.” “That’s right. She is his stepmother, Brenda Maxwell, but she was genuinely good to him. She actually gifted him the condo we live in now before we even got married.” The other detective, Reed, let out a cynical, quiet laugh. “Gifting him property is good?” I frowned, looking him straight in the eye. “For ordinary people like us, a multimillion-dollar property given to a non-biological son? If that’s not ‘good,’ what is?” He was momentarily stumped. Miller stepped in, smoothing things over with a smile. “You’re very protective of your husband and his family. Did you all stay in regular contact?” “I made a point to call his parents twice a month. Ryan, I assume, also stayed in touch,” I said, suddenly feeling unsure. “What about his biological mother?” I felt a pang of shame. “I never met her. We didn’t have a formal wedding, but our two families had dinner together last year. Ryan told me he hadn’t seen her in years and couldn’t reach her, so I never pushed it.” Then, Miller’s face sobered. “He never told you his mother had passed away?” “What?” I was genuinely shocked. “She was a mine worker. She worked at his stepmother’s coal mine and died in an accident.” “I honestly did not know that. Why would they keep that from me?” The two detectives exchanged a look. Miller then returned to his line of questioning. “Why did you sell all the properties and the car? The three pre-marital properties owned by your husband, too.” “I needed the cash immediately. But you know the real estate market—it’s terrible for sellers right now. I was afraid nothing would move, so I listed everything, hoping one would sell quickly.” “But after one sold and you had the money, why did you let the others go?” 4 “The first one to sell was Ryan’s Midtown penthouse, but the buyer needed time to secure the loan. I was running against the clock, terrified of the delay. Then, the second property—our marital condo—went quickly because I priced it incredibly low but demanded cash. The funds came through fast.” “But by then, Ryan was in critical condition, and our baby was also sick. I was stretched thin, so I delegated the property closings to a colleague, Denise, to help me handle the paperwork.” “By the time I was done managing Ryan’s condition and the baby’s health, the buyers for the other two properties had already wired the money. If I had backed out, I would have faced huge breach of contract fines, and I would have alienated Denise. The buyers, you see, were relatives of the department director. You know… I’m still new to the Division. I couldn’t afford to…” I trailed off. Miller looked at me with a measure of sympathy. Two prime downtown properties, sold at a major discount—a steal for the buyers. If the Director’s relatives wanted them, I would have had to sell, ready or not. “So, with all the properties sold, where are you living now?” “The Director’s relatives aren’t moving in immediately, so they leased our marital condo back to me.” “And finally, why did you sell your husband’s car?” “I have a wealthy friend, Finn, who runs a custom auto shop. I was trying to sell the car and the condos simultaneously. I dropped the car off at his shop, and he said he’d assess it for me. But then, one of his employees took the car out privately, crashed it, and totaled it. So, Finn bought the wreck from me.” “Crashed it?” “Yes.” “How did the crash happen?” “I wasn’t clear on the details, but the police at the scene would have filed a report, I assume.” Reed noted something in his notebook. “A quick sidebar,” Miller said, leaning forward. “When you were selling the cars and houses, did you ever stop to think about your future?” I stared at him, confused by the question. He continued, “You married him because he ensured your standard of living wouldn’t drop, maybe even improved it. But if he became a vegetable and you sold everything, your financial status would tank. Didn’t you consider that consequence?” I offered a bitter smile. “Of course I did. But that was a life. If it were you, would you have chosen not to save him?” 5 Later, Miller said, “We brought you in today because your in-laws suspect you murdered Ryan Marshall, and they’re demanding an investigation.” I felt a surge of indignation. My eyes were probably red again. I took a slow, deliberate breath to calm myself. “If they are going to make that accusation, they need to provide proof. What evidence do they have that I harmed my husband?” I asked, managing a wry, sad smile that was dangerously close to dissolving into tears. “Then why did you have Ryan cremated before your in-laws even arrived?” “Ryan was in the ICU for nearly two weeks. Every day, I had to sign dozens of notifications, telling me he was getting worse,” I said, my hands and body starting to shake involuntarily. “My baby was also sick and wouldn’t let anyone but me hold him—maybe he sensed his father was going to leave us. A four-month-old infant… he lost his dad…” My eyes flooded, and I couldn’t stop the tears now. “When the doctor pronounced him dead, I was just…” I rubbed my face hard, searching for the words. “I don’t know if you’ve ever felt it, but… the only way to describe it is the absolute despair of the sky falling in.” “After that, I was numb. The funeral home staff came. I don’t know what they said. I just knew they promised to handle everything, so I let them take him. And…” “And what?” “When my husband died, he had fallen from the cliff. His body was…” I swallowed a sob. “He was unrecognizable. I didn’t want his parents to see him like that. I was afraid they wouldn’t be able to bear it, so I had him cremated quickly.” “Then why did you still call the insurance company for an assessment?” “When we married, Ryan bought us both high-value medical and accidental death policies. He had just paid the premium right before the accident. I was home packing some clothes for the hospital, saw the policies in his drawer, and just thought maybe the medical portion could cover some of the ICU fees. But it was all a lie! All the talk about prompt payouts, immediate coverage—it was all bullshit!” I ground out, my teeth clenched. “But you were paid out, weren’t you? Critical illness, medical, accidental death. Tens of millions of dollars. Especially the accidental death policy—who buys a policy that high? It looks like a classic setup for insurance fraud.” Reed’s voice was low and insinuating. I was stunned by his audacity. Shaking with rage, I lunged at him. “What good is the payout now? I wish we never, ever needed it! I wish my husband were still alive!” Neither detective expected the sudden outburst. Outside, other officers rushed in and pulled me away. I regretted not landing a punch on that hateful detective. He glared at me before being escorted out of the room, replaced by a female officer, Officer Davis, to continue the notes. Once I was calm, Miller returned to the question. “Why did you buy such high-value policies?” “Ryan bought them,” I said, rubbing my temples. “He said that now that we were married and had a child, we had responsibilities and soft spots that single people don’t. He didn’t want the small family we built to be dragged down or our future living standards destroyed if one or both of us were to get sick or have an accident. He said it was just buying peace of mind, an emergency shield. I thought he made sense. And since he paid for it, I had no reason to object.” 6 As I left the interrogation room, Brenda Maxwell, my mother-in-law, lunged at me, clawing at my face. “You filthy bitch! You killed my son! You murdered him! You’ll pay for this!” I was still exhausted from the lack of sleep and the shock of Ryan’s death; my reaction time was slow. I couldn’t dodge her. Her nails raked lines of blood across my cheek and neck. Thankfully, we were in a police station, and the officers quickly pulled her away. In the glass reflection, I saw my hunched, defeated figure. I managed a tired, painful smile. “If you truly believe I harmed Ryan, then bring the evidence,” I said. “Evidence! The evidence is that my son is dead, and you’re alive! You killed him! You think you can get all his money now that he’s gone? Dream on!” Her voice was shrill, and she struggled to get closer to me. I sighed, watching her without knowing what to say. “Arrest her! She killed my son! I want her to pay for it!” she screamed at the police. “We have no evidence that you murdered Ryan Marshall. We cannot arrest her,” the young female officer, Davis, said firmly. “What did you just say?” Brenda shrieked at the officer. “I’m warning you, you better not cover for her, or I have ways of making you all cry!” The faces of the present officers visibly hardened at that threat. They’d seen aggressive people, but never someone so brazen inside the precinct. “The burden of proof is on the accuser, Mrs. Maxwell. Produce the evidence that she killed your son, or we will charge you with filing a false report and disturbing the peace. We have the right to detain you!” a young, enraged officer snapped. “Hmph. Detain me? Do you know who I—” Brenda’s words made my heart skip with sudden excitement, but she cut herself off, rolled her eyes, and said, “Evidence? I have plenty!” As she was leaving, she shot me a venomous look. “You just wait. Everything you swallowed, I will make you cough back up!” I watched her climb into a black, luxury SUV and speed away. The gloomy detective, Reed, suddenly appeared behind me and asked, “What did you swallow that she’s going to make you cough up?” I blinked, then gave a tired, bitter laugh. “She must mean the money from the house sales. I intended to reimburse them for the properties anyway, once everything was settled, but I guess she couldn’t wait…” “You’re suggesting they accused you of murder because they were afraid you wouldn’t return the money from the house sales?” Officer Davis stated the subtext of my words. I sighed, saying nothing, which served as my default answer. I looked up and saw the brooding detective watching me with heavy, intense scrutiny. 7 Exhausted, I returned to the condo. My mother had taken the baby, and I’d given the nanny the week off. I planned to shower and go straight to bed, but I saw the oversized soaking tub in the master bathroom. It was Ryan’s exclusive domain. I’d never used it. On a whim, I ran a bath, poured myself a glass of red wine, and slipped in, playing some music. Full immersion, total relaxation. No wonder Ryan enjoyed it so much. It was sublime. I must have drifted off because I woke up to a violent hammering on the door. I assumed it was the Director’s relative coming for an unscheduled inspection. I opened the door, and a fist slammed into my face. A warm gush of blood poured from my nose. Through my blurring vision, I saw a thick, gold chain swinging. I looked up and met the angry, fleshy face of my mother-in-law, Brenda Maxwell. “You little bastard! You had a path to heaven and you ran straight for hell! You dare try to steal my money? You’ve got a death wish!” Before I could react, she backhanded me across the face. My head went blank for a second, my ears ringing violently. “I—I didn’t…” I tried to struggle, but the seven or eight people she’d brought with her pinned me to the floor. “Screw you!” She slapped me again. I tried to explain, but before I could form a word, she hit me twice more. “Selling the car and the house—you thought you’d get everything now that Ryan Marshall is dead? You think you’re that clever, don’t you?” “I…” She kicked me twice, then pulled me up by my arm, leaning in close. “The money in his accounts, you moved it, didn’t you? Do you know that was my money? Huh? I’ll give you one chance. Tell me where the cash is, and I’ll consider letting you go. Otherwise… your career, your parents’ safety, think carefully.” She flung me down. My chin hit the marble threshold, and I bit my tongue so hard I tasted a mouthful of blood. “What money? I don’t know anything! Don’t you touch my parents—” “Whether or not I touch your parents is up to you, do you understand?” She then turned to her crew and commanded, “Why don’t you boys gently guide her? See if she’ll admit that she murdered him after realizing he was cheating on her for the insurance money.” I lifted my head to look at Brenda Maxwell. She was clearly in a panic. She might have cared about Ryan’s death a little, but not much. She cared about the eighty million dollars in his bank account. 8 Brenda’s thugs dragged me inside, punching and kicking me, trying to extract a confession. I clenched my jaw, refusing to speak. Then, a sudden, frantic pounding started on the front door. I heard one of the men aggressively fling the door open and shout at the person outside: “Who are you? What do you want?” “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” a woman’s indignant voice shouted back. “Your house? Screw you and your house, get out!” “Don’t touch me! How dare you!” A severe male voice joined the argument, and a scuffle broke out. “How dare I? Take another step inside and I’ll beat you, too! Get lost!” “Agh—” the woman shrieked. I was kicked again, the pain forcing me to curl into a fetal position. Outside, the noise was chaotic. I couldn’t tell if the couple had left or were still arguing. Then, just as my consciousness started to fade, a voice outside suddenly boomed: “Police! Don’t move!” I managed a faint, bloody smile, and then I passed out. When I woke up, it was noon the next day. The colleague looking after me in the hospital was Denise, the small-time leader whose relatives had bought my condo. She was thrilled to see me awake. “Oh, Anya, thank goodness you’re up! You’ve been asleep for a day and a night—you had me worried sick!” “Th-thank you for looking after me, Denise,” I managed, my jaw screaming in pain when I spoke. “Oh, don’t talk! Look at you. What in the world did you get caught up in? You were selling everything to save their son, and this is how they repay you? They’re savages!”

