Staring at the official declaration of my mother’s death, my first thought was that the hospital had called the wrong number. I had settled all the bills before leaving. Every single one. Today was supposed to be the day for the cremation, the burial. Why would I still owe them money? The voice on the other end of the line sighed, a thin, impatient sound. “Family member needs to come pay the balance. How else are we supposed to cover the treatment? $18,736.” “Are you sure this is for Evelyn Flynn?” They confirmed it with aggressive certainty. “Yes, ma’am. Hurry up.” I froze. Ma’am? My jaw set, I immediately drove back to the hospital. When the clerk handed me the bill, I glanced at the date. It was for new medication and treatment, all opened today. Three days ago, my mother had died in this hospital after a failed resuscitation effort. Who were these imported drugs and procedures being administered to now? 1 A cold sense of alarm washed over me. Using “insurance reimbursement” as a pretense, I had the clerk print every single chart, every test result, every single line item. I checked the records. My mother, in for half a month with what was initially diagnosed as pre-infarction symptoms, had racked up an unimaginable $450,000 in charges. They had performed ten-plus cardiac catheterizations. The list showed over thirty cardiac stents installed. Thirty? And five separate CT scans in a single twenty-four-hour period. My face went rigid. I walked straight to my mother’s primary attending physician, Dr. Wallace. “Doctor, my mother died here three days ago. How can you justify a new bill, dated today?” Dr. Wallace blinked, but quickly composed himself. “It does happen. Occasionally, we find a balance that was under-charged upon discharge. We simply ask the family to remit.” “This hospital has never had a problem with overcharging, rest assured.” I pointed to the dates on the new bill. “These are clearly newly prescribed medications. My mother is gone. Who were they given to?” He pointed at the framed commendations on his wall, a flicker of genuine anger—or perhaps just panic—crossing his features. “I understand your grief, but you are insulting me! I’ve been practicing for thirty years, and I’ve never been accused of something so foul.” “Please leave!” I tried to argue, but he grabbed my arm and shoved me out of the consultation room. “If you have questions, take them to the Director’s office! I’ll cooperate with any investigation. This is preposterous!” I fought to keep my voice even, trying to appeal to his professional responsibility. “But there is clearly a problem with the patient’s record. Shouldn’t you, as the doctor in charge, be accountable?” Before I could finish, a few nurses began pushing me further away. “There’s no problem here! Don’t try to start a scene! Our security is not to be messed with!” one warned. “Are you trying to hurt other patients? Just because your own mother passed away, you want to stop other people from getting treatment?” At this, the other patients waiting in the hall grew agitated and started to shove me themselves. My composure was shattered. “You won’t give me an explanation? Fine. I’m calling the police.” The second the words left my mouth, a familiar, smooth voice cut through the noise behind me. “Calling the police? Asher Flynn, what is all this noise about? This is a hospital.” I turned. Jude Becker, my brother’s keeper, a doctor at this very hospital, was pushing his way through the crowd, frowning. I took a deep, centering breath and thrust the new bill at him. “Jude, your hospital’s billing is ridiculous. I want an explanation.” But instead of taking the bill, he raised his voice, loud enough for the waiting crowd to hear. “That’s impossible.” “Asher, your mother was known to be… tight with money when she was alive. I see the apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree. You’re just like her.” My brow furrowed. “What are you talking about?” He adjusted the lapels of his pristine white coat, adopting the air of professional authority. “I mean that money should be earned honestly. Asher, I’m telling you this as a friend: your family is already wealthy. It doesn’t look good to try and stiff the medical bills.” What? I was dumbstruck. My rage boiled, threatening to blow the top off my skull. “Jude Becker, you are a professional. You need to take responsibility for your words. The bill is right here, plain as day. Are you accusing me of trying to game the system?” 2 The phrase “game the system” brought every head in the waiting area snapping toward me. I fixed Jude with a cold glare. We had known each other for over twenty years. My mother had practically considered him a godson. It was on his insistent recommendation that we chose this hospital for her stay. Yet, three days ago, when she died, Jude hadn’t even shown his face. And now, he was saying this. It was a profound, sickening moment of disillusionment. Jude gave me a look of deep, patronizing concern, expertly diverting the attention and pinning the blame on me. “Asher, I know you’ve always been impulsive. When your mother was alive, she indulged you endlessly. But she’s gone now. You have to grow up. You can’t keep acting out!” “I understand your grief, but you can’t take your loss and pain out on a professional medical staff! Your mother’s physician is one of our most highly respected, a man with thirty years of spotless reputation.” The moment he finished, the eyes of the crowd shifted, confirming I was the villain. “Unbelievable. His own friend, a doctor, is saying this? The patient’s family must be a nightmare.” “The poor woman is gone. Go home and grieve! You’re clogging up the line. We fought for these appointments. Just because his mom died, he wants to deny us our right to treatment?” “This is why doctor-patient relations are so strained. It’s because of people like him!” I’d never realized how deeply Jude’s calculations ran. He had expertly manipulated the narrative, painting me as an unhinged aggressor. I slapped the stack of printed medical records into his chest. “You say I’m acting out? Fine.” “Then do me a favor. As a medical professional and my dearest friend, read these charts, in front of everyone, and explain them.” The slight rigidity in Jude’s expression was all I needed to confirm my suspicion. A real doctor, and a true friend, hearing of alleged fraud, would immediately seize the records to investigate. Why was his first reaction deflection? His demeanor softened, suddenly all concern, and he tried to steer me toward his private office, clearly attempting to manage the situation away from prying eyes. But I planted my feet and pushed him away. “Whatever you have to say, we should say it now. I want to know what condition my mother had that required five CT scans in one day. Why was she given eight bags of antibiotics in a single afternoon? And IV fluids totaling over two hundred pounds?” “My mother was in the hospital for half a month with pre-infarction symptoms, and I paid over $450,000!” “And the most outrageous part? She’s been dead for three days, and your hospital is still generating new fees!” “If this hospital can’t provide an immediate explanation, I’m escalating this to the state health authority.” With that, I pulled out my phone and dialed the Bureau of Health and Safety. Around me, the hostile patients gasped, their voices hushed. “Two hundred pounds in one day? That’s more than a person weighs. They would have pumped her full of water. That’s insane.” “Wait, the woman is dead. How can there be a new bill?” “My God. This isn’t just over-billing. It sounds like they might have killed her.” 3 The moment the call connected, Jude’s face went white. He lunged, trying to snatch the phone from my hand. I held him in a tight glare. “Jude, you’re not the attending physician. Why are you reacting like this?” “Or is this connected to you?” I distinctly saw the vein in Jude’s forehead twitch. His eyes darted away. I tried to wrestle my phone back, but in the struggle, he slammed it onto the tile floor. “That’s enough!” he yelled. The screen splintered into a thousand shards. I raised an eyebrow, facing him. “Are you getting nervous?” His eyes were wide, furious. “I am not nervous! I’m sick of your disgusting, underhanded tactics!” He then pulled out his own phone and shoved a screenshot of a text thread directly into my face. “Asher Flynn, I tried to warn you. Since you’re so determined to destroy yourself, I have no choice. As a doctor, I must maintain my professional integrity.” Looking at the alleged chat log, my heart hammered against my ribs. The text thread on his screen read: Me: Hey Jude, I spent so much money, and Mom still died. What a waste. Any way to get some of it back? Jude: What are you thinking? Jude: The hospital won’t refund without a major incident. Your family is rich; why do you care so much? Besides, the doctors did everything they could. Me: Hmph. That old bastard, Dr. Wallace, deliberately prescribed the most expensive drugs. Whatever. Get me the refund, and I’ll buy you a bottle of expensive whiskey. My temples throbbed violently. My fingers started to tremble. “I never said that! Who is that? Just because it has my profile picture doesn’t mean it’s me!” I tried to explain, but this time, no one was listening. Someone in the crowd shoved me hard. “I almost believed you! You set this whole thing up just to blackmail the hospital for money!” “You have no shame! Your mother’s death was a tragedy, but what does that have to do with the doctor? You’re so disrespectful.” “Honestly, maybe her dying was just karma for having a son like this!” I was outnumbered. I couldn’t fight fifty voices at once. But through the angry throng, I watched Jude smirk, give me a small, silent wave, and mouth the word, “Bye.” Then, he casually shredded the medical print-outs and tossed the confetti into the air before walking back into his office, hands in his pockets. A wave of vertigo washed over me. Heart racing, hands shaking, cold sweat prickling my skin. The floor beneath me suddenly felt like cotton. Pushed and jostled, I was forced out of the clinic wing. I stumbled, unable to regain my footing, and finally collapsed onto my knees a few feet from the main entrance. I hadn’t slept more than a few hours a night while caring for my mother for the last two weeks; my body was already at its breaking point. People walked by continuously. I instinctively reached out a hand, trying to find someone to help, but through the swirling fog of my fading consciousness, I heard a shout nearby. “Don’t help him! He’s trying to scam the hospital!” “Be careful! He’s a grifter! You’ll lose everything if you touch him!” My vision swam, the light scattering into fragments. I couldn’t fight the pull of the ground. As my eyes slid shut, the last thing I saw was the relentless stream of people walking right past me.

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“Mortgage Payment Due: $4,000. Payee Account: Sarah Jennings.” I stared at the text message that had just flashed across my husband’s phone screen. Sarah Jennings. His ex-wife’s name. “Four thousand?” I held the phone up, forcing him to look at the screen. “Who are you paying this to?” David Miller’s face went immediately pale. “Lily, wait, I can explain…” “Explain what?” I cut him off. “We’ve been married for five years. You told me your salary was $7,000 a month, and you gave me $2,000 for household expenses.” I laughed, a sharp, cold sound. “So, where did the other $5,000 go? No, wait. It’s $4,000 for her. What is your actual salary, David?” He said nothing. I looked at him, my heart already freezing in my chest. Five years into our marriage, I discovered my husband was paying his ex-wife’s mortgage. 1 I looked at that text message for a full three minutes. Mortgage Payment Due: $4,000. Payee Account: Sarah Jennings. Principal Remaining: $432,000. Term Remaining: 15 years. Sarah Jennings. David Miller’s ex-wife. The woman he divorced six years ago. “Lily, please listen to me…” David reached out, trying to retrieve his phone. I took a step back. “Tell me what?” “There’s a reason for this… this whole arrangement.” “What reason?” He fell silent again. I looked at the man standing in front of me. Five years married. A three-year-old son. I genuinely believed we had built a life, a home. “David Miller.” I used his full name. “Tell me, what is your salary?” “Seven… seven thousand.” “Liar.” I opened his banking app. He had a recurring automatic transfer set up on his checking account. The 15th of every month: a transfer of $4,000, recipient: Sarah Jennings. Setup date: March 2019. March 2019. We got married in February 2019. Meaning, starting the second month of our marriage, he had been paying his ex-wife’s mortgage. “Five years.” My voice was unnervingly calm. “Five years.” David kept his head down. “How much?” He wouldn’t answer. I did the math myself. $4,000 multiplied by 12 is $48,000. $48,000 multiplied by 5 is $240,000. Two hundred forty thousand dollars. “Two hundred forty thousand dollars,” I articulated the number. “You’ve paid $240,000 toward her mortgage.” David finally looked up. “Lily, I owe her.” I was stunned. “What did you say?” “When we divorced, I was the one in the wrong,” he mumbled. “We bought the house together, but it was only in her name. I walked away with nothing, but I promised to help her with the mortgage.” “You promised to help her?” “Yes.” “Then why did you marry me?” He was silent. “David, why did you marry me?” My voice rose. “If you owed her, if you were going to pay her mortgage, why did you marry me? Why did you let me pinch every penny to make ends meet?” “Lily…” “Two thousand dollars a month!” I cut him off. “You gave me a $2,000 allowance, forcing me to budget down to the last dime! I had to buy the cheapest groceries and wait for sales to buy our son new clothes!” I laughed again, this time with pure bitterness. “I thought you just had a low salary. I thought we were struggling together. I never once complained.” “I know…” “You know what?” I looked straight at him. “Do you know how I’ve lived for the last five years? When my mother was hospitalized, I asked you for five thousand dollars, and you said we were broke. I had to borrow it myself.” “I really was tied up with finances at the time.” “Tied up?” I laughed out loud. “You were sending your ex-wife four thousand dollars every month, and you told me you were tied up?” David stopped talking. The living room was completely silent. I stood there, looking at the man I had lived with for half a decade. His face was utterly foreign to me. “What is your real salary?” I asked again. He pressed his lips together. “Tell me!” “…Twelve thousand.” Twelve thousand dollars. Not seven thousand. Twelve thousand. He earned $12,000 a month, gave his ex-wife $4,000, and gave me $2,000. Where did the remaining $6,000 go? I opened his other banking account. Another card. Balance: $23,916. Last year’s transaction history: Video game in-app purchases, liquor store tabs, golf club fees, networking dinners… I turned the phone off. “David Miller.” “Yeah.” “I need to be alone right now.” I turned and walked into the bedroom. Just as the door closed, I heard him say from the hallway: “Lily, we need to talk this through…” I didn’t answer. Lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Five years of marriage. Every penny I had saved. He had taken, to pay the mortgage for another woman. The tears finally came. But I didn’t make a sound. I was only thinking one thing: What do I do now? 2 The next day, David took the day off work. He woke up early and made breakfast. “Lily, please eat something.” He stood at the bedroom door, holding a bowl of oatmeal. “Let’s talk.” I didn’t move. “Lily…” “David.” I sat up. “Why did you and Sarah divorce?” He paused. “…Irreconcilable differences.” “Be specific.” He put the bowl down and sat on the edge of the bed. “We had just bought the house, and the pressure was high. She got pregnant, and I wasn’t supportive enough. Later… after the baby was born, I was so busy with work that I was constantly away. She was raising the child alone and felt neglected.” “So you cheated?” “No!” He denied it fiercely. “I didn’t cheat. We just… we fought a lot. She was the one who filed for divorce.” “She filed?” “Yes.” He lowered his head. “When we divorced, she didn’t ask for anything but the house. I felt I had failed her, so I promised to keep paying the loan.” “Did your parents know about this arrangement?” He nodded. I smiled. “So, the whole family knew, and you only kept it a secret from me?” “Lily, I was afraid you would overthink things…” “Overthink?” I looked at him. “David, do you really think I’m overthinking this?” He didn’t speak. I got up to wash my face. I saw him follow me in the mirror, standing in the bathroom doorway. “Lily, I know I was wrong about this. But my feelings for you are real. I married you because I love you.” “You love me?” I turned around. “You love me, so you lied to me for five years?” “I didn’t lie. I just… didn’t disclose it.” “Didn’t disclose it?” I laughed. “You told me your salary was $7,000, when it was $12,000. You said we had no money, but you were sending your ex-wife $4,000 every month. That’s not lying?” “I…” “David, one more question.” “Go ahead.” “How old is the child you had with Sarah?” His face shifted. “…Eight years old.” “Eight years old.” I nodded. “You divorced six years ago. The child was two then. Now he’s eight.” “Yeah.” “How many times have you seen your son in those eight years?” He was silent for a long time. “…Not many.” “How many is ‘not many’?” “…Two or three times a year.” “Two or three times a year.” I repeated. “David, you pay your ex-wife’s mortgage because of ‘debt.’ How much do you owe your son? How many times have you even seen him?” He still didn’t speak. “Or is it that…” I looked at him pointedly. “This isn’t about debt at all. It’s about something else?” “What else?” “You know perfectly well.” I turned and walked out of the bathroom. He pursued me. “Lily, you’re imagining things. Sarah and I haven’t been in touch.” “Haven’t been in touch?” I stopped. “Then what’s the encrypted photo album on your phone for?” His face went white. “You… you looked?” “I didn’t look,” I said. “But I’m about to.” He stood there, frozen. I held out my hand. “Let me see.” “Lily…” “David, if you don’t let me see it, I will assume you are still involved with her.” He hesitated for a few seconds. Then he took out his phone and opened the password-protected folder. There were over a hundred photos inside. All of a little boy. From the age of two or three up to seven or eight. “Is this… your son?” “Yes,” his voice was very low. “She… she sends them to me periodically.” I scrolled through them. Underneath some photos were screenshots of text exchanges. “David, Little Sam is walking now.” “David, Sam started kindergarten.” “David, Sam is asking when you’ll come to see him.” The most recent one was two months ago: “David, Sam has a fever, I can’t handle this alone.” Below it was David’s reply: “I’m traveling this week. I’ll come see him when I get back.” I put the phone down. “David Miller.” “Yes.” “You told me you two weren’t in touch.” He kept his head down. “You call this ‘not in touch’?” “It’s just… it’s just about the boy.” “Just about the boy?” I smiled. “David, do you remember when our son had a fever last week? I called you, and you said you were in a meeting and hung up.” His expression darkened. “You send tender messages to your ex-wife’s child, but what about ours?” “I didn’t…” “You did.” I cut him off. “David, you absolutely did. You favor them.” I grabbed my purse. “Where are you going?” “To work.” “Lily…” “David, I need to cool off. We will talk about this again tonight.” I walked out the door. When I reached the corner of our street, I called my best friend, Jess. “Jess, do you know anyone who can help me run a title search on a property?” “What’s going on?” “I need to find out whose name is actually on that house of David’s ex-wife.” The line was silent for a few seconds. “Lily, are you… did you find something out?” “Yeah.” “Damn it,” Jess swore. “I’ll look into it. Give me a minute.” I hung up the phone and stood on the sidewalk. The spring air felt cool. I was contemplating one thing: If that house really was in the ex-wife’s name alone. Then the $240,000 over five years… I had been paying her mortgage for her? 3 That afternoon, Jess sent me a text. “Found it. The house is in The Heights, 2,000 square feet, registered owner: Sarah Jennings.” Sarah Jennings. The ex-wife’s name. “What about the mortgage details?” “Monthly payment is $4,200. Six years paid. Loan applicant is Sarah Jennings, but there’s a co-signer on the payments.” “Who?” “David Miller.” I stared at the screen. Co-signer. This meant he wasn’t just “helping”; he was legally designated as a joint payor. “Anything else?” “Yeah. The house was bought in 2017, down payment was $150,000. Guess where the down payment came from?” “Where?” “A wire transfer of $75,000, sender: David Miller. The memo says ‘Down Payment Contribution.’” I froze. “Seventy-five thousand?” “Yup. March 2017. David wired $75,000 to Sarah Jennings, labeled ‘Down Payment.’” 2017. They hadn’t divorced yet. I hadn’t even met David yet. “Lily, are you okay?” “I’m fine.” “Maybe… you should come over?” “No. I need to be alone for a bit.” I hung up and sat down on a bench outside my office building. My mind was a mess. $75,000 down payment from him. $4,200 monthly payments from him. Six years paid off. Meaning, David and his ex-wife bought the house while they were married, he put up the down payment, and he was the one making the mortgage payments. But the house was registered only in her name. And when they divorced, the ex-wife “didn’t ask for anything but the house.” Ha. Didn’t ask for anything. Except the house he paid for, and which he was still paying off. I laughed out loud. A passerby glanced at me. I didn’t know what I was laughing at. Maybe I was laughing at my own stupidity. Five years married, and I thought I had a decent, honest husband. Low salary, but hard-working and reliable. $2,000 a month for expenses—not much, but enough to get by. I never imagined… He was financially supporting another woman. No, not another woman. His ex-wife. What did this even qualify as? Emotional infidelity? Financial infidelity? Or had he simply never truly left his first marriage? My phone rang. It was David. “Lily, where are you? Mom wants to come over for dinner tonight, can you…” “David,” I cut him off. “Yeah?” “Your mother knows you’re paying Sarah’s mortgage, doesn’t she?” He was silent for a few seconds. “…She knows.” “And what did she say?” “She… she feels that since I owe Sarah, I have to repay that debt.” “Owe her?” I laughed bitterly. “David, you put up the $75,000 down payment on that house. Did you know that?” He didn’t speak. “You knew, didn’t you?” “…Yes.” “And you still call it ‘owing her’? You put the down payment, you pay the mortgage, the house is in her name, she got the house in the divorce, and you keep paying the mortgage—that’s you owing her?” “Lily, you don’t understand…” “Don’t understand what?” “I… I was the one who first suggested divorce.” I was stunned. “You filed for divorce? You told me she filed!” He paused for a very long time. “…I lied to you.” “What did you lie about?” “I was the one who filed. Because… because I had met you.” My head spun. “David Miller, say that again?” “I met you first, and then… then I filed for divorce.” “Are you saying… you cheated?” “It wasn’t cheating! We were just… just talking, we hadn’t done anything physical!” “David.” “Yeah?” “You told me you divorced Sarah because of ‘irreconcilable differences.’ You told me she filed for divorce. You told me you didn’t cheat.” I paused. “What else have you lied to me about?” “Lily, I never meant to deceive you…” “Never meant to deceive me?” I scoffed. “David, you lied to me about your salary. How can you have the nerve to say you ‘never meant to deceive me’?” “I was afraid you’d overthink things…” “Overthink?” I stood up. “David, you paid your ex-wife a total of $240,000. You gave me a $2,000 allowance a month. You made me budget every penny, and when my mother was hospitalized, you said we were broke—what do you think I’m overthinking?” He kept his head down, speechless. “Your mother doesn’t need to come over tonight,” I said. “I don’t want to see anyone.” I hung up the phone. Sitting on the bench, watching the traffic pass. Only one thought occupied my mind: David Miller, who the hell did I marry?