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I was running the unapproved meds from down south. Not India, but across the border, hidden in shipments of cheap textiles and knock-off sneakers. Every run was a tightrope walk over the DEA and Customs. I’d carefully cross-reference the patients’ charts. Every vial was divided by treatment cycle, taped with a label showing the patient’s name and precise dosage. I charged twice the black-market cost to cover my risks and travel, but it was still only a fraction of what Big Pharma was asking. I never sold to anyone who couldn’t show a verified, recent diagnosis. I didn’t handle the final drop-offs myself. I used an old friend, Rick, as a cut-out. He was solid, trustworthy, and he always verified the ID. Safe. Discreet. First-time buyers even got an extra week’s supply free. I honestly thought I was doing God’s work. I was giving these people—the ones who had been priced out of life—a lifeline. A road to keep walking. They started calling me “The Ghost Broker.” They sent me shaky, tear-stained thank-you notes, and they helped me keep an ear out for the cops. Watching the tremor leave their hands after that first dose, I knew it was worth every risk. …Until Briana showed up. She was standing just outside the chain-link fence of my rental unit, clutching a worn-out copy of her father’s pathology report. When I quoted her the price—my fraction-of-retail price—she just stared down for a long moment, her eyes darting subtly, assessing. Then, she smiled. 1 The day Briana came back for the first delivery, she claimed she’d been referred by a mutual contact. She was a recent honors grad from NYU’s Nursing program, her résumé stuffed with accolades. She volunteered, unprompted, to be my assistant, insisting she didn’t want a dime. I gave a nervous chuckle and brushed it off. I handed her the meds, rattling off the dosage and protocols. “Take this after your meals, three times a day,” I said, pointing to the label. “This is the receipt. It’s the cost of the drug plus a minimal fee for transport. No markup.” She nodded, her eyes lingering for a few seconds on the notebook where I logged the patient names. She stopped at the alley exit, holding the edge of the box. Her voice was low, professional. “Leo, these don’t have the standard FDA-approved inserts. If there’s a serious adverse event down the line, we have zero legal recourse against the manufacturer, right?” I felt a sudden coldness. “Everyone knows the score,” I said, my tone flat. “I give them the common risks and the protocol. They sign the waiver.” “Taking the risk to live is one thing, but running a sophisticated operation like this? You have to mitigate liability from the jump. It’s the baseline.” She used the word baseline with a chilling emphasis. I felt a knot of suspicion tighten in my gut, but I just forced a smile and agreed. “You’re right. I’ll send out a detailed risk update to the group.” She took her father’s month-long supply, thanking me profusely before she left. Over the next few days, I started noticing subtle shifts in the rhythm of our hand-offs. Briana would show up half an hour early to the meeting spot. She began translating the Spanish and Portuguese instructions on the foreign packaging. She’d talk shop with the families picking up the drugs; she had the medical degree, after all, and spoke with authority and effortless compassion. When I got swamped, she’d volunteer to cross-check patient files and medication logs. The patients and their families adored her. They started calling her Little B. “Little B is so knowledgeable. She talked me through the side effects and I feel so much calmer.” “She’s a godsend. Doesn’t treat us like we’re a burden.” “A real professional. She’s so sharp and so kind.” The compliments chipped away at my wariness. Maybe I had been paranoid. An eager, bright kid wanting to help was a good thing. A week later, I went to the warehouse on the North End docks to prep a new shipment. Outside, Briana was surrounded by a small cluster of patient families. She was holding a few printed sheets, teaching them something. I walked closer. “…According to Title 21 of the U.S. Code, Section 355,” her voice was clear and academic, “any unapproved foreign drug, even a true generic, is categorized as a misbranded and adulterated substance. You buy it and use it, and you have zero legal protection.” “But Leo charges so little,” one of the family members murmured. “We could never afford the real thing.” Briana offered a soft, patient smile. “The low price is built on a foundation of illegality and zero assurance. Have you considered what happens if the drug fails? Or if Leo gets shut down? We wouldn’t have a single legal avenue for recourse. We need this medicine, yes, but we need to secure it within a framework of legal safety. That’s the baseline.” The word baseline hung in the cold air again. Another person chimed in, “Little B is right! My husband didn’t see any improvement last month, and he had bad side effects. I was too embarrassed to bring it up to Leo.” I remembered him. His father was terminal, and even the approved drugs wouldn’t help much, but the family was relying on the old man’s pension. They couldn’t lose him. I stopped dead in the warehouse doorway. Snow had fallen, making the air brutally cold, but the chill that settled in my chest was colder. I didn’t go in. I turned around and walked away. I found a cheap bar, ordered a whiskey, and started drinking. The private chat group—the one I’d set up for mutual aid—was buzzing with activity since Briana had joined. I scrolled through the chat, then pulled up the photos I’d taken of every single patient’s intake file. On the back of every one was their signature on the Risk Acknowledgement and Indemnification Agreement. “I understand this medication is an unapproved foreign generic. I voluntarily assume all associated risks.” Every one of them had signed it. The next morning, my small drop-off warehouse was packed. Briana had called a meeting, claiming they needed to “discuss the medication protocol.” She stood in the center, clutching a stack of printouts, and launched straight into it. “Leo’s South American Viranox has no FDA approval. Legally, it’s counterfeit. And the pricing is completely indefensible. It has to come down.” As she spoke, she passed out printouts of the US Code, then sheets showing the exact cost of the generic drug in Mexico. Finally, she presented their collective demands: First, I had to admit the drugs were illegal/counterfeit and explain the full legal situation to everyone present. Second, the price had to be dropped to the near-wholesale cost in Mexico. No more profit margin. Third, I had to refund everyone the price difference for all past purchases. The room erupted in a chaotic surge of affirmation. “Little B is spot on! I knew this felt too expensive for a black-market drug! He’s profiteering off our sickness!” “A counterfeit drug sold at a premium? That’s blood money!” “Refund the difference! Why else would we risk taking a drug with no safety net?” I locked eyes with Mr. Jensen, who was shouting the loudest. Just last week, he’d practically cried while asking for credit on a box. My chest seized up. I gripped the neck of my T-shirt so hard my knuckles went white. When the noise ebbed, I looked at Briana, forcing my voice into a low, even tone. “A meeting? You didn’t think to tell me you were holding a hostile assembly?” She tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear, her voice unwavering. “If I had told you, Leo, would you have allowed us to have this transparent conversation? This is the consensus of the patients. It has to be addressed openly to be fair.” “Fair?” I took two steps toward her, my voice tight. “I never hid the fact that the drug was unapproved. But how many people is it keeping alive? You want the local price? Do my transport costs, my risks, my upfront capital, mean nothing? How do you think I keep the supply chain running?” “That’s your business, Leo, not the patient’s concern.” She cut me off, letting her gaze sweep over the crowd. “Besides, it’s an illegal drug. You should be grateful we’re even taking it off your hands. You don’t have the leverage to demand a profit margin. You don’t agree? The community won’t agree, either.” She put a chilling emphasis on “the community won’t agree.” I almost laughed at the absurdity. “So you’re using this ‘illegal drug’ to save your lives, but you hate the price, and now you’ve banded together to threaten me into a refund?” “We’re not threatening you. We’re reclaiming what’s owed. We shouldn’t have been overcharged for a counterfeit product.” Her gaze was cool and calculating. “If you’re smart, you’ll comply. Otherwise, things are going to get messy, and that won’t benefit anyone.” I took a deep breath and looked around the room. Mrs. Thompson, who’d hugged me last week thanking me for the results, was looking at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes. “When you came to me, every single one of you signed a waiver. You came willingly. No one held a gun to your head.” Briana’s lip curled. Her voice was quiet but carried through the room. “Willingly? We had no other choice. It was your drug or nothing. But legally speaking, you’re trafficking a felony amount of counterfeit medication. Even if we signed a waiver, you can’t sign away your criminal liability. You run to the police, you shut down your operation. We’ll find another channel. What do you lose?” The warehouse door creaked open. Aunt Carol, who lived in the unit below me, shuffled in, clutching a tattered cloth bag containing the cash she’d earned collecting cans. She froze at the sight of the crowd, then whispered to me, “Leo, I need two more boxes. We’re almost out. Can you… can you give me an extra day or two to pay?” Before I could answer, Briana spun around, her expression softening into a practiced empathy. “Carol, don’t rush to buy. Leo is currently considering lowering his prices. Wait for him to bring the cost down. You’ll save a lot of money.” Carol’s eyes lit up. She nodded eagerly. “Really? Oh, Little B, you are such a doll! Always looking out for us!” Forgetting her request for credit, she happily joined the back of the crowd. I stared at Briana. A cold, black dread started at my core and worked its way up, choking me. The negotiation collapsed. I refused all their demands. I told them that the supply chain was too volatile for a price drop. The source was never a secret, and they all bought willingly. I would not issue refunds. If they were unhappy, they were free to go elsewhere. The next evening, I was cornered in the alley behind my house by three young men. Even with their baseball caps pulled low and their faces half-covered, I recognized them as the sons of some patients. They pushed me hard against the brick wall, one of them driving a fist into my back. The demand was simple: Pay up, drop the price within a week, or they’d break my legs and report me for selling counterfeit drugs. The leader was Mrs. Thompson’s son, the one who’d called me “Uncle Leo” and thanked me for my care. The atmosphere in the patient community curdled instantly. People who used to greet me warmly now avoided my street or looked down when they saw me coming. The “Mutual Aid” chat group I’d built turned into a war room dedicated to organizing against me. I didn’t leave the group. I watched them coordinate, discussing who would monitor my movements to prevent me from escaping. “Who’s free during the day to check Leo’s place? Figure out his schedule.” “Keep the empty bottles. We’ll need physical evidence when we file the claim.” “Everyone tell your family—tell them Leo tricked you into buying illegal drugs. It justifies everything.” “My cousin works in the DA’s office. Even if this gets messy, we’re on the right side of the law.” Briana never posted overtly, but her authority was clear. Everyone deferred to Little B’s strategy. Mr. Jensen’s son, Noah, was the most active. “Don’t worry! I’ve tracked Leo twice now. He always goes to the corner store for groceries right at sunset. We can hit him again.” I remembered Noah begging me for credit, saying, “You’re a good man, Leo. We’ll pay you back fast.” I sat in my living room, my back throbbing, flipping through the signed intake book again and again. The week passed quickly. I didn’t drop the price. I didn’t return a cent. The next morning, when I opened the door to take out the trash, the three young men were waiting for me, clutching baseball bats. They said if I didn’t comply, they would kill me and make sure everyone knew I was nothing but a snake-oil salesman. I looked at Mrs. Thompson’s son. The savagery in his eyes was a chilling mask over the politeness he’d shown before. I endured the pain, then pulled out my phone and called my cousin, Matt, an attorney. “Matt, I’m in trouble. I have men threatening me, demanding money. I need your help.” Matt was silent for a long moment after I explained the whole situation. “This is bad, Uncle. Really bad. You’re straddling criminal trafficking and aggravated assault. They’ve got you cornered. They’re using violence to pressure you, but the minute you call the cops, your felony conviction for moving unapproved drugs is front and center.” “But they all signed the waivers! They knew what they were buying!” “They’ll claim you exploited vulnerable people with terminal diagnoses. They’ll cry victim. Assault is a slap on the wrist. Your drug operation is serious prison time. Your best move is to pay some of it back. Meet their demands. Your loss will be minimal.” I hung up. Minimal loss. I walked to the window. Mrs. Thompson’s son was standing guard, staring at my door, worried I might run. He was talking to Briana, pointing at my house. In his hand was an empty box of the Viranox I had sold his mother. I picked up my phone and posted one sentence in the Mutual Aid group. “You have resorted to violence. I’m calling the police.” The silence in the group lasted only seconds. Then, Noah replied: “You call the cops, we make sure you sit in a cell.” The sky was a suffocating, bruised gray the day I walked into the precinct. In the reception area, besides the recording officer, Briana and two patient family members were already seated. Briana didn’t need a lawyer; she was there as the star victim. She sat by the wall, her hair pulled back tight, her expression conveying a composed, absolute certainty. She handed the officer a thick binder. It contained photos of my Viranox boxes, a meticulously organized spreadsheet comparing my price to the official Mexican rate, and printouts of federal law defining unapproved generics as illegal. Finally, she produced a forty-page bound book. It was filled with handwritten victim statements. Every page was laced with a manufactured sense of betrayal and helplessness. They claimed I preyed on their desperation, that I high-pressured them into buying my dangerous, illegal product, delaying their chance at proper treatment. They painted themselves as powerless victims swindled by a profiteering black-market dealer. Briana’s voice was shaky, carefully calibrated to sound like raw, righteous anger. “Officer, we never wanted this. Our families are dying. We were praying for a miracle—for a good Samaritan. Instead, we found a predator who was pushing us into a literal fire pit!” “He calls himself ‘The Ghost Broker,’ but he’s just a drug trafficker making a profit off our despair!” The other family members chimed in, their faces contorted with manufactured outrage. The recording officer wrote furiously, his expression hardening as he listened. When it was finally my turn, I pulled out my signed intake book and handed it over. “These are the waivers. They all signed them. I explained the situation to every one of them.” Briana cut in before the officer could even look at it, her voice rising. “Don’t believe him, Officer! He rushed us! We were too desperate to get the medicine; we didn’t read the fine print. He exploited our weakness! He’s only bringing this up to escape responsibility!” I tried to explain my process, the honesty about the source, the reason for the price, but Briana steamrolled me every time, using the same refrains: “We didn’t understand the law. He fooled us.” or “Every patient in the group agrees.” My every word was rendered useless. The officer’s brow furrowed, his eyes cold and distant. I knew I had already lost. Briana had been prepared for this since day one. My simple act of kindness—my necessity—had left me wide open to her perfectly constructed legal ambush. She had used the banner of “patient justice” as a battering ram to turn me into a branded criminal. We took a ten-minute break. I stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall, trying to control the trembling in my hands. Briana walked over. She stood directly across from me, the fluorescent light making her face seem strangely transparent. “Leo, it’s not too late to concede.” Her voice was flat, carrying an immutable certainty. “Just admit to the trafficking, refund the money, and we will talk to the officer. We’ll ask for leniency. It’s better for everyone.” I looked at her, a stone in my chest. My voice was a choked rasp. “What if I don’t?” She smiled, and the smile held no warmth, only cold calculation. “Then you face the full weight of the law for trafficking. You’ll be heavily fined, maybe even incarcerated. And you’ll lose your name forever. People will only remember the fake humanitarian who preyed on the sick.” She leaned in, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “All that hard work, all the risk, all the money you fronted—it all becomes proof of your crime. Was it worth it?” I met her eyes. Every word was deliberate. “Let the court decide.” “I’ve accepted the consequences.” Briana’s smile evaporated. Her face went slack with shock, then settled into a hard, unforgiving expression. Without another word, she turned and walked away, tossing a low, venomous “Suit yourself” over her shoulder.