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Three years after the divorce, the next time I heard news of my former CEO husband, it was live-streamed. His engagement party was splashed across the Jumbotron in the airport as soon as I landed. On the massive screen, the girl tucked under my ex-husband’s arm was gushing about their great love story. “Three years ago, I ran a little boutique florist shop in the Village, and he came into my shop to buy flowers for his wife.” “I was instantly smitten. When I found out he was the CEO of the Harrington Group, I started showing up at his office with ‘client’ bouquets every single day. I made sure his wife knew exactly what was going on, of course.” “After that, they fought constantly, and I just kept swooping in to ‘comfort’ him.” “It all came to a head when he got drunk after a huge fight with her. We were both overwhelmed by emotion, and it just happened naturally.” “I heard his wife had a miscarriage that night during their argument, and she ran home and cried herself silly.” “But look at me now—I knew I made the right choice. He’s the head of Alistair City’s leading conglomerate. I’m about to be the CEO’s wife. If I hadn’t swooped in when I did, I wouldn’t have this life.” “His ex? She was miserable. She didn’t even recover from the miscarriage before he made her walk away with nothing. Who knows if she’s even alive now.” I looked up at the familiar, smug face on the airport screen. I smiled. Well, that’s rather awkward for her. Not only was I perfectly alive, but I had also become the Asia-Pacific representative for Archon Capital, one of the world’s top investment firms. I was back in Alistair City, and it was time for the head of their leading conglomerate to change. 1 The VIP lounge was almost unnervingly quiet, which only made the engagement party blaring on the enormous screen seem even louder. My assistant, Leo, walked over silently, placing a cup of unsweetened black coffee and a sleek tablet next to me. The coffee was scalding, bitter, and bracing—exactly what I needed. I lifted the cup, taking a slow sip, my gaze fixed on the tablet. The screen was lit with the words “The Harrington Group,” below which were real-time stock prices and a core data analysis report. The red, plummeting arrow was stark and unmistakable. My index finger tapped lightly on the cold screen, once, then again. The smell of antiseptic from the hospital three years ago. The crisp, cold reality of the divorce papers that left me with nothing. The countless nights I’d spent curled up with stomach pain in my cramped foreign apartment, staring blankly at the nameless city lights. I set the coffee cup down with a light click against the table. Serena Maxwell on the Jumbotron was still talking, but I no longer heard her. I lifted my eyes to Leo, who remained silently beside me. The last trace of warmth in my expression vanished. “Notify Archon Capital’s European headquarters. Initiate Phase One of the acquisition plan for the Harrington Group.” Leo didn’t hesitate, immediately beginning to type on a separate device. I turned back to the screen and the happy couple, a cold, predatory smile playing on my lips. “I want to see their panic before the market opens tomorrow.” Alistair City’s business world was turned upside down overnight. “Archon Capital Enters the Market with Multi-Billion Dollar War Chest, Suspected Hostile Takeover of Harrington Group!” “Harrington Stock Plummets to Trading Floor, Market Value Evaporates by Billions!” In Alexander Harrington’s office, the air was so thick with tension you could wring it out. Alex, a man who prided himself on his unflappable composure, now had his tie yanked crooked and his eyes, visible behind his gold-rimmed glasses, were webbed with red. Several high-level executives stood opposite him, too afraid to even lift their heads. “Find out! Find out now! What the hell is Archon Capital? Who is their goddamn representative?” Alex slammed his fist onto the desk, the veins on his hand bulging. An hour later, an emergency board meeting was called. The room was packed with the Harrington Group’s old guard, their faces all darker than thunderclouds. Alex sat in the primary position, trying to stabilize the situation, but his own mind was chaos. It was then that the heavy double doors of the boardroom were pushed open. Leo walked in first, expressionless, ushering the person behind him. Then, I walked in. I was wearing a sharply tailored, slate-gray power suit, my heels clicking a crisp, rhythmic beat on the polished marble floor. The entire boardroom fell into a suffocated silence. Every single eye in the room was fixed on me—shock, disbelief, and a panicked search for context. Alex’s gaze, though, was different. It was utterly riveted to my face, like a nail driven into the wall. His lips parted, his throat bobbing once. The sight of him, speechless and stunned, was more satisfying than any positive financial headline. I ignored him, walking directly to the opposite end of the long conference table, the seat reserved for the acquiring party. I sat down with a composed elegance. The moment I was seated, Leo opened the tablet and slid it in front of me. “Eliza… Sloane?” An older board member finally found his voice, laced with uncertainty. I looked up, sweeping my gaze across the familiar, yet suddenly irrelevant, faces. Finally, I let my eyes settle coolly on Alexander Harrington. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said with a faint, utterly cold smile. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Eliza Sloane, the Asia-Pacific Representative for Archon Capital, leading this acquisition.” Alex’s face instantly drained of all color. “The Harrington Group’s financial reports for the past three years look impressive, but in reality, over thirty percent of your profit comes from high-risk leveraged investments. The moment your capital chain faces stress, the entire structure collapses.” “Seven of your subsidiaries have bloated, inefficient management. Last year alone, administrative expenditures consumed five hundred million dollars that should have been dedicated to technology and R&D.” “Your newest real estate venture was a major strategic error, located on the fringe of future municipal planning. That investment won’t see a return for at least three years.” In a few succinct sentences, I sliced through the Harrington Group’s glossy facade, exposing the rot underneath. Each word made the board members’ expressions darken further. Alex’s hands were clenched into tight fists under the table. When the meeting concluded, the look in the eyes of the men in the room had shifted from pure shock to pure, unadulterated dread. People began to leave, but Alex remained seated. He waited until the last person was gone, then stood and walked slowly toward me. He stopped in front of me, his tall frame casting a long shadow. “Eliza,” his voice was raspy, edged with an emotion I couldn’t decipher. “You…” What did he want to say? Ask why I came back? Or why I was doing this? I didn’t give him the chance. I stood up, deliberately closing the tablet and handing it to Leo. Then, I met his gaze, looking him directly in the eye. “Mr. Harrington, this is still business hours.” I paused, watching his face instantly freeze, and the curve of my smile deepened slightly. “Keep your private emotions contained.” 2 After that day, I didn’t pay much attention to Alexander’s reactions. The person I was truly waiting for was Serena Maxwell. I knew she would come for me. People like her, who survive by playing the victim, are terrified of losing their audience and their stage. Now that I was back and had stolen her spotlight, it would only be a matter of time before she struck. Sure enough, on the third day, a heavy, engraved invitation to a charity gala was delivered to Leo. “The annual Alistair City Charity Gala. The Harrington Group is the lead sponsor,” Leo stated plainly, placing the card on my desk. “Serena Maxwell is this year’s Charity Ambassador.” I picked up the beautifully designed card, running my finger over the embossed lettering. “A lovely ambush,” I chuckled, tossing the invitation back down. “Tell them I will be there on time.” Leo nodded, asking no further questions. He knew I wasn’t going to attend a party; I was going to crash a coronation. The moment I stepped into the ballroom that evening, I felt the immediate stickiness of countless gazes—curious, searching, and more than a few frankly malicious. I didn’t care. I picked up a flute of champagne and found a quiet corner that wasn’t overly conspicuous. It didn’t take long for the show to begin. Serena was wearing a pristine white, strapless column gown, her hair in a loose, delicate updo that exposed her slender neck. She truly looked like a fragile porcelain doll who knew nothing of the world’s harshness. She carried her own glass, weaving through the crowd with a clear destination: me. She stopped directly in front of me. Alex stood a few steps behind her, his brow furrowed, looking like a cowed husband who wanted to intervene but didn’t know how. “Eliza… sister?” Serena whispered tentatively. “It really is you. You’re back.” I stayed silent, watching her begin the performance. Her eyes instantly misted over. The tears arrived right on cue. “Sister, I’m so sorry… What happened three years ago, it was all my fault. I loved Alex too much, and I… I didn’t mean for it to happen. I’ve lived with the guilt all these years, I just…” As she spoke, she glanced out of the corner of her eye, making sure her performance of fragile remorse was being witnessed by enough people. It was award-worthy acting, I’ll give her that. The room was already filling with murmurs. Several sympathetic looks were directed at her, while the glances aimed at me were laden with judgment and blame. I was being framed as the unforgiving villain, the one bullying the poor, repentant girl. Alex finally closed the gap, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Serena, a clear act of protection. He looked at me, his eyes complicated. “Eliza, let the past go.” “The past?” I finally laughed, gently swirling the champagne in my glass. “Easy words for you, Alex. Some things can’t be let go.” Serena seemed frightened by my response, shrinking further into Alex’s side, and her tears intensified. “Sister, please, can you forgive me? I just want to be happy with Alex now…” Watching her deliver this masterclass in deceit, I found any impulse to anger completely missing. I set my glass down and took my phone from my clutch. Under the confused scrutiny of everyone nearby, I pressed the play button. A crisp, smug female voice, amplified by the phone’s speaker, carried clearly through our corner of the ballroom. “…You should have seen what a fool Eliza was. She believed everything I said! Like I accidentally fell down the stairs…” “Alex? Men are all the same. If I cry, he thinks the whole world is out to get me. He’d argue with Eliza, and then he’d come straight to me for comfort…” “The miscarriage? Good riddance! Saved me the trouble of figuring out how to get rid of it myself. With that kid gone, she was nothing. That CEO wife title was always going to be mine!” The voice, the tone—arrogant and malicious—was a stark contrast to the tear-stained Serena standing before me. The recording continued, but the silence around us was deafening. Serena’s pale face still had tear tracks, but her expression had completely frozen. The feigned innocence in her large, watery eyes finally melted away, replaced by nothing but raw terror and utter collapse. 3 That charity gala recording caused the Harrington Group’s stock price to quietly plummet by another hundred million in market capitalization. Every morning, Leo provided me with his update on the Harrington Group’s latest movements. “Harrington dropped three points today. A few smaller shareholders are folding and requesting private meetings with you.” I nodded. “Schedule them. It’s time to close the net.” I heard that Alex’s side was absolute chaos. He had canceled all upcoming public engagements with Serena and had even frozen the funds for several of her vanity projects within the company. It seemed that trust, once fractured, could never be fully repaired. Alex was quietly beginning to investigate what happened three years ago. Leo’s intelligence network was highly efficient, reporting that Alex had pulled all the security footage from the hospital during my stay and sent people to interview some of the nurses in private. I listened to these reports with cold detachment, almost finding it funny. How foolish must a man be to only remember to seek proof after the truth has been shoved in his face via a recording device? Where was his skepticism before? Trying to play Sherlock Holmes now was far too late. I wasn’t interested in Alex’s small acts of penance. His investigation wouldn’t change the outcome. I wanted the Harrington Group. His personal remorse was worthless. The acquisition was proceeding smoothly. One shareholder after another was defecting, and the Harrington Group’s internal defenses were being dismantled piece by piece. The external and internal pressure was suffocating Alex. I heard he was suffering from recurring stomach issues again, often spending entire nights locked in his office. Late that night, I had just finished a video conference with European headquarters and was preparing to finally rest. Leo knocked and came in, his expression unusually grim. “Ms. Sloane, there’s been an issue.” I gestured for him to sit. “We received two pieces of intelligence.” “The first is from our insider at the Harrington family estate,” Leo said. “Tonight, Alex locked himself in his study and was looking through a lot of your old things. He found a letter—a letter you wrote back then but never got the chance to send.” My heart skipped a beat, completely unprepared for the emotional jolt. Leo continued: “Inside the letter… was your sonogram. He knows now that you were pregnant with twins.” My fingers instinctively clenched, my nails digging into my palms. “After he saw the letter, he locked himself in the study. He hasn’t come out all night.” Seeing my prolonged silence, Leo slid a tablet across the desk. The screen was on. “Ms. Sloane, this is the second piece of intelligence. Our private investigator has secured the definitive proof.” I looked down, my gaze falling on the screen. It was an investigation report, attached to clear bank transfer records. The recipient was a middle-aged woman named Lana Reeves. Occupation: Hospital janitor. The report also included a video—Lana Reeves’s confession. She admitted that three years ago, Serena Maxwell paid her twenty thousand dollars to apply a special oily liquid to the staircase landing I used every day for my prenatal appointments. Colorless and odorless, you wouldn’t notice it, but the floor would become dangerously slick. My breath stopped entirely. I stared intently at the screen, seeing the conclusion printed on the final page in large, bold font: Upon investigation, Eliza Sloane’s miscarriage was not an accident. It was a premeditated act of murder.

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I’ve always rejected the idea of inner turmoil. When a college roommate accused me of theft, I called the police immediately and told them to search my side of the room. When a professor, threatened by my confidence, slut-shamed me in her office, I brought the entire class in and forced her to point out the specific man I was supposedly trying to ‘charm.’ My reputation quickly preceded me. No one dared to cross me—until that dinner party. I’d just returned from the restroom when I heard my boyfriend’s ‘girl friend’—a blonde named Vanessa Hill—delivering her assessment right outside the door. “Look at her. Total vanity project. I bet she says she’s naturally beautiful, but she’s clearly all filler and filters.” “Head-to-toe designer clothes, driving a G-Wagon… what kind of job pays that well for a girl her age?” “Rhys, darling, you need to be careful. She’s definitely trying to climb the ladder from gold-digger to wife!” I pushed the door open, my voice cutting through the noise. “Your mouth smells like a sewage backup, Vanessa. Did you eat trash today?” 1 Silence instantly swallowed the private dining room. Every glance, whether direct or peripheral, was sizing me up. My boyfriend, Rhys Caldwell, said nothing. His gaze, however, was dark and unreadable. Vanessa’s smirk froze for a beat before she covered her mouth with a delicate, practiced laugh. “I was only kidding, Skylar! Why are you so defensive, darling?” “Did I strike a nerve? Are you worried Rhys will dump you and your whole little operation will collapse?” I immediately pulled out my phone, started playing the recording of her words on a loop, and, right in front of her, contacted my lawyer. I watched Vanessa’s pale, shifting expression, and let out a cold laugh. “You’re an adult, Vanessa. You need to pay for your words.” “If you can’t provide immediate evidence to support your claim that I’m a gold digger, expect a defamation lawsuit. I will sue you for slander.” The rest of the friends at the table looked stunned, clearly not expecting me to go for the jugular so fast. Vanessa chewed on her lip, her face white. Rhys’s brow furrowed. He was clearly displeased. “Skylar, this is too much! It was just a little drama, why are you making a scene?” A little drama? Being publicly slandered as a prostitute is “a little drama”? He didn’t react when I was being insulted, but the moment I defend my own name, he tells me to let it go. Did he think I was some kind of pushover? I opened the dialing app and hovered my finger over the 911 button. “Apologize to me in the next three seconds, Vanessa, or I’m calling the police right now.” Since I was meeting all of them for the first time, it was clear the others were closer to Vanessa. One of the men scoffed. “Whoa, what a temper. Maybe she’s really just acting tough because she knows Vanessa is right?” Rhys’s face hardened. He grabbed my wrist, his voice turning cold. “If you’re not what she says, then prove it to me.” My breath hitched. I couldn’t believe the words that had just left his mouth. “What are you talking about?” No wonder he had stayed silent earlier. He was actually listening to her poisonous gossip. Seeing the frost in my expression, Rhys doubled down. “Just show me all the chat logs on your phone. If I see nothing suspicious, I’ll believe you.” I nearly laughed out loud. Why should I have to prove my innocence against a baseless rumor? I yanked my arm free, crossed my arms over my chest, and leaned back in my chair, fixing my gaze on Vanessa. “I see that’s the new LV bag. The cheapest version is easily ten grand. So, did you earn that, or did you scam it? Got a receipt, Vanessa?” The others looked closer, realizing I was right, and their inquisitive stares turned to Vanessa. She faltered, hesitating for a moment before pursing her lips. “Rhys bought it for me.” A slow, deliberate smile stretched across my face. “My boyfriend bought you something that expensive? I have every reason to suspect you two are hooking up.” Slam! Rhys slapped his chopsticks down. He glared at me. “Skylar Reed, you are completely irrational!” “Vanessa and I are clean! It was just a friendly gift. Are you seriously this jealous?” I grabbed my phone, opened my photos, and pulled up a screenshot I’d taken earlier. The picture showed Vanessa in a black lace negligee, her cleavage prominent. It was a photo she’d sent to Rhys with the question: Do you like this dress? I stood up and walked directly over to the guy who had defended Vanessa, shoving the phone right in his face. “Tell me, buddy. What kind of intentions does a person have when they send this kind of photo to someone else’s boyfriend late at night?” He shrunk back, refusing to meet my eyes. The others suddenly became fascinated by their own plates, desperate not to get involved. I turned back to Rhys, a terrifying grin on my face. “Tell me, what do you think?” Rhys’s face immediately darkened. He shot Vanessa a look of cold fury. Sensing the tide turning, Vanessa scrambled to her feet. “I’m sorry, Skylar, I shouldn’t have said those things.” “And I didn’t mean to send that photo to Rhys! I meant to send it to my friend, but I accidentally sent it to him. I can’t believe you went through Rhys’s chats and screen-grabbed it!” No, I just happened to see it pop up and took a screenshot for proof. But Rhys only heard the second half. He turned his accusatory gaze on me. “You checked up on me?” Tears welled in Vanessa’s eyes. “Rhys, Skylar, please don’t fight because of me. I apologize to Skylar. I promise I’ll stay far away from you from now on, Rhys.” Rhys pulled her close, his voice chillingly cold. “You’re not the one who should be apologizing. Turns out Vanessa was right, Skylar. You’re nothing but a conniving, gold-digging sociopath.” “You hooked enough money off other old men and thought you’d try to anchor yourself to a real trust-fund baby, didn’t you? Stop hiding your tacky ambition.” “We’re done. And trust me, you cross me, you won’t get away with it. I’ll be waiting for the day you come crawling back.” He pocketed his phone and stormed out. Vanessa turned to me, a smug, triumphant smile on her face. The others looked on with a mixture of amusement and contempt, filing out one after another. I looked at the empty room and laughed. Rhys was right. The only difference was that he was the one who wouldn’t be getting away with anything. 2 Rhys and his entourage kicked me out of their group chat. But they didn’t block me. Instead, they constantly updated their social media feeds: snowboarding trips, golf tournaments, fast cars, yacht parties, all flaunting mansions and luxury cars. It was a pathetic show meant entirely for my benefit. What they didn’t realize was that in an effort to show off, they’d rented a massive estate to host an auction house party where the ‘goods’ being auctioned were female influencers. I clapped my hands softly. How incredibly interesting. An open invitation for disaster—it would be a crime not to take advantage of it. I paid a substantial amount to bribe one of the estate’s catering staff, instructing him to install pinhole cameras in every corner to ensure a 360-degree surveillance setup. He looked terrified when he heard the request. “Ms. Reed, this is highly illegal, isn’t it? If they find it, I could go to jail.” I smiled. “What they’re planning to do is far worse. No one will be concerned with a few cameras when the dust settles. Don’t worry.” I pulled out a bank card and handed it to him. “This is your fee. I assure you, you will be very satisfied.” That night, he messaged me confirming everything was set up. Perhaps as a final attempt to make me regret leaving, Rhys even sent me an invite. Why not accept? I certainly wasn’t going to miss the show. The night of the party, Vanessa approached me, acting the part of the hostess, her expression haughty. “You’ll probably never earn enough money in your life to afford the down payment on a place like this, you know.” “Don’t think just because you have a pretty face, some trust-fund idiot will stick around. Plastic surgeons are a dime a dozen now. If you want to latch onto someone, you’ll have to beg Rhys first.” I watched her swagger away and fought the urge to roll my eyes. Rhys then walked up, looking down at me. “I thought you wouldn’t show. Vanessa was right, wasn’t she? You’re a gold digger who can’t stay away from the money.” His entire crew gathered around, throwing out their usual cheap insults. “Well, look who it is! If it isn’t Skylar Reed. What’s up, ditching the high-and-mighty act and crawling back so fast?” “She looks high-class, but I bet she’s filthy underneath. Rhys, when you’re done, pass her around to the rest of the guys!” The group roared with vulgar laughter, their eyes predatory. I tilted my head, forcing a saccharine-sweet smile. “Wow, your imaginations are so vivid. Don’t worry. I’m just here for the show.” “Just wait. You’ll be crying later, I promise.” Vanessa spat the words, turning to leave with the men. I found a quiet corner and opened my phone. The livestream was running. Vanessa’s face, beaming with excitement, was front and center. She held a microphone and addressed the room. “Welcome, gentlemen, to tonight’s Auction House Party! And now, please welcome our first item up for bid!” A line of scantily clad female influencers—sweet-faced, curvy, soft-spoken—paraded onto the stage. As soon as the influencers appeared, the stream started gaining viewers. “No way? Is this what I think it is? Can they even broadcast this?” “Dude, don’t doubt it. I recognize one of them. That’s Rhys Caldwell from the city’s A-list circles. Total trust-fund brat.” “I follow a few of those girls! They’re being treated like this by a bunch of rich jerks? Unbelievable.” Due to the audacious content and rapid sharing among viewers, the livestream quickly went viral, hitting over fifty thousand concurrent viewers. Rhys and his friends had no idea. 3 “Lot number one, starting bid one hundred thousand, with minimum raises of ten thousand.” Vanessa stood in the auctioneer’s spot, basking in her temporary authority, her eyes full of contempt for the women on stage. Her expression stiffened for a moment, however, when Rhys placed the first successful bid. The acquisition of Lot 1 immediately injected a hint of jealousy into Vanessa’s gaze. As I watched the stream comments fly by, my phone buzzed with a text from Rhys. Could you make this much money sleeping with other men? Probably take you ten or more times. If you come over now and get on your knees, crawl to me, and beg for forgiveness, I might consider giving you one more chance. I let out a harsh laugh. Rhys must have a few screws loose. Did he really think I needed him? What, did he think wealthy families don’t have daughters? For the record, my family’s actual net worth would make his father’s fortune look like pocket change. The next second, the livestream was suddenly shut down. Across town, Victor Caldwell, Rhys’s father, received a frantic call. His face went white. He immediately called Rhys, but between the loud music and the fact that Rhys was currently making out with his new Lot 1, he didn’t hear his phone. Moments later, Victor and a swarm of bodyguards kicked in the villa’s front door, storming in with absolute fury. Victor hauled Rhys off the sofa and, without a word, delivered a massive, ringing slap across his face. Everyone froze, stunned. Vanessa, seeing her man assaulted, shrieked and ran over. “You old man, who the hell do you think you are? You lay a hand on Rhys again, you’re dead!” She didn’t notice the complicated, almost pitying glances the other young men were shooting her. SMACK! Rhys slapped her back, his voice low and dangerous. “That’s my father, you idiot!” At that, Vanessa’s legs gave way. She almost collapsed, stumbling to offer a terrified apology. “Mr. Caldwell, I’m so sorry! I was just worried about Rhys! I spoke out of turn! Please don’t be angry!” Victor Caldwell shot Vanessa a look of deep distaste. “This is who you keep around?” Seeing Rhys about to get dragged further, Vanessa played her final card: she violently slapped herself multiple times, tears streaming down her face. “Uncle! I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault! Please don’t punish Rhys! I promise I’ll never speak out of turn again!” Victor’s face softened slightly. He looked around the chaotic room and demanded of his son, “What in God’s name are you doing?” Having been slapped in public, Rhys was embarrassed and pissed. “Just having a little fun, Dad.” Hearing the casual arrogance, Victor’s hand shot up again. He held back, his face a mask of disappointment. “Look at what you’ve done!” He shoved his phone, playing the recorded livestream, in front of Rhys. Rhys’s expression changed instantly. “Where did this come from?” Seeing his genuinely confused reaction, Victor guessed someone had set him up. “Think, Rhys. Who have you crossed lately? Whoever did this is not an amateur.” He thought and thought. The most impossible answer was often the correct one. Rhys’s eyes snapped up, landing on me. However, I had quietly slipped out of the villa moments before Victor’s dramatic entrance. I was now in my car, watching Rhys’s panic unfold through the cameras. I always live by one rule: anyone who messes with me gets repaid a hundredfold. 4 Rhys texted me a slew of desperate messages. Was it your sugar daddy who did that for you? I can’t believe you found a new man so fast. With that kind of pull, he must be a sixty-year-old leech! Letting some old man worm all over you… you’ll do anything for money. That’s truly disgusting! I ignored the insults and blocked him completely. I knew that given Rhys’s standing in the Caldwell family, a little video scandal wasn’t enough to truly shake him. Sure enough, the next day, the entire fiasco was swept under the rug and explained away as a “behind-the-scenes gag for a short film.” I made my next move. I contacted Victor Caldwell’s illegitimate son, Rhys’s younger, half-brother: Ezra Caldwell. The enemy of my enemy is my friend. More importantly, if Rhys was taken down, Ezra would be next in line. Ezra didn’t hesitate; he agreed to my invitation instantly. The next day, a major charity gala was held at the Grand Unity Hotel. Virtually every elite family in the city was present. Vanessa and Rhys were walking through the doors just as I stepped out of Ezra Caldwell’s car. They froze. “Skylar Reed. I wondered who you were latching onto next. Turns out it’s my worthless little brother.” “Tsk tsk. I hope you know he’s a bastard child. Everything he has is just the crumbs that fall from my table. Pitiful.” Vanessa clung to Rhys’s arm, her voice dripping with venom. “A gold digger and an illegitimate son. What a perfect match!” They turned and walked away. Ezra quietly comforted me. “Don’t let them get to you.” I smiled. I didn’t care. They were just two clowns. I took Ezra’s arm, and we walked into the ballroom. A little while later, Rhys and his friends cornered Ezra and me in a remote part of the venue. Rhys had a wicked, satisfied grin. “Tell me, guys. How viral would it go if my little brother and a trashy gold digger got frisky right here on the ballroom floor? That would be explosive, wouldn’t it? Haha!” The crew laughed, their expressions lecherous. Rhys waved his hand. His men immediately moved in and pinned Ezra and me. Vanessa grabbed my jaw, forcing my mouth open, and poured a glass of drugged wine down my throat. Ezra received the same treatment. As soon as we’d swallowed, Rhys and Vanessa clinked glasses and drank theirs, triumphantly. On Rhys’s signal, a powerful spotlight suddenly illuminated our corner of the room. In the dim banquet hall, a man and a woman were now locked together, writhing and tearing at each other’s clothes under the intense light.