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The day I was supposed to marry the love of my life, Damon Blackwood blew up the venue. He found me in the wreckage and pulled me out with his bare hands. Gazing at my dazed, amnesiac state, he carefully masked the raw ecstasy in his eyes and choked out a trembling lie: he was my fiancé. He was my love. After that, Damon loved me for four whole years. Then, he got bored. 1 He expertly slid off his wedding ring, his hand moving to gently stroke the belly of his young assistant. “Give me a child, and your life is yours.” “And of course, same rule as always—don’t let Viv find out.” But he didn’t know. His little assistant secretly recorded that moment. She sent the video to me, gloating that the old wife should step aside. He certainly didn’t know—I’d already gotten my memory back. Before him, my true love’s name was Rhys Kincaid. Handsome and wild, a man who paid back every debt owed. I was cut from the same cloth. Damon Blackwood was screwed. 2 The Mistress Arrives Damon was excellent at hiding his mistress. Too bad his mistress was bold, and her ambition was even bigger than her stomach. The girl, Blair Miller, showed up at my doorstep with a prominent baby bump, ready for a showdown. “Sister, I’m having twins, a boy and a girl. The doctor says they’re incredibly healthy.” “Daddy feels so bad about how hard this pregnancy is. He massages me every night now, and only goes home to his tired wife after I’ve fallen asleep.” “He says he can’t wait to meet our babies!” I lifted my eyes, giving her a slow, pleasant smile, a cold spark flickering deep within. “Did your baby’s father forget to tell you who I am?” Since Damon was so keen to see the babies, perhaps I should help him along? Twenty minutes later, an expedited delivery arrived at the towering Blackwood Holdings building downtown. I sipped my Earl Grey tea and enjoyed the view from the company’s security feed. When Damon received my package, the stern, controlled lines of his face melted into pure, liquid anticipation. The moment he opened it—his face turned to ash. Inside was a detailed lab report confirming the recent termination. Along with the tangible, undeniable proof of what they’d lost. Forty minutes later, Damon was home. Blair lay on a temporary hospital bed set up in the study, sobbing hysterically the moment she saw him. “Damon! She killed our babies! They were the ones you’d been waiting for, the ones you prayed for night and day!” “Kill that bitch for me and take your revenge!” A flash of raw, unbearable pain crossed Damon’s eyes. He grabbed my wrist, his voice low and hard, clearly struggling to contain his fury. “Vivian, she’s just a college graduate! Do you really have to be so venomous?” Four years married, and this was the first time he’d ever raised his voice to me. And it was for another woman. I threw my phone onto the floor between us. The screen displayed a chat log full of intimate videos of Damon and Blair, along with her vulgar threats demanding I make way for her. “Your little girl sent these to provoke me. As your wife, I was hurt. A little pushback is out of the question?” Damon paused. He gave Blair a brief, chilling glance. Then, his eyes softened, and he sank down to one knee before me, gently taking my hand. “Sweetheart, you misunderstood.” “I was only trying to spare you the pain of childbirth, Viv. I intended for her to carry the baby for us, for you to raise.” “I swear on my life, I only love Vivian St. Clair.” I believed he meant the last part. When we’d considered having a child, he’d insisted on trying one of those male pregnancy simulators. That was the first time I’d ever seen Damon Blackwood cry. He’d hugged me tight, his face pale with horror. “Viv, why does having a baby hurt so much?” “Let’s forget the baby, okay? I can’t stand the thought of you suffering.” But because he couldn’t stand the thought of me suffering— He’d let another woman carry his twins for me? I laughed dryly, glancing over at Blair. Her eyes were wide, a look of pure, disbelieving horror plastered on her face. I offered a small, cool smile. “Damon, you are truly a cruel man—you just gutted both of us with one sentence.” “So, what’s your next move?” “When someone used to upset me, you’d use every power you had to crush them, run them out of Manhattan. I expect no less now.” 3 Blood on the Porcelain Damon’s gaze swept coldly over Blair. But his trembling hands betrayed him. After a long silence, he spoke: “Viv, I apologize for her. I’ll make this right.” “What will it take for you to calm down, so I can get her out of here?” A sudden, sharp killing intent surged in my chest. He could talk a good game. He could act cold. But in the end, he was still protecting her! I expressionlessly swept every vase, every porcelain dish, off the nearest table and onto the marble floor. Damon didn’t hesitate. He kicked off his shoes. Barefoot, he stepped onto the shattered porcelain. Step by step, he walked across the floor and picked up Blair. The sight of the crimson blood mixing with the white porcelain made my vision blur. Damon Blackwood was a madman, but he was an extreme self-interest first. Since I met him, he had only ever suffered pain or loss for me. My gaze chilled, inch by inch. Damon didn’t know I’d gotten my memory back. And he certainly didn’t know—until that precise, sickening moment—that I might have actually fallen for him. But now… A terrible husband, and the woman who tried to steal him. They would both pay a catastrophic price. 4 Escalating Provocation Following that day, Damon tried to make amends by showering me with gifts. Yet he was constantly running back to Blair. Tonight, his excuse was a “last-minute client dinner” that would keep him out for a few hours. The moment he hung up, a text from Blair arrived. “Haha, the old wife regrets it now, huh?” “So what if you killed my babies? He loves me more now. He makes me elaborate meals every single day.” The video attached showed the tall, powerful man wearing an apron, busy in a gourmet kitchen. Damon never used to cook. He learned because I loved it. Now, he was making Blair all my favorite dishes: slow-braised short ribs, a perfect lobster bisque, and a light vanilla panna cotta. Watching the video, I could almost smell the familiar, comforting aroma. A wave of nausea hit me. Damn Damon Blackwood! He was defiling my favorite meals! Blair’s voice, both wicked and triumphant, continued on the audio clip. “He even said he’s going to give me another baby tonight. And you…” “Old woman, you’re finished.” The voice note ended just as my car was slammed hard from the side. I looked up to see seven or eight burly men with shaved heads and tattoos surrounding my car, armed with baseball bats. “You’re the one who messed with my girl, Blair Miller?” I raised an eyebrow and calmly called Damon. As always, he picked up on the first ring. “Damon, Blair found her black-market big brother. They’ve surrounded me.” But his voice on the other end was laced with frustration. “Viv, stop playing games, okay? She’s just a student. How could she possibly have—” I cut him off with a soft, sweet laugh. “I won’t fight back, no matter what they do. Your move.” Then I hung up. The night air was cold. I stared blankly, counting the red-light cycles. Only three cycles passed before Damon appeared. He’d hit traffic and abandoned his car, running the rest of the way. He was panting heavily, his chest heaving, the damp shirt clinging to the defined lines of his body. I watched him for a moment, then smiled faintly. I had lied. The thugs who had intended to touch me were already lying scattered across the street. Damon glared at me, his jaw clenched. Finally, his eyes dropped to my scraped leg. His fury softened, replaced by a mixture of anguish and deep concern as he knelt before me. He gently cradled my calf, applying antiseptic with extreme tenderness. “You’re only doing this because you know I love you!” The man had a thousand accusations inside him, but that was all he could manage to voice. In that moment, my heart twitched again. I felt a rare urge to explain myself. “I didn’t stage this. Blair really did call them.” But Damon shook his head instantly, his certainty crushing. “I asked Blair. She swore it wasn’t her. She is a simple, genuine girl, not like—” The sentence broke off abruptly. But I understood. Not like me—evil and cunning. My expression hardened. Right in front of Damon, I called my lawyer. “I need you to draft a divorce agreement. I’m coming to pick it up now.” I shoved Damon out of the car, put it in drive, and turned to leave. He immediately planted himself directly in front of the car. The night wind whipped his hair across his forehead, and his eyes were wild and desperate. He gritted his teeth, his voice a low, painful rasp. “Vivian, if you want out, you’ll have to drive right over me first!” The blazing headlights illuminated his utterly maniacal expression. I stared at him and floored the accelerator. 5 The Lavender Estate A screeching brake line was the only thing that saved him. I stopped mere inches from his body. But Damon never flinched. He held my gaze with a burning, insane intensity. This time, I was the one who spat out the word: “Psycho!” I sped away in a panic, turning around and vanishing into the night. A few days later, I received another message from Blair. Surprisingly, her attitude was one of extreme humility. “Sister, I’m calling to apologize. I truly know how wrong I was.” “I know I made you angry. Please, will you give me a chance to make amends?” She sent me an address, saying she wanted to treat me to a relaxing afternoon. And apologize in person. I went. A massive Lavender Estate appeared before me. Blair, in a flowing white dress, stood smiling in front of the deep purple flowers, waiting. She opened the estate’s grand gate with a key, like the lady of the house. When I glimpsed the enormous photo framed in front of the flowers, my body froze. The photo showed Blair and Damon, holding hands, lying in the lavender and kissing. The scene was beautiful, serene, and intimate. And the timestamp: Four years ago. Before my amnesia. Blair’s affected, triumphant giggle came from beside me. “Ms. St. Clair, I’ve known you for a long time, actually. I even helped Damon figure out how to woo you.” I learned that Blair had known Damon far longer than I had. She was an underprivileged student he had sponsored. Damon brought her out of the countryside, and when she had nowhere to go, she stayed at his home. The hallways were plastered with photos, every single one of Blair and Damon together. He had built this entire Lavender Estate for her. Listening to Blair introduce their history, photo by photo, my palms actually began to sweat. She looked at my wedding ring and smiled. “Every gift Damon ever gave you? I helped him pick it out.” “Including this ‘Celestial Sparkle’ wedding band—he only bought it because I loved the design.” I knew she wasn’t telling the whole story. Damon had picked twenty styles, brought them to me, and let me choose. But that didn’t stop the wave of sheer revulsion. I expressionlessly slid the ring off my finger and tossed it carelessly into the lavender bushes. Blair’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction. “I was so jealous because Damon loved you so much. It wasn’t fair.” “But it’s okay—men always get bored! I played the role of the understanding, asking-for-nothing girl, just hoping he’d remember me and throw me the scraps of love you didn’t want.” “And guess what?” Blair threw her head back, laughing dramatically as she recalled a happy memory. “He slept with me! He initiated it!” “You, the ‘Gilded Memory,’ got caught. You became the Mosquito Blood. He’s bored with you! So I advise you to be smart and roll over. Damon will be mine eventually!” I stared at her for a long time, then offered a sickly sweet smile. “You’re such a pathetic little snake. Now I feel completely at ease.” Blair froze, confused. I raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Because now I won’t feel an ounce of guilt.” Under her puzzled gaze, I kicked over a wine rack. The entire collection of vintage reds shattered on the floor. I pulled out my lighter. The tiny flame illuminated Blair’s face, frozen in a mask of pure terror. The next second, the tongue of fire engulfed the entire estate.

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The CEO of the company was my husband. Garrett Rhys. But he had never publicly acknowledged me. “It’s a strategic alliance, a dynastic merger,” he’d always say. “We need to maintain the Golden Bachelor image for the sake of the stock and the brand.” It wasn’t until his college sweetheart, Sierra Thorne, returned from abroad, and he abandoned me, burning up with a fever, to personally host her welcome-home dinner, that the blinding truth finally hit me. I was nothing more than a shadow—a stand-in for the idealized ghost of his first love. With my heart finally broken beyond repair, I drafted a divorce agreement. I was ready to step aside. But on the day I presented the papers, Garrett gripped the agreement with a death-lock, refusing to let go. “Harper, what was the last five years, then? What did it all mean?” I met his gaze, my own eyes utterly vacant. “I’m calling it a massive loss. A failed investment.” 1 My marriage to Garrett Rhys had lasted exactly five years. It was a cold, calculated transaction—a strategic alliance between two powerful families, each of us gaining what we needed. He was my older brother’s closest friend, and I had harbored a silent crush on him for years. So when my family proposed the alliance, and he was the intended groom, I said yes without a second thought. I learned later that he had agreed because his first love, Sierra, had just married someone else and moved overseas. Heartbroken and indifferent, he felt it no longer mattered whom he married. I was simply a suitable, well-connected Sterling—perfectly matched in family background and resources. In those first months of marriage, I held onto a naive, foolish fantasy: that companionship would bloom into love, and that I could melt even the coldest stone. Five years later, the truth was undeniable. Some people’s hearts are the Arctic permafrost—no amount of lifelong devotion can warm them. Over those years, we drifted from polite strangers to co-habitating ghosts. He still kept Sierra’s photograph hidden in his private study. We were husband and wife, yet we were less intimate than neighbors. Aside from the mandatory appearances at family and corporate functions, we slept in separate wings of the penthouse. Our lives were parallel lines that never touched. Five years. No shared vacations, no anniversary celebrations, not even a casual weekend trip to the grocery store together. But I remained the dutiful wife, the perfect Mrs. Rhys. He managed the massive corporation; I ran the family’s charitable foundation, ensuring his domestic life was flawlessly handled. Sometimes, I would wonder if he would spare me even a glance if I didn’t have the Sterling name and the successful foundation work to back me up. Even our rare moments of physical intimacy felt like a chore for him—silent and deeply detached. The real devastation came when I stumbled upon an old box of his college keepsakes and found Sierra’s high school picture. Her eyes, her expression, her overall look—there was an undeniable, six-out-of-ten resemblance to me. In that single, agonizing moment, a cold terror washed over me. I was not his wife. I was merely a placeholder. The irony grew even sharper when I discovered he and Sierra had been discreetly back in contact for several months. I took the evidence to him. “Garrett, Sierra’s back in The City. You’ve been meeting her in private. What exactly is going on?” A flash of panic crossed his face, instantly replaced by a sudden, imperious anger. “Harper, are you seriously spying on me? Sierra is a critical contact for a major partnership. We’re talking business.” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. Business? Did “talking business” require meeting her in a private, high-end club until past midnight, avoiding all of his usual security protocols? No wonder he’d been coming home later and later over the last six months, and had practically stopped all physical contact with me. He was keeping himself pure for his rediscovered first love. I had foolishly blamed myself, believing I wasn’t beautiful enough, gentle enough, or attentive enough. Now I understood. He hadn’t been looking at Harper Sterling at all. He was looking at the woman he wished I was. The long-term stress and constant emotional repression took their toll. My body began to break down. My doctor insisted I check into the hospital for a comprehensive, stress-related procedure. When Garrett heard, he only offered a cool, clipped directive: “Tell Finance what you need. They’ll handle the expenses.” No inquiry about my health. No comfort. The only thing he did was instruct his executive assistant to book the best surgeon and private suite. I went to the hospital alone. After the procedure, as the anesthesia wore off, the pain and the weakness made me crave human comfort more than anything. The nurse asked me to call a family member. In this beautiful but emotionally sterile city, my own family was states away. I’d established my life here for him. I dialed his number. “Garrett, my surgery is done. I’m at Saint Jude’s…” Before I could finish, he cut me off. “I’m stuck in an incredibly important international call right now, I can’t break away…” Through the phone, I could faintly hear the strains of a sweet violin, followed by a woman’s light, recognizable laughter. The line went dead quickly. I stared at the call record—less than ten seconds. I tried to stretch my lips into a smile, tasting only the salt of a single, stray tear. Just days earlier, his secretary had innocently mentioned that Garrett had reserved an entire rooftop restaurant to celebrate Sierra’s birthday. Ten seconds for his wife’s medical emergency was an interruption; a whole evening for his ex was a given. But I was his legal wife. Did he truly hold me in such low regard? Less valuable than the person he had already abandoned once? I thought I would weep, that I would break down completely. But strangely, the barren land in my chest remained perfectly calm. There were no ripples left. The deepest grief had passed; only the empty silence remained. Against the doctor’s strict advice, I demanded to be discharged. The doctor tried to stop me, warning that leaving so soon was dangerous. Desperate to escape, I yanked my arm free. A searing pain shot through the fresh stitches—I felt sure they had torn. “I don’t care if I collapse! It won’t be your responsibility! I don’t have a family left anyway.” I spoke of having no family because tonight, I was going to cut all ties with Garrett Rhys. Seeing the blood starting to seep through my hospital gown, the doctor was horrified. He insisted on re-dressing the wound and then, resigned, personally drove me back to the penthouse. I stopped at a 24-hour print shop downtown to print the final divorce agreement. Back home, I sat in the vast, silent living room, waiting for Garrett’s return. 2 He came back at 1:00 AM. He carried the light scent of expensive scotch and the faintest trace of a delicate, feminine perfume. A soft, lingering smile—a look of pure, easy pleasure—still played on his lips. I realized I hadn’t seen that kind of relaxed happiness on his face in the entire five years we’d been married. Reunions with old loves must be wonderful. He looked surprised to see me sitting on the sofa, then, naturally, he gave an order. “You’re still up? Perfect. Go make me some sobering-up tea, will you?” I didn’t move. He frowned slightly. “Harper?” I finally raised my eyes and fixed my gaze on him. “Garrett. I want a divorce.” I slid the printed agreement across the coffee table toward him. He froze instantly, staring at me in disbelief, as if I had spoken an alien language. “What did you just say?” His voice dropped, laced with the accustomed tone of command and corporate intimidation. But I was no longer afraid. “Sierra is back, isn’t she? I’m clearing the path for her.” Garrett’s face went white. The alcohol-induced warmth in his eyes vanished. “You… how do you know about that?” I curled my lips into a cold, mocking smile. “If you wanted to keep it secret, you shouldn’t have used your assistant’s phone to book her a restaurant reservation. And you definitely shouldn’t have let her wear a diamond brooch identical to your custom cufflink set at an industry gala, allowing her picture to be posted all over social media.” Garrett was speechless. He clearly hadn’t anticipated the extent of my knowledge. Five years of marriage had completely depleted every last, small measure of hope I’d held for him. Since my reserves were exhausted, it was time to leave. “Sign it. Once you do, you can openly pursue your perfect ghost without having to pretend I’m anything more than a copy. We both get to be free.” In five years, the times he had genuinely smiled at me were countlessly few, and mostly for show. I had believed he was simply a cold man, born aloof. Now I knew better. His warmth, his passion, his smiles—they were just things he refused to grant me. If I could rewind time, I would never have agreed to that alliance. You shouldn’t meet someone too magnificent when you’re young; otherwise, your entire life becomes a sustained regret. I had already paid five years of my life for a youthful crush and a family obligation. The dream was over. Garrett snatched the divorce agreement, tearing it violently into small, jagged pieces. “Don’t you dare, Harper! Your family pushed for this alliance! You said you wanted to marry me! Now you just decide to walk away? Five years as man and wife, and you can just drop it all like this?” I watched him, my heart a piece of still, cold glass. “Drop it? Then ask yourself this, Garrett: In the last five years, did you ever, even for a single moment, see me as your wife, and not just a shadow?” 3 The air instantly thickened and froze. My question silenced him completely. Watching his struggle for an answer, I mocked myself internally. How many five-year periods does one life hold? My youth, my devotion, my sincere hopes—all wasted. Garrett loosened his silk tie, visibly frustrated at his lack of an answer. He softened his tone. “Don’t say things you don’t mean. Divorce isn’t simple. It affects both corporations. Just calm down, we’ll discuss this another day.” A flicker of genuine panic in his eyes sealed my total disappointment. I knew his real concern. Divorce would shatter the cooperation between the Sterling and Rhys groups, and it would destroy the devoted husband image he’d painstakingly cultivated, tanking the stock price. My heart was dead, but I wasn’t spiteful. “When we married, I brought the Sterling assets and resources. When I leave, I will take nothing. I’ll walk away clean. You keep it all. Use it to marry the woman you actually want.” I was raised in a business family; I understood transactions. Though I married him with a secret, personal hope, I also brought my full power to assist his career. Now, I saw it was only ever a deal—and I was the fool who lost her heart in the process. “Harper, I forbid it! I am not signing these papers!” It was the first time Garrett had ever lost his composure in front of me. Was that a hint of… fear? I looked at him one last time, my expression calm and empty. “Whether you agree or not, this marriage is over. I’ve submitted my resignation to the Foundation board. After the three-month transition period, I will return to finalize the papers. In the meantime, you need to quickly adjust to life without a Mrs. Rhys.” Garrett panicked, perhaps afraid of losing control entirely. He rushed out the words: “You’re the Foundation Director! Without my consent, your resignation is invalid!” I almost laughed. While the Foundation was tied to the corporation, my professional reputation and my family’s backing gave me significant autonomy. “That’s not up to you. If you try to obstruct me, I’ll call a press conference tomorrow and announce the complete breakdown of our marriage.” With that, I tried to stand up. But my body, weak from surgery and long hours of sitting, swayed. My vision swam. I nearly collapsed. Garrett instinctively reached out and caught me. “What is wrong with you? Your face is pale.” I yanked my arm away with all my strength. “Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Rhys. I’m not going to die.” Hearing the frigid formality of “Mr. Rhys,” his body went rigid. For five years, I had always called him “Garrett,” even though he rarely responded in kind. “Mr. Rhys” was the demarcation line. It meant he was a stranger. Only then did he truly look at my ashen complexion, and the realization hit him. “Today… was the day of your surgery?” 4 Without asking, he pulled up the hem of my thin house robe. He saw the tight bandages around my abdomen and the dark, wet spots of seeping blood. Garrett’s brow furrowed. “Why aren’t you still at the hospital? Why didn’t you tell me? I’m your husband!” I met his glare with a cold, simple question. “Why aren’t I at the hospital? Have you forgotten, Mr. Rhys? I called you. You said you had a ‘very important international meeting.’” “As for husband…” I paused, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. “That’s about to change.” Garrett urgently pleaded, “Harper, let me explain…” “Stop!” I cut him off. “This surgery—it’s the price I paid for years of emotional repression and stress, all because of you and this marriage.” “Now, I’m only excising the disease for myself.” “Garrett, I don’t love you anymore. I’m too exhausted to try. We are finished.” “If I could rewrite history, I wish… I had never met you.” As the words left my lips, I clearly saw a flicker of pure panic in Garrett’s eyes. Ignoring him, I dragged my weak body toward the front door. My hand touched the handle just as the doorbell rang, sharp and intrusive. I opened it instinctively. Standing there was a woman who did bear a noticeable resemblance to me, her smile bright and charming. Upon closer inspection, her features were similar, but hers were softer, more deliberately alluring. She paused when she saw me, then offered a practiced, flawless smile. “You must be Harper. You really are like the rumors say—you do look a little… like me.” Her tone was gentle, yet threaded with a tiny, undeniable note of triumph. I offered no reply. I had been a stand-in for five years. Now, seeing the original, I couldn’t even summon the energy to feel angry. She held out a folder. I didn’t take it. “Garrett forgot some important documents at my place earlier. I tried his phone, but he didn’t answer, so I dropped it by on my way home.” She spoke, her eyes subtly glancing past me into the living room, where Garrett stood, his face a mask of discomfort. I scoffed inwardly. No wonder Garrett hadn’t stayed in his comfort zone all night—he’d conveniently “forgotten” the “files.” I said nothing, merely stepping aside to let her enter. My heart was ash; their drama was no longer my concern. I walked straight toward the elevator. Just as the doors were closing, I heard Garrett rush forward. “Harper—!” The rest of his voice was cut off. It didn’t matter. I called my assistant, Owen Vance, and asked him to arrange a place for me immediately. Owen sounded surprised on the phone, but he asked no questions, simply giving a crisp, efficient “Understood.” Soon after, he pulled up in a discreet SUV. Seeing my extreme weakness, he immediately jumped out to help me. “Harper? You look terrible. What happened?” I shook my head. “Just a small procedure. I’m fine.” He pulled up the edge of my jacket without asking, saw the bandage, and the telltale bloodstains. His face darkened instantly. “This is a small procedure?! You shouldn’t be traveling! We’re going to my apartment first. I’ll call my family doctor.” I wanted to refuse, but I truly had nowhere else to go, and my body was failing. I nodded weakly. Without another word, Owen folded down the back seat, covered it with a soft blanket, and helped me lie down. He drove smoothly, constantly checking on me in the rearview mirror. When we stopped at a red light, he passed me a thermos of warm water. “Harper, drink this.” It was the first time I had ever clearly felt genuine, unfiltered care from another person. So this is what it feels like to be truly cherished. It felt good.

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Five years after I walked out on Damon Kincaid, I saw him again at an auction. The difference was, I was the merchandise, caged for public scorn. He was the high-roller, seated in the VIP section, ready to spend a fortune. We played the part of strangers. It wasn’t until some rich bastard bid fifty thousand dollars to buy me that Damon shattered the iron cage, grabbed my chin, and snarled: “You’d rather be a cheap piece of trash than come back and beg me?” “Anya Rossi, you truly are despicable.” I tore his hand from my jaw and offered a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “My buyer is getting impatient. I don’t have time for a reunion.” Once, I knelt and begged, and what I got in return was carrying my parents’ decaying bodies up a desolate hill. Now, all I wanted was to cut all ties, earn enough to pay for my daughter’s cremation, and vanish forever. 