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“Babe, the usual spot tonight. Miss you.” The text sat quietly in the family group thread. Sender: My husband, Mark. I stared at the screen. My mother-in-law sent a question mark. My father-in-law sent a question mark. I sent nothing. Three seconds later, Mark frantically hit unsend. “Wrong chat, wrong chat! That was for the work team.” I smiled. Work team? His work team was named “Babe”? His co-worker lived at “the usual spot”? I clicked on his profile picture and saw the last message he had sent me— “Don’t worry about the wife, she has no idea.” Is that right? I have no idea? 1 A deadly silence fell over the family group thread. I put my phone down and went back to feeding my son. Leo was two, right at the age of restless, messy chaos. “Mommy, where’s Daddy?” “Daddy’s busy.” My voice was flat. Too flat. A terrifying calm. Three years. I had been married to Mark for three years. In those three years, I quit my job as a Project Lead, a job that paid well over six figures, to stay home with our child. In those three years, I cooked, cleaned, and cared for his parents. In those three years, I thought we were happy. Until now. The phone buzzed again. It was Mark calling. “Hello.” “Jenna, that text just now, it was a genuine mistake.” His voice was laced with panic. “There’s a woman on the team, we’re doing a big project together, and she jokingly calls me ‘Babe’—” “Oh.” “Don’t read anything into it, okay? She’s strictly a colleague.” “Mmm.” “Why aren’t you saying anything?” “What do you want me to say?” The other end was silent for two seconds. “Are you angry?” “No.” “Good. I figured. I have to work late tonight, might be a late return.” “Overtime?” “Yeah, we’re rushing the project deadline.” “Working late at ‘the usual spot’?” The breathing on the other end hitched. “You—” “Make sure you eat dinner.” I hung up. Leo looked up at me. “Mommy, Daddy not coming back?” “Daddy’s busy.” I stroked his hair. The phone rang again. This time, it was my mother-in-law. “Jenna, about Mark’s text just now—” “Mom, I know. Wrong chat.” “Yes, yes, exactly! Wrong chat.” The relief in her voice was palpable. “Don’t overthink it, dear. Men socialize for work; sometimes these things happen.” My grip tightened on the spoon. These things happen? “Mom, I’m not overthinking it.” “Good. That’s good.” She chuckled. “You’re just a little too sensitive, dear. Mark loves you so much; how could he possibly—” “Mom, Leo’s eating. I have to go.” “All right, all right. You go.” I ended the call. Looking at the phone screen, the retracted message in the family chat was gone. But I had taken a screenshot. My fingers moved instinctively, capturing the evidence. I opened my photo album. “Babe, the usual spot tonight. Miss you.” I saved the image to a hidden folder. Then, I opened Mark’s text messages. He had logged into his account on the family iPad. He set it up himself, claiming it was so I could help him check messages. I had never looked. Because I trusted him. But now— I clicked on his message list. The first thread, labeled “Project Team – Skylar.” I tapped it open. The last message was twenty minutes ago. “Husband, you texted the wrong group. You scared me to death.” Husband? I scrolled up. “Miss you.” “Miss you too.” “Don’t worry about the wife, she has no idea.” “What if she finds out?” “She won’t. She’s at home with the kid all day. Clueless.” Clueless. I stared at the word. My fingers began to tremble. I scrolled further. “Babe, did you like that purse last time?” “Loved it! You’re the best, Husband!” “Good. Next time I’ll take you to Kauai.” Kauai? Mark’s “corporate retreat” last month was to Kauai. He claimed it was a company-wide team-building exercise. I kept scrolling. “Transferred you $7,500 today. Go buy something nice.” $7,500? My monthly allowance for the whole family was $2,000. $2,000 to cover food, clothes, and utilities for a family of four. I kept scrolling. “Skylar, have you picked out the car yet?” “Yes! I want the white Lexus, the $55,000 model!” “Done. I’ll go with you to pick it up this weekend.” $55,000? In three years of marriage, I hadn’t bought a single piece of clothing over $200. I kept scrolling. The timeline stretched back. One year ago. Two years ago. Two and a half years ago. The earliest message was two years and eight months ago. Leo was four months old then. I was still physically recovering from the delivery. I thought he was working late to save more money for formula and college tuition. I thought— My eyes stung. But I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. Not yet. I kept scrolling. I found a bank transfer record. Last August. Memo: Condo Down Payment. Amount: $120,000. $120,000? Mark’s salary was $120,000 a year. In three years of marriage, our total savings were $180,000. Where did this $120,000 come from? I scrolled back further. I found another transfer record. December, the year before last. Memo: Renovation Funds. Amount: $80,000. $80,000? That’s $200,000 total. And our savings—the $180,000—was accumulated by both of us. Before I quit to stay home, I was making nearly $180,000 a year. I had saved almost $80,000 in two years. Combined with his salary, we saved $180,000 in three years. $80,000 of that was mine. He took my savings to buy a house for his mistress? I took a deep breath. I screenshotted all the text conversations. I screenshotted all the transfer records. Then, I exited the iPad. As if nothing had happened. 2 Mark returned at eleven that night. I had already put Leo to bed. “Why are you still up?” He looked slightly surprised. “Waiting for you.” “Waiting for me?” He chuckled. “Why the sudden attention?” “I have a question for you.” “What is it?” “How many people are on your project team?” His smile faltered slightly. “Five.” “Who are they?” “Me, Dave, Tom, Andrew, and Skylar.” “Who is Skylar?” His eyes flickered. “She’s a new hire. Just out of college.” “How old?” “Twenty-three, I think. I don’t keep track.” “Is she pretty?” His expression changed. “What is this, Jenna?” “Just asking.” “Jenna, are you still dwelling on that text from today?” “No.” “Really?” “Really.” He let out a visible sigh of relief. “I knew you weren’t the petty type.” I smiled. “No, I’m not petty.” He walked over and put his arm around my waist. “Wife, I know you’re tired. Taking care of the kid isn’t easy.” “Mmm.” “Once this project is over, I’ll take you somewhere nice.” “Where?” “Wherever you want.” “How about Kauai?” His body went rigid. “Kauai?” “Didn’t you go there for your team-building trip last month? You said it was beautiful.” “Um… yeah, it was nice.” “Let’s go to Kauai then.” “Okay. Okay, sure. Whatever you want.” His voice was dry. I didn’t speak again. He didn’t, either. That night, he slept restlessly. I didn’t sleep at all. The next morning, I dropped Leo off at his preschool program. Then, I went to the bank. I checked our joint savings account. Balance: $180,000. The number was exactly as I remembered. But I knew it should have been $380,000. Next, I went to a local realtor’s office. “Hi, I’d like to find out about a recently sold property in a specific building.” “Which building?” I gave the address mentioned in Mark’s texts. The realtor checked the database. “Yes, there was a sale last year. A two-bedroom condo, total price $450,000.” “Who was the buyer?” “I… I’m not really authorized to disclose that.” “I’m his wife.” The realtor paused. “You mean…” “I am Mark’s wife.” The realtor’s expression became delicate, knowing. “This… there is indeed a deed for that unit registered to Mr. Mark Peterson and another woman.” “What is the other woman’s name?” “Skylar Walsh.” Skylar Walsh. Skylar. I smiled. “Thank you.” The realtor looked at me, hesitating, wanting to say more. “Ma’am, are you…” “I’m fine.” I turned and walked out. The sun was bright. I stood on the street, breathing deeply. Three years. The happiness I thought was real was fake. The love I thought we had was fake. The marriage I believed in was fake. But it didn’t matter. I still had time. I returned home. My mother-in-law was sitting in the living room watching TV. “You’re back?” “Mmm.” “Where’s Leo?” “At preschool.” “Jenna,” she put down the remote. “About yesterday, you really shouldn’t take it to heart.” “What happened yesterday?” “You know… the text message.” “Oh. I didn’t take it to heart.” “Good.” She smiled. “Mark, he’s always been charming; flirting with a female co-worker is nothing unusual.” “Mmm.” “You shouldn’t stay home so much. Go out, get some air. Don’t spend all your time keeping tabs on Mark’s phone.” I looked at her. “Mom, I wasn’t keeping tabs on his phone.” “I didn’t mean it like that,” she waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just, women should relax. Don’t be so sensitive.” I said nothing. She continued, “Mark works so hard to earn money. You need to be more understanding.” “Mmm.” “His money is for this family. You shouldn’t try to control his wallet so tightly.” I paused. “Mom, when have I ever controlled his money?” “I’m not saying you control it, just…” She thought for a moment. “Men need to spend money sometimes when they’re entertaining clients.” “Entertaining?” “Yes, taking clients out, buying gifts, that sort of thing.” “What kind of gifts?” “I don’t know. Just… don’t worry so much about men’s business.” I smiled. “Okay, I won’t worry.” She nodded, satisfied. “That’s the right attitude.” I didn’t say another word. I went back to the bedroom and closed the door. I opened my phone. I began searching Mark’s bank statements. The password for his main checking account was my birthday. He told me that when we first got married. He said it meant his money was my money. Now I knew that was just an empty promise. The transaction history was long. A fixed transfer of $7,500 every month. Recipient: Skylar Walsh. Sometimes, additional transfers. $1,000, $3,000, $10,000, $15,000. All to Skylar Walsh. I calculated the total. Over the past two years and eight months, he had transferred Skylar at least $350,000. $350,000. And me? Three years of childcare, $2,000 a month for all expenses. A total of $72,000 for the family. $350,000 versus $72,000. That was my value in his eyes. 3 In the afternoon, I went to pick up Leo. At the entrance to the preschool, I ran into someone familiar. “Jenna?” It was Lina, a college friend. “Long time no see!” She rushed over and hugged me, surprised. “What are you doing here?” “Picking up my son.” “You have a kid? That’s great! My daughter is in this class too!” We chatted for a few minutes. She looked me over. “You’re so thin! Are you okay?” “Just the exhaustion of having a toddler.” “I hear you,” she sighed. “Oh, hey, your husband’s name is Mark Peterson, right?” I paused. “How do you know?” “My husband works with him!” She laughed. “I met him once at the company holiday party.” “Oh.” “He’s pretty handsome,” she winked. “You have good taste.” I offered a small smile and said nothing. “Wait,” she suddenly lowered her voice. “I’m going to tell you something, but keep it between us.” “What is it?” “There’s a girl at your husband’s office, Skylar Walsh,” she said, conspiratorially. “I heard she and Mark are… close.” My heart skipped a beat. “Who told you that?” “The whole office is talking about it,” she said. “My husband told me they eat lunch together every day and leave work together.” “Is that so?” “My husband says everyone knows, but no one dares to say anything,” she frowned. “Mark is the Project Manager, and apparently, this Skylar isn’t someone you want to mess with.” “She’s not to be messed with?” “I heard her dad is high up in City Planning,” Lina whispered. “Serious connections.” I stayed silent. “Just be careful,” Lina patted my arm. “But maybe it’s just rumors. I’m sure your husband wouldn’t be that stupid.” “Mmm. Thanks, Lina.” I picked up Leo and drove home. On the way, Leo was singing in the back seat. Listening to his sweet, small voice, I felt profoundly calm. Not because it didn’t hurt. But because the pain had passed. When we got home, Mark was actually there. “Why are you home so early?” “Nothing pressing today. Thought I’d come back and spend time with you two.” He smiled and scooped up Leo. “Son, did you miss Daddy?” “Yes!” “Daddy missed you too!” He held Leo, his expression tender. He looked like a good father. A good husband. Watching him, I suddenly felt completely detached. This man. I had been married to him for three years, and I thought I knew him. I was wrong. “Jenna,” he put Leo down and looked at me. “I’ve been thinking these past few days. You seem… unhappy.” “No, I’m not.” “Really?” “Really.” “Good.” He walked over and held my hands. “I know you’re tired. Being home with the baby is hard.” “Mmm.” “I’ve decided. Next month, I’m raising your allowance.” I looked at him. “How much?” “Up to three thousand. How does that sound?” Three thousand. He gave Skylar $7,500 every month. He was giving me $3,000. I smiled. “Sounds great.” “That’s my girl,” he patted my shoulder, satisfied. “We’re a family. We can talk about anything.” “Mmm.” “Oh,” he remembered something. “Mom said you went to the bank today?” I paused briefly. “Yes, I withdrew some cash.” “Withdrew cash?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “How much?” “Two thousand.” “Why so much?” “Leo’s preschool tuition is due.” “Oh,” he relaxed. “You should have just told me. I can transfer that easily.”

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It happened the week before my high school graduation. My brother, Leo, was driving me to pick up Mom and Dad from work when we crashed. The only thing worse than the screeching metal was the silence afterward. I sustained a spinal cord injury. I never walked again. The bright, clear future I’d built vanished into the smog of reality, and I fell into the black hole of clinical depression. Every day was an agony. Mom, Evelyn, who never got past community college, didn’t understand the diagnosis. When I hurt myself, she’d just hold me, again and again. “It’s okay, Willow. Mom will always be right here.” Dad, Robert, took on two extra jobs. I barely saw him. “Don’t worry,” he’d promise, his voice rough. “We’re fine on cash. We’ll beat this thing.” Leo stayed by my side constantly. “This is my fault,” he’d whisper, his eyes haunted. “I’ll protect you, always.” Three years. They gave me three years of their lives, anchoring themselves to my pain. I truly believed I was lucky. I thought, one day, I’d stand in the sunshine and tell them, laughing, “I’m better now.” But then came that day. All I did was whisper, “I’m so tired.” Mom just… shattered. “Then die already! I am done with this life!” she screamed. “Our whole lives revolve around you! How are we supposed to fix you? I’m going to end up depressed, too, living like this!” She slammed the door. Leo scrambled after her. The silence they left was deafening. I looked at the kitchen knife I kept by the bed. Death was better. No more trouble for anyone. No more agonizing pain for me. 1 The cold tip dragged across my skin. Blood bloomed instantly. A sharp, searing red. Usually, they’d be here. Mom would hug me, patting my back like when I was small. She always said, Sleep it off, Willow. Everything’s better when you’re sleeping. But she didn’t know that sleep was just another form of torture. I rarely rested well; I was always dreaming. I’d dream I could stand up and walk across the college quad. Or I’d dream my condition mysteriously worsened, and I couldn’t even move my head. I never told her. She couldn’t fix it, and it would only increase her sighing. I was already enough of a headache. Better to spare her the worry. Leo would gently bandage me, careful not to cause any more pain. He even gave up his dream major for me. He was at the top of his class, but he switched to Psychology—just to try and fix me. It was all his guilt. He’d only had his license a few weeks that day. I told him to slow down, and he just grinned, dismissive. “Relax, sis. Your brother’s a pro. Nothing’s going to happen.” The next second: the shriek of the brakes. I haven’t seen that genuine, carefree grin since. I told him a hundred times. “Leo, it was an accident. You didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t blame you.” But he’d look at the clean white gauze on my wrist and cry harder than I did. White wasn’t as blinding as red, at least. Thinking that, I slowly closed my eyes. The wet warmth under my wrist spread beneath me. Then it grew cold, making me shiver. Thank goodness I pulled the blanket over me first. It would have been colder otherwise. More importantly, the blanket would hide the mess. Mom was terrified of blood. Every time I hurt myself, she fought to keep her legs from collapsing just so she could hold me. It’s okay. We all told lies, all kept secrets. Mom’s ‘forever’ was just three years. Dad’s ‘money’ was his body failing from exhaustion. Leo’s ‘protection’ had started to thin out last year when he finally got a girlfriend. I forgave them. I hope they can forgive me for the lie I told them last month: “I’m totally cured.” Technically, it wasn’t a total lie. I really did feel better. I just don’t know why, today, that sudden, drowning weight just swallowed me again. Sadness. Exhaustion. I just mentioned it casually. I didn’t want anything else. Just Mom’s hug. Just a moment in her arms, breathing in the scent of her sweater. She always did that without me asking. But today, she screamed and shattered. I understood. She was just worn down, reactive. She wasn’t mad at me. I couldn’t be mad at her. I understood. What did she say? She was going to end up depressed, too. No. I couldn’t let Mom get this disease. It’s more than just a ‘bad mood.’ It’s this—this struggle to breathe. I told myself it was just extreme anxiety triggering a somatic response. Just slow down my breathing. Just calm down. Next second: darkness.

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Seven decades old, and my grandmother was divorcing my grandfather. The reason? He’d killed and eaten the dog she’d raised for five years. The whole family urged her to forget it. It was just an animal, for heaven’s sake. But my grandmother, Doris, wouldn’t budge. My grandfather, Arthur, furious, slammed his hand on the table. “Fine! Divorce me then! Who’s scared?” Yet, later, he’d be leaning on his cane, a whimpering puppy cradled in his arms, practically begging Doris for forgiveness. 1 The day my Uncle Owen brought his new girlfriend home, Grandpa Arthur killed Rusty, the mutt Grandma Doris had raised for five years. The family kept it a secret from her, tossing the chopped-up bones into the stockpot and turning it into a rich, savory stew. Doris worked tirelessly in the kitchen for three hours. When she finally came out, the pot on the dining table was nearly scraped clean. Grandpa Arthur dipped his ladle, filling a bowl with the rich, bone broth. He handed it to her with a smile. “It’s cold out. Drink this to warm up.” Grandma Doris glanced at the nearly empty pot, then slowly stood and walked toward the doghouse. “Rusty always loves bone broth,” she muttered. “This soup should go to Rusty.” But when she reached the little wooden house, the dog that usually bounded out, tail wagging, wasn’t there. “Rusty? Rusty!” Doris called out a few times, but no silhouette appeared. She mumbled to herself, “Maybe he went out to play?” She poured the broth into Rusty’s bowl. As she walked back toward the house, her eyes fell on a patch of yellow fur clinging to a dark stain on the ground. She knew that shade of yellow. She knew it intimately. In a single, horrifying instant, she recognized it as Rusty’s coat. Her hands trembling, she shuffled closer, step by agonizing step. When she finally saw the blood-soaked fur scattered on the earth, a soundless scream caught in her throat. She staggered backward, almost losing her footing. Inside the dining room, the family chatted, oblivious to Doris’s silent breakdown just outside the door. She collected herself, her pace becoming a frantic, unsteady shamble as she entered the kitchen. She grabbed a butcher knife, its blade wickedly sharp, and charged into the living room. Everyone froze. They stared at Doris, bewildered, unable to comprehend the sight of their tiny, elderly matriarch wielding a deadly weapon. Owen’s girlfriend, Madison, sitting next to him and casually eating a grape, was terrified to see her future mother-in-law standing over her with a knife. “Mom! What are you doing?!” Owen shouted first. Doris’s eyes were bloodshot, scanning the room. Her voice, when it came, was a raw, strained rasp. “Where is Rusty?!” Arthur picked a piece of bone from his tooth, utterly unconcerned. “That mutt by the door? Oh, we just finished eating him!” He gestured toward the empty stew pot on the table. In front of every seat was a small mountain of bones. Rusty’s bones. The bones of the dog she had painstakingly loved and cared for for five years. Doris lost it. She brought the knife down, sinking the tip deep into the sturdy oak table. Then, with a scream, she grabbed the edge and flipped the whole thing over. 2 Plates, bowls, and silverware crashed to the hardwood floor, a thunderous sound that echoed through the sudden silence. Owen and Arthur, sitting closest to the blast zone, scrambled to their feet. When the dust settled, Arthur pointed a shaking finger right at Doris’s face. “Doris, what the hell is wrong with you?! Are you completely insane?!” Owen pulled Madison defensively behind him, his eyes filled with sheer resentment. This was the first time he’d brought his girlfriend home, and his own mother had just flipped the dinner table after they’d eaten. How was he supposed to explain this? How could he possibly earn Madison’s forgiveness? “Yes, I am insane!” Doris shrieked. “Arthur, you ate my dog without my permission!” “You monster!” Doris was a woman who’d read books, a woman who’d grown up in a respectable family before the war. Even in her most blinding fury, she could only call him a monster—a word that felt ridiculously ineffective against his monumental cruelty. Arthur clutched his chest, breathing in gasps. “It was just a damn animal! A stray mutt!” “You flipped the table for an animal!” “You are completely unreasonable!” He was right, in their eyes. Rusty was just an animal. Doris had found Rusty when he was barely the size of her palm, his right leg crushed by a car. Everyone told her the puppy wouldn’t make it, but Doris had nursed him back to life, spoonful by spoonful of rice water. He grew up with a permanent limp, but it didn’t slow him down. Every time Doris walked to the fields, Rusty was always ahead of her, clearing the path. With Rusty by her side, even simple weeding felt like a joyful endeavor. The winters in the Midwest countryside were brutal. Fearing the cold, Doris had worked hard, sawing planks to build Rusty a sturdy doghouse. She lined the bottom with old clothes, making it warm and cozy even when it snowed. She never chained him up. Doris always said, humans need freedom, and so do dogs. Rusty became the freest dog in Cedar Creek. He’d spend his days hunting squirrels in the spring, splashing in the creek in the summer, chasing stray cats in the fall, and trotting through the snow in the winter. Five years of that glorious, happy life. Five years of freedom. Exhausted, Doris finally sank onto a nearby stool. Her eyes were empty, staring at the shattered ceramic on the floor. She spoke, her voice low and broken. “Arthur. I want a divorce.” 3 The news that Doris, at seventy, wanted a divorce spread like wildfire, reaching my parents back in Chicago almost instantly. My dad had left for college and never looked back, settling in the city. When I was born, they’d promptly dropped me off with my grandmother. The country schools weren’t great, and I wasn’t a scholar, so I took a vocational course and started working right out of high school. My parents bought train tickets and rushed home that very night. They walked into a disaster. The mess was still there; if Doris didn’t clean it up, no one else would. Arthur was parked on the sofa, watching the news. Doris was locked in her room, quietly weeping. My father went to comfort Grandpa Arthur. My mother went into the room to comfort Grandma Doris. “She’s lost her mind,” Arthur scoffed. “Seventy years old, and she wants to divorce me over a damn animal! Where’s she going to go? What’s she going to do? She has no house, no money. Is she planning to be a beggar?” Doris sat on the edge of the bed, tearfully holding a photo of Rusty. I had taken the picture when I was home for Christmas. Doris was sitting on the porch swing, Rusty cradled in her arms, both of them beaming. She’d loved the photo and asked me to print copies. I printed ten. She kept the best one on her nightstand, looking at it whenever she was idle. “He was so handsome,” she’d whisper. “Rusty was the prettiest dog in the whole county.” My mother gently patted her back. “Mom, Rusty was just a dog. He’s gone. If you want one so badly, I’ll buy you a new one.” She thought of the beautiful, intelligent city dogs. A Border Collie that could herd sheep, maybe a fancy Pomeranian. Buy a new one, and Doris would stop this foolishness. Doris shook her head. “They won’t be Rusty.” Dogs are like people. You spend enough time with them, you form a bond. “I considered Rusty family,” Doris said, her voice strained. “He killed Rusty. That’s like killing my family.” “Sue Ellen,” she looked up at my mother. “I have to get this divorce.” “I can’t live with a murderer.” My mother desperately wanted to laugh. A dog? A murderer? Was she serious? But she managed to keep the scorn from her face. 4 They couldn’t persuade her. There was no reasoning with her. Arthur pointed a finger at her closed door. “She dares to divorce me? If she’s so set on it, we’ll go to the courthouse tomorrow!” Doris’s response was always the same: “I can’t live with a murderer. This marriage is over.” My parents had no choice. They cleaned up the house, stayed one night, and left. They figured two seventy-year-olds with one foot in the grave couldn’t really cause any lasting trouble. I remembered the last time Doris tried to file for divorce, five years ago. She was sick, lying in bed, unable to move. Arthur came home after a poker game to a cold, dark house and no dinner. He kicked open the bedroom door in a rage. “If you’re going to die, then die! If you’re not dead, get up and cook me a meal!” “Are you trying to starve me?” Doris had a fever of 104 degrees, her head spinning, her body aching. She couldn’t even crawl out of bed, let alone cook. Arthur was convinced she was faking it. He went to the bathroom, brought back a basin of cold water, and dumped it right over her head. Her nightgown was soaked, the comforter ruined. Doris had no choice but to bite back a cry and struggle out of bed to change her clothes and the linens. Arthur watched her, arms crossed. “See? You can get up.” “Stop putting on a show!” Doris staggered to the kitchen to start dinner, but halfway through, she collapsed. If Arthur hadn’t smelled the burning oil, he might not have found her until morning. She was taken to the hospital. The doctor tore into Arthur for a full half-hour. How could you make her cook when she was this sick? Are your legs broken? When Doris woke up, Arthur blamed her for everything. “What kind of wife gets sick and forces me to take care of her?” “You even had to faint? Why didn’t you just die then? Why make me play nurse?” “I’m not a servant!” Arthur stomped off, leaving Doris alone. If I hadn’t happened to come home for a visit, she wouldn’t have had anyone by her side. The first thing Doris did after she was discharged was demand a divorce. People say young couples become old companions. But for Doris and Arthur, even with their hair white, they had never been partners. Fifty years of marriage, and all she had was a lifetime of swallowing her pride and taking the abuse. This time, she was finished. Who had convinced her to stay five years ago? Oh, right. It was Rusty. She’d found him and brought him home. Now Rusty was gone. Doris was determined to leave. 5 Doris had my old smartphone—the one I’d given her so she could take pictures of Rusty. She’d never even turned it on. This time, she took it and walked three miles to the phone store to ask a clerk how to use it. The young woman patiently showed her the features and even charged the battery for her. That night, the phone rang in my apartment. I was raised by Doris; we were close. After I started working, I’d try to visit when I could, always bringing Rusty his favorite treats and cans of food. I was just walking home under the city lights when her call came. “Grandma?” I was surprised. She never called me. When she heard my voice, she choked up. “Liz,” she whispered. “Can you come home to see Grandma?” “Grandma misses you.” My parents hadn’t told me about the divorce, so I was completely in the dark. I figured she was just lonely, so I took a couple of days off work and drove home the next morning. Doris was sitting on the porch swing when she saw me pull up with my suitcase. Her eyes instantly filled with tears. She stood up, frail and shaky, to meet me. “Liz, you’re home.” I walked toward her, and a heavy sense of absence settled over me. Instinctively, I asked, “Where’s Rusty?” The tears in her eyes finally spilled over. Doris pulled me close and, bit by bit, poured out the whole horrific story. “They ate Rusty.” “Your grandfather and Owen… they cooked and ate him.” “My Rusty. My dog, who stayed with me for five years.” Her voice was thick with sobs, punctuated by sharp intakes of breath. She didn’t want to cry in front of her granddaughter, but she couldn’t stop. “Liz, I’m divorcing your grandfather.” She looked at me expectantly, hoping for a different response. Not the scolding I’d heard my parents give, and not the condemnation of Arthur and Owen. But I was silent. Grandpa Arthur was right. She had no money, no home to call her own. Where would she go after the divorce? Seeing my silence, Doris forced a small, broken smile. She lightly wiped her eyes. “Liz, I was just saying that. Don’t worry about it.” “What do you want for lunch?” Watching her retreat behind that mask of indifference, my heart ached so badly I felt like I could weep water. 6 I stayed up all night, researching divorce proceedings online. I was only seventeen, not even a legal adult, and the word divorce felt a million miles away. But the internet is full of good people. Before morning, I’d found two lawyers who offered pro-bono help for elders. The next day, I approached Doris. “I support your divorce, Grandma.” Her eyes immediately filled with fresh tears. “My sweet Liz. I knew you were different.” I used an online template to draft the divorce papers, printed them, and handed them to Arthur. He was sitting on the porch, smoking. When he saw the legal documents in Doris’s hand, he sneered. “Seriously? You’re really going through with this?” “Doris, two days of throwing a fit is enough! This isn’t over yet?” “Divorce me? Do you have money? Do you have a house?” “You’re going to beg on the street after I kick you out!” Arthur turned his glare on me. “And you! You’re just as bad, stirring the pot with your grandmother!” Arthur never liked me because I was a girl. He always pressured my parents to have another child, a boy. My parents made good money, but they were cheap. They figured girls don’t need a house or a car, and they bring in a dowry when they marry. So they ignored Arthur. Doris gripped the divorce papers tightly. “I told you, I want a divorce!” “If you won’t sign, I’ll file suit!” I had just taught her that word: sue. Arthur snatched the papers, scanning the dense text. He didn’t bother reading. He took the pen from Doris’s hand and scribbled his signature on the last page. Then he threw the document back in her face. “Fine! We’ll divorce tomorrow! Who backs out is a coward!” Doris flinched as the paper struck her cheek, but she immediately bent down and retrieved it, her face radiating joy. “Liz, your grandfather signed it.” “I’m going to divorce him tomorrow.” Doris was genuinely happy. Even the wrinkles around her eyes seemed to turn upward in a smile. 7 The next day, Arthur and Doris actually drove to the County Courthouse. The clerk at the Family Court frowned at the sight of the two white-haired seventy-year-olds coming in to file for separation. “You… want to divorce?” Doris’s voice was firm. “Yes, we do.” The clerk reviewed the paperwork and scheduled an appointment. “You have a thirty-day cooling-off period. Come back after that to finalize.” The news of Arthur and Doris going to the courthouse reached my parents in Chicago again. This time, even Uncle Owen rushed back. They all gathered, circling Doris, launching an attack as if she had committed a heinous crime. “Mom, you’re seventy years old. Why are you acting like a teenager?” My father started the lecture. “Divorcing? Aren’t you embarrassed?” Owen chimed in, “The last time, you flipped the table in front of Maddie. Do you know how hard I had to work to calm her down?” “She even suggested you had mental issues! Do you know that?” “It was just a dog! He was eaten, so what?” “We raise chickens and ducks to eat! Are dogs somehow better than them?” My mother’s tone was slightly softer. “Mom, stop this nonsense. You and Dad have been married for fifty years. Friction is normal.” “If you want a dog, I’ll buy you a dog.” My mother pulled out her phone to show Doris pictures of fancy city breeds. A Bichon Frise, a Maltese, a Miniature Poodle. They were washed, clipped, and groomed to look like expensive, fluffy dolls. Doris just pursed her lips, saying nothing. “Alright, I’ve decided,” my father declared, sealing the deal. “We’ll buy Mom a dog in a couple of days, and that’s the end of it!” “And Dad, you’re at fault too. Why did you have to eat Mom’s dog? Do we not have enough money to buy our own meat?” It was the first time Arthur had ever been scolded by his children. He just rolled his eyes and stayed silent.