1 The noisy room went instantly silent. The guests, who represented half the financial elite of Veridian City, didn’t dare breathe, staring at Damon. The mogul who’d bought me, hearing Damon’s words, broke out in a cold sweat. He finally recognized me: The woman who was Damon Kincaid’s childhood sweetheart, the one he’d once cherished, only to have him break her leg and leave her for dead on the street five years ago. Ignoring the hundreds of eyes on me, I ripped his hand away, clutching the pathetic scraps of fabric covering my body. I gave him that careless, ugly smile again. “Mister Kincaid, my buyer is in a hurry. If you want to reminisce, you’ll have to bid and win me next time. Then we can talk all night.” Damon’s hand, clenched at his side, turned white. His eyes drilled into me. “You’re that desperate? Five years, and you couldn’t spare one single plea?” A soft, delicate hand wrapped around his fist. My heart stuttered. I looked up and saw the one face I’d hoped never to see again. She used to be the nanny’s daughter at the Kincaid family parties, clumsy and dismissed when pouring wine for the guests. Now, she stood confidently beside Damon at a private auction, holding up a hundred-thousand-dollar bid paddle without a flicker of hesitation. Sadie Bell’s eyes were red-rimmed, looking at me with the theatrical sadness of a weeping willow. “Ms. Rossi, why are you always so stubborn? Five years ago, Damon asked you to apologize to me, and you refused, claiming you did nothing wrong. When your family went bankrupt, Damon told you to beg him, and you wouldn’t. Do you really feel you have your dignity now, selling your body for a living?” I couldn’t stop the caustic laugh that escaped me. “Five years and you still haven’t climbed into the spot of Mrs. Kincaid, Sadie. Is that the best you can do?” Smack! A stinging slap landed hard across my face. Used to the pain, I barely flinched, touched my right cheek, and turned to link my arm with the mogul. “Let’s go. Life is short, and we shouldn’t waste time on people who aren’t worth it.” But the mogul shoved me, right into Damon’s path. “Mr. Kincaid, if I’d known she was your woman, I would never have dared compete with you. Consider her my gift to you for the night.” I grabbed his sleeve, my smile brittle and terrified. “You bought me!” Damon let out a sudden, cold laugh, his gaze sweeping over me with sheer contempt. “Anya Rossi, without my permission, you can’t even sell your own flesh. But if you’d just kneel down and beg me right now, I’ll double his five thousand for you.” I dropped my eyes in humiliation. Damon was right. Without his consent, I was paralyzed in Veridian City. After the Rossi family collapsed, my parents died by suicide together. I couldn’t even afford their cremation. The only valuable thing I owned was the engagement ring Damon gave me. I went to a pawn shop, hoping to get ten thousand dollars for a million-dollar ring, but no one dared to take it. “Ms. Rossi, it’s not that we don’t want to help, but Mr. Kincaid gave the word. Anyone who gets involved with you will be ruined in Veridian City.” In the end, I had to carry my parents’ bodies, which were already starting to decompose, for what felt like miles to an abandoned stretch of mountain. I dug the graves with my bare hands. But had I truly never begged him? The day my family lost everything, I knelt at the gates of the Kincaid estate, my head bleeding, begging him to save my father’s company. He appeared, his arm wrapped around Sadie Bell, who wore his silk dressing gown, her neck marked with his kisses. “You kneel and apologize to Sadie. Beg her for forgiveness a thousand times, and I’ll save the Rossi family.” Sadie hid shyly behind him, biting her lip as she looked at me. “Damon, it’s enough if Ms. Rossi just apologizes. I forgive her for pushing me down the stairs. There’s no need for such cruel humiliation.” “Sweet girl,” Damon murmured, his eyes full of tenderness for her. “I know you’re too soft. I’ll settle this score for you. Since she humiliated you then, she deserves what’s coming to her now.” But I hadn’t pushed Sadie down the stairs. She was an angel in front of Damon, and a viper when we were alone. “The childhood sweetheart never beats the new conquest. Damon’s sick of a boring woman like you. You only know how to make one sound in bed. When I’m Mrs. Kincaid, I’m going to make you pay.” Back then, I dismissed Sadie as delusional, certain Damon only loved me. He would abandon a hundred-million-dollar deal overseas and fly seventeen hours, just to be there to blow out my birthday candles every year. In our chat logs, he was telling me he missed me just a minute before. But the moment the gate opened, Sadie shrieked. “Ms. Rossi, don’t hurt me!” She grabbed me, and we tumbled down the grand staircase together. My head hit the marble floor, and white flashes swam in front of my eyes. Before I could process what happened, Sadie was kneeling in front of me, frantically bowing her head. “Ms. Rossi, I truly love Damon. Just keep me like a pet. You can beat me, you can abuse me, anything, just don’t make me leave him.” I struggled to sit up and tried to speak. “I didn’t…” The words never came out. Damon’s foot lashed out, sending me sprawling. He rushed to Sadie, holding her with a heartbreaking intimacy, anxious to get her to a hospital. The one glance he threw my way was pure hatred. “She’s innocent! If you have a problem, come after me!” The beautiful cake he’d brought for me lay on the ground, smashed into a pile of trash. That night, the Kincaid family announced the breaking of our engagement and triggered the collapse of the Rossi empire. My life went from heaven to hell in seventy-two hours. My deep-seated pride fought against bowing my head. But the ravaged faces of my parents lashed at my conscience. My spine finally bent. I gritted my teeth. “Fine. I’ll kneel.” But just as my knees began to touch the ground, my phone rang. It was my mother. Hearing her ragged breathing, my heart sank. “Anya, your father and I would rather die than see you kneel and beg anyone.” My parents protected my dignity with their lives. I fought back the tears stinging my eyes and spoke to Damon, cold and final. “You want me to beg? In your dreams.” 2 A sharp pang of guilt struck me. I bit down hard on my tongue. I had failed my daughter; I hadn’t made enough for her funeral today. I would be condemning her to another day in the morgue, cold and alone. The thought of my daughter, who was so afraid of the cold in life, twisted my insides until I couldn’t breathe. It’s my fault, Sweetheart. I spun around to leave, but someone blocked my path. Teary-eyed, Sadie grabbed my arm. “Ms. Rossi, you’re still angry that Damon chose me, aren’t you? It was my fault that I was hurt so badly when I rolled down the stairs that by the time I woke up, your family was already bankrupt.” “For the past five years, I’ve been consumed by guilt. If you can just forgive me, I’m willing to leave Damon.” Her hypocritical tears made me sick. I impatiently shook her hand off. The scene from five years ago replayed instantly: Sadie collapsed to the ground with a small, theatrical cry, scraping her elbow just enough to draw attention. Damon’s face changed instantly. He lifted her, his eyes full of protective tenderness. The look made the hair on my arms stand up. I finally understood everything. He hadn’t been blind then, nor was he now. But because the person who supposedly caused Sadie harm was me, Damon didn’t need to know right from wrong. I was guilty, and I had to pay the price. “Anya Rossi, it seems the lesson from five years ago wasn’t enough for you. Sadie is not for you to touch.” A wave of terror washed over me. I turned to run, but Damon’s bodyguards grabbed me and slammed me onto the ground. “Since you want to be a whore, I’ll grant your wish. I’ll let everyone see just how pathetic and loose you are!” He spoke in a cold, loud voice to the gawking guests around us. “The man who makes her scream for mercy will get the land on the west side of the city!” The room erupted in guttural shouts. The mogul, who had been trembling with fear a moment ago, now had a dangerous light in his eyes. “Is that true, Mr. Kincaid?” Damon pulled a signed document from his suit pocket and tossed it to him. “Right here, in the main hall. I want everyone to watch her beg.” The mogul snatched the paper, then lunged at me, tearing at the few scraps of my clothing. I thrashed desperately, trying to crawl out from under him, but he cursed, hitting me left and right, grabbing my hair and smashing my head against the floor. “You filthy slut! You were desperate to be under me a minute ago, and now you’re playing the virtuous martyr!” Blood streamed from my forehead, blurring my vision. Through the crimson haze, I saw the faces of those around me—all laughing, holding up their phones, gleefully recording my humiliation. “Nice body. She was the Rossi princess, after all.” “I should have bid! Even without the land, a taste of the Rossi princess wouldn’t hurt!” The mogul pinned my head to the floor, twisting my limbs into a humiliating position. Then he leaned close, his breath hot and greasy in my ear. “Just cooperate, and I’ll give you twenty thousand when I’m done.” The moment my legs were forced apart, I closed my eyes in absolute despair and vomited up a mouthful of blood. The image of my daughter’s little, frost-covered face in the morgue flashed behind my eyelids. It’s okay… I thought, a terrible kind of peace settling in. This way, I can afford to buy her a plot that faces the sun. In the last sliver of fading consciousness, I thought I heard a distant roar: “Stop! That’s enough!” I smiled bitterly, a final, cynical thought: How pathetic, Anya. You actually thought someone would save you. 3 In the darkness, I saw two small figures standing before me. It was my daughter. She smiled and called to me: “Mommy, I’m not cold anymore. I’m going to find Grandpa and Grandma. You need to take care of yourself.” “Hope!” I screamed her name, a wrenching, tearing sound, reaching out only to grasp dissolving foam. I woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat. The clock on the wall read nine minutes past nine. I looked at the calendar, and a bomb seemed to go off in my mind. Five days had passed since the auction. I tore the IV needle from my hand with trembling fingers and stumbled out of bed. My legs buckled, and I nearly collapsed. A strong pair of arms caught me, forcing me back onto the mattress. “Anya Rossi, you truly are something. Chronic blood loss, severe malnutrition. You’ve been living like a beggar. Why—why wouldn’t you just come back… and beg me?” Damon slammed a stack of medical reports onto my chest. “Do you really have to be this stubborn?” I looked at him blankly, a hollow spot opening in my heart. Something vital had slipped away from me. Tears streamed down my face, uncontrollable. I finally found my voice, a harsh whisper. “I did beg you…” I had sacrificed my dignity, defied my parents’ dying wish, and begged him to spare a life for my sick daughter. I was curled up in a damp storage unit, ten hours into labor, but my babies wouldn’t come. Blood soaked the cheap mattress beneath me. With the last of my strength, I called Damon. The moment the call connected, I felt like a drowning person clutching the final piece of wreckage. “Damon, I’ll apologize to Sadie. I’ll kneel and beg both of you. Just save our child…” But all that answered me were the intertwined moans of him and another woman. “Damon, I want to have your baby.” Damon’s voice, tender and doting, replied: “Only you, Sadie, are worthy of bearing my child. I’ll give our baby the best of everything.” The call disconnected, severing my last thread of hope. My screams were so desperate that a kind neighbor girl finally paid for an ambulance, and I was rushed to the emergency room. I gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. But my son, starved of oxygen, never even cried once. He was gone. My daughter, Hope, suffered from a congenital heart defect and had lived in the hospital since birth. Damon’s blockade in Veridian City meant I could only find the filthiest, most grueling work—washing dishes for ten hours a day in a greasy restaurant until my hands were raw and blistered. When the money still wasn’t enough, I sold my blood. I went to every blood bank in the city. I ate only one dry piece of bread a day; every other cent became medicine to keep Hope alive. The doctor had told me: if I could raise the money, Hope could have her heart transplant in five days. Desperate, with nowhere left to turn, I went to the auction block to sell the last thing I had left: myself. “I begged you to spare my parents. I begged you to save our baby. I begged you to give our daughter a chance to live. But what did you do? You drove me into a corner again and again.” “Damon Kincaid, you didn’t want me to beg you. You wanted me dead!” I shrieked, hysteria mounting, but the terrible dread in my heart grew heavier. I bowed my head, pleading in a new way. “I’m begging you now. Please, let me go. I need to find Hope. She needs me.” “If I don’t pay the fees soon, they’ll cut the power to her… to her resting place…” His expression was grim, his voice hoarse as he asked: “Who is Hope?” A familiar ringtone cut through the air. I searched frantically for my phone and realized it was still clenched in Damon’s trembling hand. I snatched it back and answered the call, my hands shaking. “Ms. Rossi, we regret to inform you that we have been unable to reach you. The power to the cryogenic unit has been reassigned to another family. The remains are now… badly decomposed. Please bring the death certificate to schedule cremation.” My breath hitched, stopping dead in my lungs. Just a little more time… I could have maintained Hope’s final dignity. Why? Why was I always just one tiny step too late? The call ended. My daughter’s photo filled the screen. She was already critically ill then, a slight smile on her pale face. She had said: “Mommy, I’m going to find my brother. Don’t be sad. I love you.” Tears tracked down my cheeks, one by one. I collapsed to the floor, shaking uncontrollably. Damon continued to press me, his voice trembling with a mixture of excitement and fear, his eyelashes damp. “Hope is our child, isn’t she? I checked the hospital records. You had two children. What was the other one’s name?” He looked ecstatic, almost desperate. “This is wonderful! I’m a father! I… I’ll give them everything.”

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It was the last day of my thirty-fifth year when I discovered my professor husband was cheating. He came home late, as usual, after his weekly lab meeting, but in the dead of night, he was writhing in agony, clutching his stomach. His tailored dress shirt smelled unmistakably of heavily spiced Creole food. Alistair Stone, my husband, had a notoriously delicate digestive system. He hadn’t touched anything that rich or spicy in the two decades I’d known him. I called his research assistant. That’s when I found out a new female student, Sera, had joined the group that day. Alistair had gone with the group—and indulged her—by eating at a trendy, notorious seafood spot known for its fiery Jambalaya. “It’s nothing, really,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, “but Professor Stone has a sensitive stomach. Could you make sure he doesn’t eat anything like that again?” A hesitant um came from the other end. “Mrs. Stone, to be honest, Sera doesn’t even qualify for the research group.” 1 Sera. The name wasn’t unfamiliar. A strange, sickening thought exploded in my mind. Alistair was lying in bed, still resting, his brows tightly furrowed in pain. We had been married for so long, we were too familiar with each other. Too complacent. I easily unlocked his phone. The lab group chat was benign. Everything looked normal. Except for the direct messages. Alistair: You can’t fall asleep in the next meeting. Sera: Well, it was boring! I promise I’ll watch you next time, Professor. Watching you keeps me awake. Alistair: Good. Sera: “Professor Stone” sounds so old. Can I call you “Ali” or maybe “Little Professor”? Alistair: Hmm. Whatever you like. Sera: Mwah! (heart-eye emoji) I pulled up her profile picture and matched it with the photo on his desk. It was her. Sera, the girl I knew. A cold, heavy knot formed in my chest, lodged between my ribs, making it hard to breathe. Alistair woke up as the last of the evening light faded. I handed him a glass of water, placing it alongside the open screen of his phone, displaying their chat. Even as he was recovering, Sera had sent him a barrage of trivial questions. “Little Professor, are we going for Creole again tomorrow?” “Ali, I can’t write this paper. Can I hire you to ghostwrite it for me? I’ll give you second author credit!” She was only a senior in college, not even enrolled in a graduate program. By any rational measure, she shouldn’t have been in his master’s-level research group. “Make her leave,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “She knows nothing. She’ll drag down your team’s progress.” I took a deep, controlled breath. “I can pretend this never happened.” Twenty years of history. I was doing my best to let him save face. Alistair’s gaze finally settled on the faintly glowing screen. He squinted at me. “Eliza.” He didn’t use my nickname, Liz. It was formal, cold. “If I hadn’t married you, you’d still just be a girl selling bouquets on a street corner.” 2 I had always been the ideal academic wife. Compliant. I followed Alistair’s instructions precisely. The next day, I pinned up my hair and set up my flower stall right outside the gates of Westhaven University. On the elegant wrapping paper of every bouquet, I thoughtfully taped copies of Sera and Alistair’s most incriminating text messages. I was a familiar face at Westhaven. Over the years, I’d been in and out of Alistair’s department, and the students and faculty all knew me. As soon as I appeared, one of Alistair’s former graduate students walked over, his expression concerned. “Mrs. Stone, what are you doing out here? Is everything okay? Did something happen between you and the Professor?” I handed him a perfectly wrapped bouquet. “Oh, nothing much,” I replied, my smile serene and brittle. “Your professor just needs to support a second household now.” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a theatrical whisper designed to carry. “And frankly, I worry about him. Young girls are demanding. I hope he doesn’t burn out.” I weaponized every ounce of bitterness, using veiled, sharp language to hint at the disgusting truth of Alistair and Sera. Within twenty-four hours, the whispers about Professor Stone and his pet student had exploded into full-blown campus gossip. The second time I wheeled my floral cart onto campus property, a group of intimidating, rough-looking men rushed over and stomped every single flower into the pavement. “Listen, lady,” the biggest one said, his voice gravelly, “someone told me to tell you this: Know when to quit.” Of course, I didn’t listen. That same day, I moved my hysterical tears from the campus security office all the way up to the Dean’s suite, and finally, I called the State Ethics Commission hotline. Alistair was immediately called in for a meeting with the Provost. That evening, Alistair didn’t linger at the university. He came home early. “Eliza, that’s enough.” I let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Enough? We’re just getting started, Alistair. You were capable of that disgusting act, and now you’re suddenly worried about the noise?” He sighed heavily, tossing his briefcase onto the sofa. His whole demeanor was a wall of cold frustration directed at me. “Eliza, if you hadn’t pulled these stunts, everything could have been negotiated.” He looked at me with an expression of profound disappointment. “If our marriage ends, it will be the result of your own doing.” He was blaming me? He blamed me for the volatile, explosive response that ruined the surface harmony of our ruined twenty-year relationship? He, the unfaithful one, was standing on some fabricated moral high ground, accusing me of being a hysterical maniac whose erratic behavior drove him away? “Alistair, did I force you to cheat?!” He sneered. “Eliza, have you forgotten who brought Sera into this house?” My heart slammed against my ribs. A terrifying, gut-wrenching nausea swallowed me whole. Sera was the girl I had sponsored, the girl I had fostered. The girl I had brought home and protected like a daughter for nearly a decade. “Alistair, you are truly repulsive.” For the first time, we saw utter strangeness in each other’s eyes. That night, Alistair packed a bag and moved out. Sera was with him. 3 I smiled up at Alistair on the stage. I had warned him. I wasn’t going to make this easy. Security personnel were scrambling to control the crowd. The Westhaven graduation ceremony, coinciding with the university’s centennial, was already a massive event. Reporters, photographers, and hundreds of students holding up their phones were all focused on Alistair and me. He grabbed my arm and dragged me into the faculty lounge. “Eliza.” The moment of panic had vanished from his face, and he was back to being Professor Stone: calm, controlled, and infuriated. “You know what day this is. What in God’s name are you playing at?” Of course, I knew. It was the day of the ceremony, and the centennial. Many high-profile alumni were attending, including one key person who held the deciding vote on Alistair’s bid for Vice Provost. That man was Dr. Emeritus Maxwell “Max” Reid, a titan in both academia and politics. My connection with Dr. Reid’s family went back to a single bouquet of roses I sold years ago. It was Valentine’s Day. Dr. Reid, absorbed in his research, had completely forgotten about his wife. The old woman, in a huff, stormed out. They ended up arguing over a single rose right in front of my stall. I intervened, handing the very last rose to Dr. Reid’s wife, adding a compassionate, necessary lie. “Your husband asked me to save this specific one for you.” Dr. Reid smoothed things over with his wife, and our relationship was forged. Mrs. Reid loved flowers, so every week, Dr. Reid came to my stall to buy her a fresh bouquet. Then, one ordinary evening, a drunk man randomly ran up and started vandalizing my stall. The person who grabbed the drunk man’s fist as it swung toward me was Alistair. He had absolutely no fighting talent. After a few clumsy moves, his face was cut, but he managed, through sheer nerve, to chase the man away. He stayed to help me clean up the wreckage. That’s when he ran into the reliably punctual Dr. Reid, who had arrived to buy his wife’s flowers. Alistair, covered in dirt and blood, ended up talking to Dr. Reid about research, theory, and his academic philosophy. It wasn’t until they were chatting like long-lost friends that Dr. Reid realized Alistair was a master’s student at Westhaven. Dr. Reid immediately broke his long-standing rule about not taking on advisees and brought Alistair under his wing. From then on, the weekly task of buying flowers for Mrs. Reid fell to Alistair. Once a week turned into two or three times. Eventually, it was daily. He bought roses. He also bought purple irises. Those were my favorite flowers. The day he graduated and Dr. Reid secured him a faculty position, he stood before me, holding a massive bouquet. “What, are you here to challenge me for my corner?” I joked, looking at the vibrant irises in his arms. Alistair Stone knelt down and proposed. Everything felt inevitable. After we married, I worked from home, writing novels. That’s when Alistair found out I had a graduate degree in literature. Selling flowers was just a side hustle. After all, the publishing industry was brutally competitive. Now, the flowers were the same, but the person was not. It was a hollow, desolate feeling. But thank God. In this lifetime, he was the only miserable thing that had happened to me. The only piece of trash. It wasn’t too late to start over. 4 “Eliza, I’m giving you a chance. Go outside and clear my name.” Alistair’s anger was palpable. I found the request hilarious. In this cheating marriage, I should have been the one engulfed in righteous fury. Instead, because I hadn’t collapsed in tears and self-pity, because I was fighting back to feel better, the guilty parties—Alistair and Sera—had managed to cast themselves as the victims. “What exactly do you want me to say?” I asked. “That I was betrayed by the girl I sponsored and raised? That my husband slept with his nominal foster daughter and student?” I met his gaze. Time had been incredibly kind to Alistair; two decades hadn’t left a single mark on his distinguished face. “Eliza, know when to quit,” he repeated, his brow furrowed. That sentence again. What did I have to quit? I’d seen my husband’s hostility. I’d seen the girl I raised as my own daughter crawl into his bed. I’d seen the ugly display of betrayal they offered me. “Alistair, you don’t get to tell me what to do.” I laughed until the tears started. That knot in my chest refused to go down. I grabbed Alistair’s academic gown, ripping the seam. Beneath it, I saw a familiar dress shirt. The one Sera had said she bought for her boyfriend. They’d been involved for much longer than I realized. “Alistair, I will not let you off easy! And Sera—I’m not the kind of person who keeps quiet when wronged.” I screamed the words, frantic and desperate. “I will ruin your career! And Sera? I pulled her up from hell, so I’m going to drag her right back down. I will make sure her parents and everyone she’s ever known finds out that the ungrateful, backstabbing leech slept with her foster father!” A flicker of something—fear, or surprise—crossed Alistair’s eyes. He clamped down hard on my wrist. “What have you done?” His grip tightened, his knuckles white. I thought my hand would break. I smiled, a manic, wild thing. “What can I do?” “I just want her dead!” Before he could react, a much louder, more violent commotion erupted from the auditorium. Alistair ran out, frantic. On the stage, a middle-aged woman was screaming obscenities—”whore,” “slut,” “home-wrecker.” Below her, Sera was curled up, taking blow after blow, one slap after another. 5 Sera’s mother, Brenda, was a formidable fighter. The security guards stood frozen for a moment. Sera’s face was already red with welts. Her graduation gown was ripped, revealing the dress underneath—the exact same outfit she had texted to Alistair just days before. “What are you doing? Pull her off!” Alistair shouted. The guards finally moved in, and Brenda let go easily, offering little resistance. As her eyes met mine, I gave a small, satisfied nod. It was enough. The beating wasn’t severe. Even a police examination would barely register a minor injury. But in this setting, on this day, Sera’s reputation as the mistress would stick to her forever. Her supposedly bright future was over. The tight knot in my heart eased, if only slightly. Alistair clutched Sera close, shielding her. He looked at me, his eyes colder than I’d ever seen them. “Eliza, you’ve gone too far.” I gave a cold laugh. “I’ve gone too far? If she’s going to be a mistress, she needs to be able to take a beating.” He turned to leave. “Alistair,” I called out, “if you take her out like this, you’ll never clear your name.” He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Eliza, isn’t this exactly what you wanted?” he said, his voice laced with venom. “You wanted proof that I cheated? Proof that Sera and I are… real?” “Well, as you wish.” After Alistair left, the students began to filter out. The looks I received were a mix of pity, confusion, and blame. This whole spectacle—it felt like I had gained nothing, only momentarily vented my rage on Sera. And in the process, I’d confirmed Alistair’s devotion to her and finalized the failure of my own marriage. In the struggle, Brenda hadn’t escaped unscathed, with a few cuts on her face. She hunched over, a fawning smile pasted on her face. “Mrs. Stone, I did what you asked. About my son’s college fund…” “Don’t worry,” I said. “I keep my promises.” Brenda’s youngest son had just started high school. Sera wasn’t Brenda’s biological daughter. She was the result of Sera’s father’s affair with a woman in the village. Because of this, Brenda had never accepted her, making Sera’s childhood a living nightmare. I met Sera when she was ten. The family was sending her to work in a factory to support them. When I visited the school as a donor, she knelt directly in front of me. Her eyes were resolute. She wanted nothing more than to read, to study, to make something of herself. I saw a ghost of myself in her. If someone had just extended a hand to me back then, perhaps my path wouldn’t have been so relentlessly difficult. Because I empathized with my younger self, I chose to shelter Sera, to give her a bright future. I sponsored her. When I learned the full extent of her abuse—especially the part about her sleeping in the pigpen—I gave Brenda a substantial sum and brought Sera home to raise her myself. For over a decade, we were not mother and daughter, but we were closer than most. I could have perhaps accepted Alistair cheating with anyone else. I could not accept the girl I considered my daughter climbing into my husband’s bed. Especially not the night I confronted her about their texts. She wore a flimsy lace slip and flaunted her triumph, right in front of me. “Eliza, you may have raised me, but all the money I eat and wear comes from Little Professor!” Her gaze was disdainful as she looked me up and down. “Honestly, I pity Little Professor. You look like this, and you’re such a bad cook.” I slapped her across the face. She ran crying to Alistair. Afterward, looking at my slightly red palm, the pain was mixed with an insidious, rising thrill. I realized: I only feel good when they hurt. I dragged her out of the abyss, hoisted her up from the pit. It was only fair that I send her back myself. 6 Alistair stayed by Sera’s side in the hospital for three days straight. A few days later, I received a choked-up phone call from Brenda’s son. “Aunt Eliza, I have nowhere else to go. Please, you have to save my mother!” From his fragmented story, I pieced together the truth. Alistair had used his influence. Sera had filed a police report, and her injuries were classified as Second-Degree Assault. Enough to detain and fine Brenda heavily. Alistair’s lawyer had dropped a line before leaving: If Brenda named others involved, the charges might be reduced. Brenda’s son wept. “Aunt Eliza, Mom told me to tell you that she won’t say anything.” I reassured the boy and guaranteed his mother would be fine. Alistair was only using Brenda to send a message. His true target was me. Predictably, his call came almost immediately. “I’ve talked to the university. You will attend a press conference this afternoon and clarify everything.” He added, chillingly, “If you need a psychiatric diagnosis, I can arrange the paperwork.” Westhaven was clearly preparing to protect Alistair at all costs. I laughed quietly. “And what happens if I refuse to cooperate?” His voice was tight with suppressed fury. “Eliza, don’t force my hand.” “I don’t want things to devolve into a scorched-earth scenario between us.” Peaceful? I laughed until tears streamed down my face. Ultimately, I agreed to the press conference. On the drive over, I scrolled through the headlines. Westhaven Wife’s Meltdown: Jealousy or Mental Illness? Professor’s Wife to Kneel and Apologize to Foster Daughter/Student to Save Marriage? Abused or Adored? Leaks Detail Professor’s Wife’s Alleged Physical Abuse of Foster Child. When I arrived at the venue, it was packed with reporters. As soon as they saw me, they swarmed. The flashbulbs were so bright I could barely keep my eyes open. “Mrs. Stone, did you physically abuse your foster daughter?” “Mrs. Stone, do you have a severe mental health condition? Is that why you targeted all women near Professor Stone?” “Mrs. Stone, Professor Stone says you’re here to apologize on your knees to the student. Is that true?” I smiled sweetly. “Kneeling and apologizing? Well, then you better get ready to film. I wouldn’t want you to miss the moment.” I bypassed the crowd and headed to the backstage lounge. Alistair was gently feeding Sera water. Sera, pale and fragile, instinctively hid in Alistair’s arms when she saw me. “Mrs. Stone,” she whispered, timidly. “The Little Professor was just giving me water because I’m thirsty. We’re doing nothing wrong. Please don’t worry.” She added a few theatrical coughs. I raised an eyebrow. “Oh, don’t stop on my account. You’re already hugging. I suggest you go mouth-to-mouth. It’s cleaner and more hygienic, after all.” Sera’s eyes turned red. She pleaded, “Mrs. Stone, I respect that you funded my education, but my dignity won’t allow you to slander me.” “The Little Professor and I have always been pure and respectful. Nothing like the nasty things you imagine.” “Eliza, remember why you’re here,” Alistair warned. He put down the cup. The three of us took our places in front of the assembled reporters. Sera took the microphone first. She played the role of the innocent, wronged victim perfectly. “Mrs. Stone, I remember your kindness over the years, but you have defamed and slandered me and the Professor. If you do not offer me a traditional apology—a formal bow and a peace offering—today, I will reserve the right to pursue further legal action.” A cup of hot tea sat steaming in front of me. Smash! The scalding tea and my palm landed on Sera’s face at the same time. She screamed, clutching her cheek. Her carefully constructed image of the pure, delicate flower instantly shattered.

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It had been seven years since I cut ties with my mother, and we ran into each other in a high-end department store. I was the mistress—the “other woman”—getting slapped and nearly stripped in public. She was the wealthy socialite I desperately grabbed, clinging to her like a lifeline. “Call the police for me. I don’t know her husband…” I fought to keep the last scrap of fabric covering me, pleading with her for help. The response was a stinging slap that landed harder than any the original wife had delivered, followed by her icy accusation: “Sienna Reed. Seven years ago, you seduced your best friend’s boyfriend, and now you’re throwing yourself at a married man for money? Are you really this irredeemable?” She turned and marched into a nearby boutique, emerging with ten designer bags, which she tossed onto me. “Apologize to this woman, the wife. Swear you’ll never sleep with another married man! Then I’ll let you be a Sinclair again!” I looked up, meeting her gaze, filled with undisguised disgust and disappointment. I swallowed the metallic tang of bile rising in my throat and articulated every word carefully: “I didn’t do anything wrong.” Not seven years ago, and certainly not today. As for the Sinclair name, I hadn’t wanted it for a long time… 1 My defiance earned me another blow. It was heavier, more vicious than the slaps from the woman claiming to be the wife. My ears rang, and my mouth filled with the taste of rust and blood. Yet, I heard my mother’s voice, sharp with frost: “You don’t apologize because you think being a homewrecker is honorable? How could I have given birth to a daughter as utterly shameless as you?” “I should have stayed home today. Running into you is truly bad luck.” My former best friend, Willow Stone, who had been watching the spectacle, stepped forward just in time, gently holding my mother, Eleanor Sinclair, and patting her chest to calm her. “Tori, maybe Sienna was in a desperate situation that led her to this… unsavory business. Don’t let it upset you, it’s not worth jeopardizing your health!” Then, she turned to the furious wife. “Ma’am, please rest assured, with my godmother and me here, she will never bother your husband again. Pick any bag in this store, and I’ll buy it for you as an apology on her behalf…” I cut her off, my voice raw. “I am not the mistress, and I don’t need your fake apology, Willow!” Willow’s eyes instantly welled up, and she looked seconds from tears. “Sienna, you can’t possibly still believe that the person who wasn’t truly loved is the one who loses the moral high ground, can you?” “If I had known you were so obsessed, maybe I should have reluctantly stepped aside back then and let you have Dean…” Bringing up the old affair was like lighting a fuse. My mother’s voice became shrill. “Are all the men in the world dead? Do you have to go after a married one?” The two of them, in just a few sentences, ripped my sordid past open for everyone to see. “Wait, so she’s a repeat offender? She stole her best friend’s man seven years ago? That is sick!” “Even her own mother can’t stand her. How does she have the gall to live like this?” “Someone should post this repeat offender online! Who knows how many families she’s already ruined!” A crime can always be pinned on a person if a reason is needed. With my own mother confirming my guilt, the label of “mistress” was cemented. The onlookers pulled out their phones, snapping photos of my exposed body and my bruised face. Some who had already filmed the beating prepared to upload the content. Willow suddenly knelt, a soundless cry tearing from her, begging the crowd to stop filming. “Please, everyone, give my friend another chance! My godmother and I will take her home and educate her. We guarantee she won’t do this again!” “The internet is brutal now. If she’s exposed like this, she’ll never be able to hold her head up again…” The enraged wife instantly flared up. “If she knew what ‘holding her head up’ meant, she wouldn’t have tried to sleep with my husband!” “Are you two in this together? Dressed so provocatively—maybe you’re all in the same line of work to afford shopping here!” My mother and Willow were collateral damage. The look they gave me suggested they wanted to tear me to shreds. At her limit, my mother turned and handed the wife a business card and a platinum credit card. “Please delete any photos and videos that show me or Willow. The one you caught in the act… we’ll see how she behaves later.” The wife, initially disdainful, saw the words ‘Eleanor Sinclair, CEO, Sinclair Group’ on the card, and her entire expression changed. “The formidable Eleanor Sinclair! The Iron Lady! This… this must be a misunderstanding, I…” The wife couldn’t afford to offend the Sinclair Group, and she certainly couldn’t figure out why Eleanor’s own daughter was involved in this mess. Confused, she moved to help me up. But my mother stopped her. 2 The wife froze, bewildered. “Ms. Sinclair, didn’t you put on this whole show just now so I would forgive her? I believe that with your strict supervision, she definitely won’t offend again…” My mother sneered, cementing my guilt without a moment of inquiry, just as she had seven years ago. “The first time she tried to steal a man, I kicked her out. I thought years of hardship would teach her a lesson and show her the error of her ways. Unfortunately…” The crowd and the wife understood instantly. Eager to flatter my mother, the wife handed back the credit card and offered her phone for inspection. “Ms. Sinclair, please take a look.” My mother clicked on the video of me being beaten before she arrived. I caught a fleeting glimpse of something in her eyes—a flicker of pain. I shook my head, quickly dismissing the delusion. Sure enough, the next second, she looked down on me and commanded again: “This is the last time I will clean up your mess. Apologize to this wife, swear you’ll never do this again, and these photos and videos won’t see the light of day.” My mother’s power could certainly stop any organized release of the content. But there were countless onlookers. How could she seal every single person’s lips? The moment she publicly condemned me, I was branded—a mistress everyone spat upon. Even knowing she wouldn’t believe me, I stood firm, speaking every word slowly: “I am not the mistress, and I won’t apologize to anyone!” The next second, she handed the phone back to the wife. “Since she is so stubborn, don’t hold back. She’s yours to deal with.” The wife looked uncertainly at my mother. “You want me to post the videos?” “Post them! She must pay the price for her behavior!” The wife obeyed. In minutes, people online had already dug up my information. My mother shoved the screen full of hateful messages in my face. “Sienna Reed, do you know what you did wrong?” “I didn’t do anything wrong!” Seeing my refusal to admit guilt, my mother trembled with fury, clutching her chest, her face pale. Willow, ever prepared, smoothly took a pill bottle from her bag and gave my mother the medication. She then motioned to the bodyguards nearby. “Take Tori home first. I’ll stay behind and handle Sienna.” My mother left without looking back. Willow then created a group chat on the spot, sending a large cash payment to every onlooker as an apology. “I apologize for the scene today, everyone! Please, be merciful with your words. Give my best friend a chance to turn her life around!” Having taken the money, the crowd praised Willow for her kindness and beauty, though they reminded her to be cautious, especially with “people like me.” After the crowd dispersed, I wrapped myself tightly in the coat my mother had left behind and stumbled toward the exit. Willow grabbed my arm. “Sienna, come home with me. You don’t know how worried Tori has been about you all these years…” I wrenched myself free, sneering. “Willow Stone, the audience is gone. You can stop acting.” 3 Ten years ago, after Willow’s mother and my father both passed away from illness, Willow and I became inseparable best friends through our shared grief. My mother, out of sympathy, doted on Willow like her own daughter. As our two families grew closer, my mother unexpectedly fell for Willow’s father, Richard. But Richard was still grieving his late wife and kept my mother at arm’s length. Frustrated by unrequited love, my mother poured more attention into Willow, almost granting her every wish. I, however, disagreed with her pursuit, telling her she couldn’t force affection, and a rift grew between us. Even with Willow’s mediation, my mother and I never regained our former closeness. It was during that period that I met my first love, Dean Campbell. Unwilling to let my mother know I was dating, I kept the relationship a secret, telling only Willow. I treated her like a sister, sharing my romantic joy and every little gift Dean gave me. I never imagined that while she offered me congratulations, she was secretly seducing Dean. On Dean’s birthday, I secretly prepared a surprise for him. When I pushed open his apartment door, I saw two bodies tangled together on the sofa. Willow grabbed a shirt in a panic to cover herself. And Dean, the man who swore he loved me, averted his gaze. “Sienna, let me explain…” I didn’t cry or scream. I just quietly asked Willow: “You already have all of my mother’s love, and you have my friendship. Why did you need to steal my boyfriend, too?” She wept, kneeling to beg for my forgiveness, but then she leaned closer and whispered: “Who told your mother to obsess over my dad?” In that moment, I swore I would get my mother back from her. I ran home, desperate to tell my mother that Willow was a horrible person—the kind of homewrecker she despised. But I never expected Willow and Dean to beat me to it. Willow was already clutching my mother, tears streaming down her face. “Tori, I know Sienna has always hated that you care for me so much, but how could she… how could she try to steal my boyfriend?” I argued my case, but my mother didn’t believe me. She was infatuated with Richard. Willow was the most important link to maintaining a relationship with him. My words were lighter than Willow’s tears. Without hearing me out, she forced me to apologize to Willow. “Sienna Reed, apologize to Willow! Promise you won’t harass Dean again!” Watching her protect Willow, seeing Willow’s triumphant, challenging look from behind my mother—my youthful pride overcame my pain and grief. “I didn’t do anything wrong! She stole my boyfriend!” “Irremediable! Get out! Don’t come back until you realize your mistake!” 4 I slammed the door, left, and by working multiple jobs and relying on student loans, I not only completed my degree but graduated with honors. By then, my mother, who had moved closer to marrying Richard, was in a good mood and personally invited me home. She even threw a celebration dinner for me. Dean was there, too—as Willow’s fiancé. After all those years, he was still greedy for me. He followed me into the backyard when I went out for some fresh air. He grabbed me from behind. “Sienna, I can’t forget you. Willow can’t compare to you… Let’s get back together…” Disgusted, I struggled violently and slapped him hard. The commotion brought everyone running. Dean instantly changed his tune, pointing to the red mark on his face, feigning deep sorrow. “Eleanor, Sienna tried to seduce me again, and when I refused, she hit me…” I was shaking with rage, pointing at Dean. “That’s a lie! You tried to force yourself on me!” I then turned to Willow. “Control your trash!” Willow, who knew exactly what kind of man Dean was, still chose to slander me. My mother looked utterly devastated and slapped me for the first time. “Sienna Reed, do you have to try and take everything Willow likes?” “Get out! I never want to see you again! I don’t have a daughter like you!” That moment, my heart turned to ash. I didn’t argue another word. I just turned and left. After cutting ties, I lived a quiet, ordinary life on my own. But fate was not done with me. A routine physical revealed hereditary liver cancer. It was the same disease that had taken my father. To raise the massive surgical fees, I worked several jobs after my shift. My presence at the luxury store that day was for a courier job—delivering a reserved bag to a client’s significant other. I never expected to be caught up in such a horrifying ordeal. The ring of my phone broke my memory. I answered, hearing the impatient voice of a man. “Why aren’t you here yet?” “I’m on my way.” I hung up and looked up to meet Willow’s excited, malevolent eyes. “I knew it. After years of luxury, you couldn’t possibly survive on your own! So you did become a cheap mistress, didn’t you?” 5 Ignoring Willow’s taunt, I quickly bought a new set of decent clothes, changed, and rushed to the delivery address. The cramping in my stomach was relentless, coming in sharp, agonizing waves. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. But I couldn’t stop. This courier fee was for next week’s medication. The moment the client opened the door, my body went rigid. It was Dean Campbell. “Sienna. Long time no see.” I recoiled violently, turning to run. But he grabbed my wrist and yanked me into the apartment. “Why run? Didn’t you come here to deliver the bag?” I realized with a jolt that I hadn’t recognized Dean’s voice on the phone. Otherwise, I would have died before accepting this delivery. The door slammed shut, and Dean’s hungry eyes raked over my body. He reached out to touch my face. “Sienna, you’re so thin…” I slapped his hand away, furious. “Dean! You are marrying Willow Stone! What did you trick me into here for?” Dean forced a helpless look, stepping forward to hug me. “Sienna, if you hadn’t blown things up back then, you would be the one I was marrying! I’ll take care of you now, give you a grand a month, you don’t have to work so hard…” “I just wanted to help you! This bag is for you. Do you like it?” Like it? Absolutely not! If I hadn’t gone to pick up that damn bag, why would I have been wrongfully beaten and called a mistress? The anger surged, and I mustered all my strength, delivering a vicious slap to his face. “I would rather die poor, or die sick, than touch a single penny of your filthy money!” Dean clutched his face, his eyes instantly turning dark and menacing. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, Sienna!” He lunged, pinning me tightly against the sofa. I struggled desperately, my hand finding a heavy, hard object in the confusion. I slammed it against his head! Dean cried out in pain, his grip loosening. I seized the chance, scrambling up, stumbling, and flinging the door open to escape. As soon as the door opened, a sharp slap sent a wave of blood into my mouth. “Sienna Reed! Do you love stealing other people’s husbands this much?” Willow’s voice was wild, full of insane fury. Time, horrifyingly, was seven years ago again. I was disheveled, my hair a mess, blood dripping from my lip. Inside, Dean was clutching his bleeding forehead, his silk robe hanging open. To anyone looking, it was the perfect picture of an illicit entanglement. My mother’s chest rose and fell rapidly. She didn’t have a word left for me. She simply tilted her head slightly and spoke two words to the bodyguard behind her: “Tie her up.”

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My wife, a renowned medical expert, was celebrating her childhood sweetheart’s birthday—a lavish cruise along the New England coast—the night our son was food poisoned. In a past life, I had forced her to come home to save him. Her ‘sweetheart,’ Lincoln Reed, went out on his yacht alone, got drunk, and drowned. She didn’t blame me immediately. We remained a loving couple, at least on the surface. She just put a slow-acting poison in my dinner and watched me die, my internal organs failing. Her eyes were raw, scarlet with pure hatred. “Do you know how much Lincoln suffered down there, Rhys?” she had hissed. “Now, you try the taste of death.” I woke up again on that very night, the night Owen was poisoned. This time, I didn’t make her come home. When she finally saw his little body, she went mad. 1 “Mr. Sullivan, it’s terrible! Little Owen ate something bad. He’s throwing up violently, he has awful diarrhea, and now he’s unconscious!” Owen’s nanny, Martha, burst into my study, distraught and weeping. I clenched my fists. I was back. Owen was alive, the night hadn’t fully descended, and there was still time. Owen wasn’t my biological son; he was the posthumous child of my wife, Delaney Shaw’s, older brother. Her sister-in-law died from postpartum hemorrhage after giving birth. I felt compassion for a boy born without parents and agreed with Delaney to adopt him. We both treated him like our own son. Hearing he was poisoned, I shot up. “Call Dr. Lewis immediately for a detox protocol. Prep the car. I’ll go get Delaney myself.” Delaney was the head of the Emergency Department at Seattle General, a specialist in toxicology and detox. She had warned me repeatedly that her work phone was off during her shift, and I was absolutely forbidden from calling or disturbing her work. I knew tonight was Lincoln’s birthday party—an elaborate cruise on the Sound she’d promised to attend. If I dragged her away, I’d ruin her ‘fun.’ But if I didn’t tell her, she would hold it against me forever. My car stopped abruptly outside the hospital entrance just as Delaney walked out, ending her shift. She frowned, seeing me rush out of the car, my face etched with urgency. “I told you I wasn’t coming home tonight, Rhys. It’s Lincoln’s birthday, and I promised to go out on the yacht. Don’t tell me you forgot.” Her voice was tight with annoyance. Parked beside the curb was a sleek, black Range Rover. I didn’t need to ask; it was Lincoln Reed’s car, waiting for her. Lincoln was Delaney’s childhood sweetheart. Years ago, his family had scorned Delaney—a mere junior doctor with no visible prospects—and forced him to marry the daughter of a tech billionaire. Tragically, his wife died in an accident a year later, and Lincoln, the ‘Golden Boy,’ returned to Seattle. Delaney immediately began making frequent trips to his sprawling estate. “Lincoln is back, and he has severe depression,” she’d tell me. “I’m a doctor; I’m just going to check on him, prescribe some medication. He’ll be fine soon.” “Why are you always so paranoid? I was just helping Lincoln as his doctor. I stayed one night at his house. Why do you make such a big deal out of everything?” she’d snapped at me. “If I wanted to be with Lincoln, I would have married him. Why would I have married you?” In her eyes, I was the villain, the obstacle to her and Lincoln. In the last life, I had countless fights with Delaney over him. This time, I didn’t care about our marriage. I stood squarely in front of her, meeting her eyes. “Delaney, it’s Owen. He was poisoned. He ate those artisanal treats Lincoln sent over yesterday. He’s been vomiting and seizing. Our doctor fears it’s a severe toxin and needs you to come look at him. He’s so small, he can’t handle this.” Delaney looked at me with pure disbelief. “Rhys Sullivan, are you insane? You’re making up a story about our son being poisoned just to stop me from going out with Lincoln? Because I have a specialty in toxicology, you think this is a clever lie?” “How could you be so cruel? How dare you pretend to be his father.”