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The fifty-second time Owen stood me up for our appointment at the courthouse to get our marriage license, I stopped running through my memory, searching for what I might have done wrong. I stopped writing those long, rambling texts begging him to promise he’d show up next time. Instead, I opened the work group chat. Underneath the photo his childhood friend, Scarlett, had just posted—a professional shot of the two of them in bridal wear— I calmly typed a single reply: “Congrats. A long life of happiness.” The air in the chat room, where my colleagues were undoubtedly taking bets on whether I’d start a fight, went silent. The very next second, the photo vanished. Owen’s name flashed on my screen, his voice glacial when I answered. “Scarlett just accidentally sent that to the wrong group. Did you have to be so passive-aggressive? How is she supposed to hold her head up at the hospital after you pull a stunt like this?” “Besides, it was just a birthday photoshoot. What’s the big deal if I helped Scarlett fulfill a silly little bride fantasy of hers? It’s just one picture. People with a dirty mind see filth everywhere.” “Retract that message and apologize to Scarlett. I’ll make time to go to the courthouse with you after I’ve finished celebrating her birthday.” Faced with his fifty-second flimsy promise, I agreed without a second thought. By the time he came back, my resignation would be processed. Then, I would end things with him. And after that, we would never meet again. 1 I hung up, and my fiancé, Owen, called me over a dozen times in a row, but I ignored every one. Next, a text from Owen flashed up. [Tess, did you just hang up on me? What, I can’t call you out when you’re in the wrong?] [Answer the phone now, or suffer the consequences!] I couldn’t blame Owen for losing his temper. Before this, I’d always been the one to compromise, always the one who spoke softly and kindly. It was always his right to hang up on me. This was the first time I’d ever ended a call on him. When I didn’t respond to his texts, he went silent. But moments later, my phone pinged with notifications: alerts that our shared status had been unbound on every couple’s app and shared account we used. I didn’t need to guess—it was Owen’s petty work. I’d lost count of how many times he’d done this. Every time he got angry, he’d sever our digital ties as a way to throw his weight around. I would always choke down my pride, apologize, and beg him to re-bind them. But now, I was truly exhausted. I couldn’t be bothered to soothe him anymore. I was about to close the chat when Scarlett posted on her social media, including a screenshot of the group chat and tagging me directly. [Oops! Accidentally shared my birthday shoot to the wrong group earlier. I only meant it as a joke for Owen, but I guess Tess took it too seriously. I won’t dare to joke around like that again.] The instant the post went live, Owen—who never touched social media—slammed a huge ‘Like’ on it. Then he commented: [Scarlett, it was just a birthday photoshoot. Some people just have a sordid mind. A dirty heart sees filth everywhere.] The “some people” he meant was me. Soon, colleagues started swiping through the comments, quickly rallying to Scarlett’s defense. [Don’t blame yourself, Scarlett, it’s not your fault. Tess is just too petty and can’t take a joke.] [Seriously, it was just a lighthearted joke. Why is she making such a huge deal out of it?] I just found it bitterly amusing. Owen instantly jumped to Scarlett’s defense, protecting her image in the comments section. Yet, he always greeted me, his fiancée of ten years, with the maximum amount of malice and suspicion. When he’d stood me up for the appointment to ride a ferris wheel with Scarlett, I’d only complained a little, and he’d accused me of being paranoid and unreasonable. Now, I was quiet, I wasn’t throwing a fit, and I offered a simple, composed “long life of happiness,” and he still called me passive-aggressive. It was clear: When the love is gone, everything you do is wrong. I gave a bitter smile, locked my screen, and decided I didn’t care to read any more. Snapping out of my thoughts, I registered the civil servant’s gentle voice. “Ma’am, your number has expired. Would you like to take a new ticket and rebook?” I shook my head, my voice quiet. “No, thank you.” I tore the ticket into tiny pieces and dropped it into the trash can next to me. The expired number, I didn’t want it. The expired wedding date, and the expired man, I didn’t want either. Before this, I had given Owen fifty-two chances to marry me. But every time the date drew near, he would call, claim an emergency surgery at the hospital, and brazenly stand me up. If I showed the slightest displeasure, he’d use human life to guilt-trip me. “Tess, how can you be so cold-blooded? Is a marriage certificate more important than a living person’s life?” He always positioned himself on the moral high ground to condemn me. He was confident he had fooled me, unaware that I knew everything. Every time he abandoned me for Scarlett, she would send me private messages of provocation. Photos of them watching the Northern Lights in the Arctic, making a heart shape under the Eiffel Tower… I stayed, holding onto the years we had shared, giving Owen chance after chance. But he just trampled my sincerity into the dirt. Now, even the last sliver of affection was gone. I thought, our relationship has finally reached its end. 2 Pulling my thoughts back to the present, I left the courthouse and drove to the hospital, ready to find Human Resources and finalize my departure. I had written my resignation application two weeks ago, and Owen had signed it himself two days prior. He signed it without even looking, his swiftness surprising me. He had always guarded his privacy from me—never giving me his phone password, always unlocking his phone away from my sight. Yet, he trusted Scarlett enough to share confidential hospital information with her. I thought Owen had finally lowered his guard with me. That thought evaporated the moment I saw the impeccably dressed Scarlett standing near the entrance. I instantly understood. He’d signed so quickly because he was rushing off to meet her. If I wasn’t mistaken, the necklace around Scarlett’s neck was a million-dollar diamond pendant—The Ocean’s Heart—or a close replica. Owen was wildly generous to Scarlett—a million-dollar necklace, bought on a whim. To me, he was stingy to the point of cruelty. Forget a necklace, I hadn’t had a new outfit in years. I was still wearing the same faded shirt and worn-out jeans. When I once mentioned wanting a new dress, Owen refused, sternly lecturing me about being vain, wasting money, and not appreciating how hard he worked. He told me to focus my energy on my career instead. In the end, it just meant I wasn’t worthy of him spending money on. … At the hospital, I processed my resignation with HR. With Owen’s signature on the document, the HR manager didn’t make a fuss and quickly submitted the application online. “I’ve submitted the request for you. It should take about two days to finalize. Just use this time to finish handing over your current work.” I nodded. As I left the HR office, my colleagues’ eyes followed me, full of mocking glances. “Did you hear Tess is quitting? Tsk, tsk. So what if she was with the Director for ten years? She still can’t compare to Scarlett. I bet Scarlett and the Director are getting serious soon!” “Scarlett is sweet, smart, and charming. What does Tess, that faded, yesterday’s news, have going for her?” Many of them were trainees I had personally mentored. When I’d covered for them in the past, they’d called me “Madam Director” and promised to look out for me someday. Now, seeing the political winds change, they were all tripping over themselves to kiss Owen and Scarlett’s asses. I gave a cold laugh and shot back: “Actually, I’m jumping ship. I’ve been headhunted by another hospital offering a high-six-figure salary and benefits triple what I’m getting here.” Without waiting for their faces to turn green with envy, I grabbed my packed personal belongings and walked out without a second glance. I’d just stepped outside the hospital doors when Owen called. “Tess, it’s Scarlett’s birthday today. You need to take over her patients and her research project while she’s on leave.” Before I could refuse, he instantly sent me the medical research project—a document that currently only had a title. This wasn’t the first time Owen had forced me to take over Scarlett’s work. It was always the same: I did the work, Scarlett got the credit and the fame, and if anything went wrong, I was the one who took the blame. At first, I resisted, and Owen would accuse me of being selfish and cold-hearted, threatening to take the work on himself. Since running the hospital was already exhausting for him, I always relented, choosing to compromise. But they never showed gratitude. They just took advantage, becoming more demanding and entitled. Since I was quitting anyway, I didn’t feel the need to tolerate it anymore. “I refuse. Because I’m already…” I was about to tell him about my resignation when I heard Scarlett’s soft, fragile voice in the background. “Owen, if Tess doesn’t want to, forget it. I can handle the work myself…” Owen’s voice immediately softened for her. “Scarlett, it’s your birthday. You should be celebrating happily, not stressing about work.” His voice immediately hardened again when he spoke to me. “Tess, do you realize that because of the scene you made in the group chat earlier, Scarlett feels guilty and is upset? I’m giving you a chance to atone. Don’t be so ungrateful!” I laughed in disbelief. Scarlett was celebrating her birthday, and Owen was granting her leave and obsessing over her feelings. Yet, when I had a fever, Owen refused my request for leave, insisting I come in to work. He said if I couldn’t do surgery, I could do paperwork—that moving around would help me recover faster. The result was that I got much sicker and was bedridden for two weeks. Hearing my cold laugh, Owen instantly snapped. “Tess, you’re the one who messed up, and you have the audacity to laugh? If you keep this up, I swear I’ll break up with y—” I knew Owen was about to use his go-to threat. In the past, he always leveraged a breakup to manipulate me whenever we had a disagreement. He knew I cared about him, knew I couldn’t bear to leave him. But this time, I cut him off before he could finish. “Good. I was about to say the same thing. We’re over.”