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Five years. Five years of secret dating Rhys Kingston. On the day of my twenty-fourth birthday, he married the ghost of his past. My silent question—the one that screamed in my eyes—meant nothing to him. “Delaney has late-stage cancer,” Rhys said, his voice flat with forced martyrdom. “She has less than a month left. This is her last wish. I can’t let her die with a regret like that hanging over her.” Delaney Cole leaned against his shoulder, her eyes flicking toward me with unmistakable smugness. “I’m not really one for tragedy,” Delaney purred. “A marriage should be a celebration! Let’s turn this birthday party into a wedding reception—right now.” With one casual demand from Delaney, the private dinner I thought was for my twenty-fourth birthday became the spontaneous party for her and Rhys’s sudden wedding. My older brother, Adam, and our friends rotated around the table, offering toasts and well wishes. When it came to my turn, I didn’t cry. I didn’t make a scene. Under the harsh, warning pressure of Rhys’s eyes, I picked up my glass, my expression perfectly neutral. “To the newlyweds,” I said, my voice steady. “May you be happily stuck with each other for life.” 1 The air in the private dining room solidified into a thick, uncomfortable silence. Every head snapped toward me. Rhys’s knuckles were white where he gripped his glass. He tapped the empty space beside him. “Stop the drama, Stone. Avery, come sit over here.” That seat—the one immediately to his right—had always been mine. Now, it had an unwelcome, temporary occupant: Delaney Cole. I ignored his command and took the seat next to my brother, Adam. Rhys’s eyes turned dangerously dark. Adam laughed, trying to smooth over the tension. “Rhys, we all know you treat Avery like a little sister, but you’re a married man now. You can’t be so casual. Delaney will get the wrong idea.” Delaney wrapped her arm around his, pulling their bodies closer until they were nearly touching. Rhys let out a short, hollow laugh. “Relax. I just want Delaney to leave this life without regrets. This marriage is on a one-month timer, then it auto-voids.” He gave me a pointed look. “Besides, if I were ever truly going to marry her, I wouldn’t have waited until she was dying.” Adam and the others scoffed. “Come on, man,” a friend said. “When Delaney first moved overseas, you were depressed for six months. You were the most eligible, sought-after bachelor in the whole scene, and all you did was hang out with us, swearing off serious relationships.” “You kept saying you weren’t interested, and yet the minute Delaney snaps her fingers, you’re running to the courthouse? Nobody believes you weren’t waiting for her.” “Yeah, Rhys, you were wasted one night and admitted you were waiting for her to come back. I’m not making it up; everyone here heard it.” A chorus of drunken affirmations followed. I just stared at my drink, taking long, slow sips, a searing, spasmodic pain contracting in my chest. I’d been with Rhys since I was eighteen. At twenty-two, I wanted us to go public. He told me he was an investor in my brother’s company, and going public would invite malicious rumors about our relationship. He claimed I was too young to handle the scrutiny. At twenty-three, he promised me. Wait until you turn twenty-four, and if we’re still together, we’ll tell everyone. Today was my twenty-fourth birthday. And he married Delaney Cole. Delaney gave me a sickeningly sweet smile. “Avery, even if our marriage is for show, we’re legally wed. You’ve been getting nice birthday gifts from Rhys for years, haven’t you? Shouldn’t you offer a tribute to his happy occasion? I really love the necklace you’re wearing. Can I have it?” My fingers involuntarily curled, and a knot tightened in my throat. This wasn’t just a necklace. It was the gift Rhys had given me on my eighteenth birthday—the same year he first told me he loved me. Five years. I had never once taken it off. Adam saw my silence and tried to intervene. “Avery, you know Rhys has always carried a torch for Delaney. They missed so many years. Just be the bigger person and let them have this.” I looked at Rhys. He hadn’t said a word. Then, Delaney slid off her seat and settled herself onto his lap, draping her arms around his neck in a childish, seductive display. “Rhys, I really, really love it. Buy me an identical one, okay? Then I can die in peace.” Rhys chuckled softly, pulling her close to his side. “Stop talking about dying. That necklace is just a cheap trinket, anyway.” He turned to me, the light in his eyes cold and transactional. “Avery, since your sister-in-law likes it, just give it to her.” I didn’t know how to speak. For five years, I had sacrificed everything for this man. My reputation. My dignity. My own desires. I’d done everything he wanted. When he asked me to trade my comfortable white tees for sleek, revealing slip dresses, I did it. When he said he wanted the thrill of secrecy, I kept our relationship underground. But in this singular moment, I realized the heart I had offered him for five years was, to him, worth less than a piece of cheap costume jewelry. While Delaney was still basking in his attention, and as the table roared with approval, she captured his lips in a long, sensual kiss. Still silent, still refusing to give him the satisfaction of my tears or my rage, I unclasped the chain and placed it gently on the table. “Mr. Kingston is right,” I said, my voice empty. “It’s just a cheap trinket. Enjoy it.” 2 Rhys’s gaze locked onto me, a furious, frustrated fire smoldering in his pupils. He squeezed Delaney’s arm until she cried out in pain before he reluctantly loosened his grip. He sneered. “Since Avery is being so generous, Delaney, take it.” Delaney picked it up, examined it for a few seconds, and then wrinkled her nose in distaste. “It’s actually not that pretty. Far less impressive than the things you usually buy me, Rhys.” She tossed it dismissively to the catering assistant clearing the table. “Here. You can have it. You might get a few bucks for it.” Watching the necklace, the symbol of five years of my life, fall amidst the food scraps and dirty napkins, the blood in my veins seemed to condense into ice. Rhys noted my stark white face, his voice sharp and demanding. “What are you waiting for? We’re celebrating my wedding tonight. Everyone drink up. No one leaves early.” My face was the color of chalk. “No, thank you. You all enjoy yourselves. I have other plans.” The moment the words left my mouth, Rhys’s expression turned venomous. I ignored it, turned my back, and walked out of the private room. By the time I reached the secure parking level of his penthouse, my phone was still notification-free. Rhys hadn’t sent a single text, a single apology, a single explanation. But he had updated his social media. I tapped the app. The video showed him and Delaney feeding each other a single cookie, culminating in a passionate, dare-you kiss. As their lips intertwined, everyone in the comments gushed over the beautiful, tragic love story of Rhys and Delaney—five years apart, finally reunited—and no one in that cheering crowd knew about the woman who had been hidden for those same five years: Avery Stone. In the video, Delaney was blushing, all captivating femininity, as she pressed a provocative kiss to his throat. Rhys didn’t pull away. The look in his eyes—that dangerous, barely contained frenzy—was the look I knew from our most intimate moments. Now it belonged to Delaney. Rhys Kingston, if this is your choice, then I’ll grant you your wish. I gave a dry, self-mocking laugh. Then, I tapped the ‘Like’ button on his post. After that, I silently packed and cleared every last trace of my existence from the penthouse apartment he had given me. I had begged him countless times to go public. I had cajoled, threatened, and even, in the hazy aftermath of passion, whispered the question: When will we tell everyone? Rhys always had an excuse, a postponement. Until Delaney. For her, he introduced her to his entire inner circle, instructed everyone to call her his wife, announced their marriage, and took her to the courthouse. In this moment, I saw with brutal clarity: He wasn’t afraid of going public. He just wasn’t in love with me. Once everything was done, I drove back to my own apartment. The door had barely closed when my parents, currently overseas, video-called. “Sweetheart,” my mother chirped, “do you remember Kellan Croft? You two grew up together, and he’s back in the States. You should find some time to meet up.” During my years with Rhys, my parents had tried to set me up with countless good men, just waiting for me to say yes. Every time, I refused. I was twenty-four now. Starting a new life, a new romance, wasn’t too late. Seeing the cautious hope in my parents’ eyes, I didn’t hesitate this time. “Okay,” I said. “I will.” Immediately after, I submitted my resignation to Rhys’s company’s HR. My loyalty to Rhys had been absolute. I started as an intern the day I graduated, and to help him win a crucial bid, I’d stayed up for days, analyzing data, sourcing materials, and perfecting the pitch. I lost ten pounds during that stretch. Rhys had been so tender, so worried, sending his personal chef to the office with gourmet meals. Back then, even in secrecy, his devotion to me was undeniable. Now, that special attention belonged to Delaney. Moments after the resignation email went out, Rhys called. The moment I answered, the line went dead silent. In the past, no matter who initiated the call, I was always the one to break the silence and find a topic. This time, I couldn’t muster the energy. Just as I was about to hang up, assuming he wouldn’t speak, his voice—cold and laced with annoyance—came through. “Avery Stone, what is the meaning of the social media like and this resignation letter?” “Delaney has one month to live. Can’t you wait even that long?” he challenged, his voice rising. “Are you truly not afraid I’ll break up with you for good?” I used to be terrified. So, I played the good girl, the compliant one. I wouldn’t play anymore. “Rhys,” I said, my voice flat. “Then let’s break up.” 3 The day after the breakup, I received an email confirming my resignation was accepted. The HR tone was curt. I was instructed to collect my belongings immediately and warned never to set foot in the building again. Rhys was clearly furious. Walking past the cubicles, I heard the snide whispers. “The only reason Mr. Kingston gave her the time of day was because she was the partner’s sister. She actually thought she was going to be the next Mrs. Kingston. Now she’s just running off with her tail between her legs.” “So what if he spoiled her? She embarrassed the real Mrs. Kingston the other night. She deserved to be fired.” Deaf to the mockery, I focused on completing my final handoff. The moment the paperwork was stamped, I would be free of Rhys forever. “Hold it right there.” Rhys’s cold voice cut through the air behind me. Delaney was leaning against him, looking frail but shooting me a triumphant glance. “The confidential information for this morning’s bid was leaked. I heard that Ms. Stone, the secretary, handled those files.” I turned to Rhys, utterly stunned. “You suspect me?” “We’ll know for sure once we check the computer,” he said, his eyes devoid of emotion. At his nod, a pair of IT staff immediately moved to my desk, sitting in my chair. It felt like a slap across the face. I had poured my life into those bid documents, and now Rhys was accusing me of sabotage. “Don’t touch my computer!” They weren’t just looking for files; they intended to restore everything I had ever deleted. If they did that, the hundreds of private photos of Rhys and me—and the undeniable proof of our five-year relationship—would be revealed to the entire company. Security guards were blocking the way. I was helpless. “Rhys, tell them to stop. I didn’t leak anything.” He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin, his face a mask of iron. “Did you leak the files?” The crowd murmured, the insults sharp. “Of course, it was Avery Stone. Why else is she reacting like this?” “She didn’t get the boss, so she got her revenge by sending the bid to a competitor? That’s sick.” Rhys cut them off, his voice ice. “Everyone shut up. Are the files restored?” “Restored!” I whipped my head around. “Don’t open it, Rhys.” He squeezed my wrist harder. “Open it!” As the intimate photos flashed across the screen for everyone to see, it felt like my last shred of privacy had been ripped away. The shame was so overwhelming I nearly broke down in tears right there. Rhys’s face was unreadable for a moment. Then, he smiled. He casually surveyed the digital evidence. “Avery Stone, are you a delusion case? Where did you find these pictures, and how badly did you Photoshop my face onto some stranger’s body?” The collective laughter of the crowd crashed over me. In that moment, the humiliation was a tide, threatening to drown me. He had married Delaney in secret, and I accepted it. He turned my birthday into their reception, and I tolerated it. But he would never acknowledge our life, even now, when it would save me. Delaney mocked me. “Avery, do you love Rhys? If you admit it, I might actually let you have him.” Rhys frowned slightly at her, then dismissed her words with a wave of his hand. “Don’t get involved in Avery’s nonsense, Delaney. Everyone here knows I treat her like a little sister. If you like those pictures, I’ll hire a professional to edit a few good ones of us.” He was retaliating for the breakup. He was deliberately denying me, humiliating me. But the words were still countless tiny knives slicing into my heart. I dug my nails into my palms until I drew blood, forcing myself not to cry. Delaney smiled, satisfied. “Rhys, you’re so cruel to break a girl’s heart like that! At least spare her some dignity. What if she runs away, like I did years ago? You might not get her back this time.” Rhys was absolutely certain I wouldn’t leave. “Where would she go?” he scoffed. “She’s either hanging around her brother or tagging along behind me. She’s throwing a tantrum. In three days, she’ll be begging me to reinstate her.” In the past, our fights never lasted more than thirty-six hours, and I was always the first to back down and come home. But the Avery Stone he was talking about was gone. How long would it take for him to realize it? 4 I was numb to the surrounding laughter and insults. After the IT staff left, I looked Rhys in the eye. “Mr. Kingston, the investigation proves the leak had nothing to do with me. Don’t you think you owe me an apology?” The crowd erupted in angry whispers. “Is she insane? Demanding an apology from Mr. Kingston? Who does she think she is?” “He’s letting her walk free! She should be grateful. No one can prove she didn’t do it.” Rhys frowned in annoyance. “I was following protocol by checking your computer before your departure. You want an apology for that?” He threw his hands up. “Avery Stone, are you crazy, or am I?” My voice remained eerily calm. “Three hundred photos on that computer. You know exactly where they came from.” “Five years, Rhys. All I’m asking for is one apology. Is that really too much?” His expression instantly became conflicted. Delaney walked toward me, her face full of forced kindness. “Today was a misunderstanding, Avery. Rhys and I didn’t handle things well. I’m sorry if I offended you.” As she spoke, she suddenly dissolved into a fit of harsh, racking coughs. Rhys’s tension instantly flared. He rushed forward to support her, then whirled on me, his face contorted in anger. “What did you say to her? What did you do?” He looked at me as if I were a dangerous criminal. “Avery Stone, take your anger out on me. She’s a patient. Why are you deliberately trying to upset her?” Delaney shook her head weakly. “I’m fine, Rhys. She’s just young. I’ll talk to her.” She gently pulled away from Rhys and walked toward me. I caught the fleeting, triumphant smirk in her eyes. Before I could even process what I was seeing, she deliberately let her legs buckle and collapsed onto the marble floor. The room went silent. Everyone saw her fall, unassisted. Except Rhys. He charged at me like a madman, shoving me away with brutal force. I stumbled, hitting the edge of a nearby desk with a sickening thud. A searing spike of pain shot through my lower abdomen, and my vision whitened. Rhys didn’t spare me a single glance. He was kneeling over Delaney, his voice full of protective fury, directed straight at me. “Avery Stone, you better pray Delaney is okay. Otherwise, I will make your life a living hell.” The man I had loved for five years was threatening to destroy me for the woman who had just faked her own fall. The last vestige of hope in my heart evaporated. Suddenly, a woman screamed. I looked down. My hand was covered in a slick, dark crimson. It was coming from me. Before everything faded to black, I saw Adam, his face pale with terror and rage, rushing toward me. He lifted me gently, his hands trembling. “Don’t be afraid, sis. I’m here.” As Rhys carried Delaney into the emergency room, he received a call from my brother. For the first time ever, Adam was screaming at him. “Rhys, I’ll deal with how you treated Avery later!” “Get over here right now. She just miscarried. The baby is gone.”

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