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Jade and I were once gentry daughters, raised in a world of rigid social codes, but a twist of fate had tossed us through time, landing us here as two ordinary college students. Jade, always the wild one, had declared her freedom the moment we arrived. Released from the “female commandments,” she’d loudly proclaimed her goal: to date a hundred men before ever settling down. Yet, as graduation approached and I found myself engaged to the kindest man in this century, Reid, the great love hunt of Jade’s never materialized. I thought she might stay single forever. Then, she stumbled into my arms, the smell of champagne and cheap perfume heavy around her. Her hands clutched a slim document—a marriage certificate. “Sylvie,” she slurred, her eyes shining with a manic, triumphant joy. “He rejected me three years ago. Turned me down flat. But I never quit. Look. I finally got him.” I smiled, genuinely happy for her. After all, today was my own wedding day, and Reid had always been my gentle, steady anchor. Jade’s sudden, drunken announcement felt like a perfect double celebration. I carefully guided her to the couch, but as I stood, my elbow snagged the document in her hand, sending it fluttering to the floor. I picked it up and opened it. The sight of the photo hit me with the force of a physical blow. The man smiling out from the page, his expression sunshine-bright and utterly devoted, was Reid. My Reid. The man who had choked up placing my ring on my finger just hours ago. 1 My mind went blank. I squeezed my eyes shut, then blinked them open, trying to flush the image away. It had to be the post-wedding adrenaline; I was seeing Reid’s face everywhere. He was supposed to be finalizing the paperwork for the gallery expansion, our gallery. He told me we’d file our own certificate after the show. How could he have possibly had the time—or the heart—to do this? But Jade’s voice, thick with liquor yet laced with an undeniable, sickening sweetness, floated clearly into the silence. “Reid was the first thing I saw when we landed in this century. I loved him instantly. But he only had eyes for my best friend, so I had to work slowly, subtly, to win him over.” “The road was tough, but the ending is perfect.” I gripped the paper hard. The sharp edges dug into my palm, painfully real. I had known Reid for five years. They had been in love for three of them, operating in a world I couldn’t see. I mechanically turned toward the couch. Jade was still there, smiling a senseless, drunken smile. “Since Reid married me, and kept Sylvie outside our life, it means he truly loves me.” The tears came then, hot and unbidden. I closed my eyes and whispered, using the formal tone I sometimes slipped into. “Are you not afraid Sylvie will find out about this betrayal?” Jade laughed, shaking her head. “Sylvie and I grew up together. If she finds out, we’ll just bring her to live with us.” “It would be… it would be like having a sister-wife. We are like sisters, she won’t mind.” Something sparked in her memory then, and she lunged up, snatching the marriage certificate from my hand. She kissed the photo and lovingly stuffed the precious thing into her coat pocket, still giggling. On the day of my wedding, my husband had already married my best friend. And now, they planned to use an ancient, twisted rule to condescend to me with the position of a mistress. The shock was absolute. My hands and feet felt numb, heavy with ice. I was about to demand an answer, a reason, when the front door swung open. Reid’s warm, loving gaze settled on my face. He didn’t see Jade on the sofa. He walked right to me, pulling me into his arms in a playful embrace. “I finally got rid of those useless groomsmen,” he whispered, nuzzling my neck. “Now, the night is all ours.” Excitedly, he scooped me up into his arms, but his eyes caught Jade’s form in his peripheral vision. He stopped dead, and the excitement drained from his face. In the next instant, he dropped me. I fell, unprepared, with a sickening thud. The back of my head slammed against the corner of the coffee table, and a blinding jolt of pain made my vision go black. Reid finally turned, saw my contorted face, and rushed to pull me up, panic in his eyes. “I am so sorry, Sylvie, I didn’t mean it! I was just startled by your friend!” he stammered. “She knows tonight is important for us. Why is she sleeping here like a giant spotlight? I’ll send her away right now.” He released me, his face a mask of annoyance as he roughly pulled Jade to her feet. “Jade, go home. You have your apartment. Stop being in the way.” I stood paralyzed, watching him drag her. The movement looked crude and disgusted, but I saw it—the careful, almost proprietary hand gripping her lower back, steadying her. That small, tender gesture sliced my heart open. Reid didn’t notice my silence. He was still complaining. “Sylvie rented you a place just around the corner. How can you still freeload off us like this?” The jostling finally made Jade open her eyes. She smiled dazedly at Reid, about to speak, but he clapped a hand over her mouth. Reid avoided my gaze, clearly flustered. “Your friend is loud when she drinks. I’ll take her home now. Wait for me here, okay?” Before I could process a word, he was guiding a muffled, groaning Jade toward the door. He didn’t notice the blood trickling down the side of my head, staining my wedding dress. Dizzy and nauseous, I fought to steady myself. I had to follow. I hailed a cab and had it stop a block away from Jade’s apartment building. They were arguing on the sidewalk, oblivious to me. “Reid, you’re mine tonight. I need you to stay with me.” Jade was clinging to his neck, whining like a child. Reid looked at her, his expression torn. I almost thought he would remember that it was our wedding night, that he would refuse her. Then, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Reid. Sylvie, I safely dropped off Jade. A big client urgently needs to see some pieces tonight. I won’t be back, darling. Get some rest. My blood ran cold. I immediately called him, but the line rang and rang, unanswered. I wanted to throw my phone, to storm up to them and scream, Why would you betray me? But I froze, watching Reid cup Jade’s face in his hands, then kiss her fiercely, hungrily. My stomach turned. It was too much. I stumbled behind the thick trunk of an old maple tree and finally gave in, retching violently onto the grass. The man I had given my life to. The woman I had considered my only sister in this terrifying new world. They had coordinated a crushing blow on the happiest day of my life. Hollowed out, I leaned against the trunk. The breeze carried their voices back to me. “Reid, thank you for marrying me. Even if we can’t be public, just knowing I’m your wife makes me so happy.” “I know this is awful to Sylvie, but I truly love you.” Jade sounded sober now, her voice thick with tears. Reid gently wiped her face. “Don’t be silly,” he murmured. “We are the legal couple. Sylvie is busy with work, and sometimes she stays at the gallery to paint. We’ll be discreet, just like before. She won’t notice anything.” Jade began to sob more pitifully, throwing herself into his arms. “You’ve done so much for me. As soon as my grandmother recovers, we can finally get a divorce.” “Then I’ll give you back to her, whole and untouched.” Their words were like razor wire, tearing through my ear canals. I could barely stand. So, they had gotten together while I was pouring my time into earning our tuition and saving up startup funds. A stabbing pain spread across my chest. I couldn’t understand it. I had given them my absolute best. They used to bicker constantly, each claiming the other spent too much time with me, sometimes even fighting until they were red-faced. How could they now be rolling around together behind my back? My vision blurred. I reached up and tightly gripped the small jade pendant around my neck—the one that could only take one person home. If they were truly in love, I would give them what they wanted. I was done with both of these hypocrites. A blinding flash of light. CRUNCH! I was thrown backward. When I woke again, I was in a hospital bed. “Sylvie, I told you to stay home and rest! Why did you run out?” Reid was holding my hand, his grip tight, his skin scalding against mine. It was the warmth I had craved and depended on in this world, and now it was utterly repulsive. I pulled my hand away and looked past him to the window. Jade was sitting there, deliberately trying to appear aloof. As soon as I woke, she rushed forward, mimicking concern. “I was worried about Jade,” I stated, flatly. “I wanted to check on her.” The air in the room instantly became thick and silent. A flicker of panic crossed both their eyes, but they avoided looking at each other. “Unfortunately, I was hit by a car before I made it to her place.” I kept my voice calm. They both let out a small, almost imperceptible breath of relief. Their chilling synchronicity made my heart ache. “You don’t trust me?” Reid said, attempting a tone of fond exasperation. “Even if I can’t stand Jade, she’s your best friend. I would never fail to drop her off safely.” He reached out to playfully ruffle my hair, but I jerked away. His hand froze in the air. He stared at me, visibly confused. He clearly expected me to lean into his touch, to be dependent and clingy after the accident, as I always had been. Jade, seizing the moment, pouted. “Who needs you to drop me off anyway? If you hadn’t been so busy rushing to your gallery, Sylvie wouldn’t have been hit.” They began to argue, immediately blaming each other for my accident. If I hadn’t seen them entangled in a frantic embrace just hours before, I would have intervened, soothing them both as usual. Now, I watched their performance with cold indifference. My lack of reaction startled them. They exchanged a subtle, concerned look. Reid broke the tense silence first. “I’m going to get you some food.” He didn’t look at me, and his shoulders were hunched, the nervousness in his posture obvious. When the room cleared, only Jade and I remained. She broke the silence hesitantly. “Sylvie, last night, I was really drunk. I didn’t say anything stupid, did I?” Reid’s betrayal hurt, but Jade’s backstabbing was a deeper, more agonizing wound. We had shared everything since childhood, only to have her lie to me for a man. I knew she had always yearned to go back, to return to being the revered “County Princess.” When I discovered the one-person-only jade pendant, I had planned to hand it over to her, to let her finally go home. Instead, she had repaid my loyalty with a nightmare. I held her gaze until her composure broke. “You didn’t say a thing,” I finally said, pulling my eyes away. “I’m tired. You should go now.” I wanted her out, but she didn’t budge. “You look thirsty, Sylvie. Let me get you some water.” She didn’t wait for my refusal. She poured a glass and offered it to me. My nerves were raw. I reached out to gently push her hand away, just as Reid’s voice announced his return. “Sylvie! I brought your favorite, sweet and sour pork!” Jade’s hand twitched. The cup slipped, and boiling hot water drenched the back of my hand. “Ah!” The searing pain ripped a cry from my throat. Reid immediately dropped the takeout and ran to me. He grabbed my burned hand, his face etched with concern, but then he saw Jade clenching her reddened fingers. He immediately turned to her. “Sylvie, I’ll call the doctor for you!” he rushed out, but then grabbed Jade by the collar. “It’s all your fault! You hurt Sylvie! Get out of here right now!” he yelled, furiously dragging her out of the room. I looked down at the transparent blisters bubbling up on my skin. My heart ached, a deep, pulling pain. The man who once had eyes only for me now didn’t even see my injury. After the nurse treated my hand, I walked out of the room. I saw Reid carefully applying cream to Jade’s hand, holding it delicately as if it were spun glass. That was the moment I finally let go. I was dead to them.

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I drew my last breath exactly forty-eight hours after the earthquake hit, crushed beneath the ruins. My three-year-old son, Ben, was tucked into a narrow pocket of air, surviving by licking the blood that seeped from my mangled arm. Through the walkie-talkie, my ex-husband, Connor Vance, was shouting, his voice ragged with impatience: “The entire city is mobilized for disaster relief, and you choose this exact moment to play a disappearing act? Do you have any sense of the bigger picture, Avery?” Ben heard his father’s voice. He lifted the device to his lips, his small cry thick with the soot and trauma of the past two days. “Daddy, Mommy’s sleeping. She said she’s taking me home soon.” “I drank all the strawberry juice, just like she said, but why is she still sleeping?” A sudden, terrifying dead silence fell over the other end of the line. It was followed by the sound of Connor’s voice, now a desperate, broken roar, ordering the excavator to speed up. I looked at my son, who was about to be rescued, and a feeling of bitter relief washed over me. Congratulations, Connor. Your troublesome wife has finally vanished, just as you wished. 1 The roar of the excavator grew louder. I drifted in the air above, looking down at the wreckage that had been me. My body was pinned beneath a massive concrete slab. My upper half was twisted and unrecognizable, but one arm was still stretched out, rigid in a final, protective arc. The back of my hand was a bloody mess, slashed open by a piece of rebar. It was the last shield I had managed to give my son, Ben. Connor came stumbling toward the ruins. “Hurry! There’s a child underneath!” He was screaming, his voice completely raw. A rescue worker carefully lifted Ben out of the impossibly narrow gap. The boy was covered in dust, his face filthy, only the area around his mouth a shocking, dried crimson. Connor rushed forward and snatched the boy into his arms. He ran his hands frantically over Ben’s small body, checking for broken bones. When he confirmed the boy only had superficial cuts, his rigidly tight shoulders finally slumped. The relief on his face instantly morphed into an explosion of pure fury. “Avery Cole! Where in the hell did you run off to?” “He’s been trapped in the debris for two days, terrified, and where the hell are you?” The surrounding rescue team members paused their work, looking over with strange, uneasy expressions. I floated right in front of him, reaching out to cover his mouth. Stop shouting, I wanted to tell him. I am three feet directly beneath your boots. But my hand passed right through his face. He couldn’t feel me. Ben flinched at the sound of his father’s rage, his small hand gripping Connor’s jacket collar for dear life. “Daddy… don’t yell at Mommy.” Connor scoffed, a cold, harsh sound, and slammed the walkie-talkie in Ben’s hand onto the ground. The plastic casing cracked and splintered, just like my heart. We had bought that set during our early dating days, while watching a cheesy disaster movie on the sofa. He had promised me that even if the world lost all signal, even if the planet ended, we would use them to connect. That’s why I always kept mine in my bag. Now, he had personally smashed our last physical link. “I shouldn’t yell at her? She abandoned you here and ran off! You think she doesn’t deserve it?” “Or maybe she never even came to pick you up? Every time we argue, she pulls this disappearing act!” “Daddy, Mommy didn’t run.” Ben’s face crumpled. Tears washed streaks through the dirt, leaving muddy rivulets down his cheeks. “Mommy was really sleeping. She gave me lots and lots of strawberry juice and told me to be good and drink it all.” Connor froze. He looked down at the ring of dried, dark red around Ben’s mouth. His brow furrowed in a tight knot. He pulled out a wet wipe and roughly scrubbed at the corner of Ben’s mouth. “What kind of nonsense is this? She feeds you garbage food like this? All that dye, it’s disgusting.” An aftershock hit without warning. The ground began to shake violently, and the small pocket of wreckage the team had managed to open collapsed again. Connor’s first instinct was to shield Ben, stumbling backward to the safety line, clutching his son close. I watched the debris fall, completely sealing the small entrance to the survival pocket. The last sliver of light illuminating my remains vanished. Good, I thought. At least the child won’t see. Connor handed Ben to the medic who rushed over, his voice filled with barely suppressed disgust. He turned to the second-in-command next to him. “There are no more signs of life here. You’ll come with me to the East Sector. As for Avery Cole…” He paused, his tone dismissive. “Forget her. She’s too clever for this. She’s probably already holed up in some secure bunker.” “Daddy…” Ben, nestled in the medic’s arms, suddenly stretched out his hand, desperately grabbing the edge of Connor’s jacket. “Daddy, Mommy didn’t run.” The child’s cry held a note of frantic urgency as he struggled to find the words. “Mommy was really sleeping. She wouldn’t let me wake her up. And she was sweating so much…” Connor frowned, pulling out a tissue to forcefully scrub at the ‘stain’ on Ben’s lips. “Stop it, Ben.” He paid no attention to the words of a three-year-old. He turned and strode away toward the next set of ruins, throwing himself back into the rescue work. I floated in the air, watching his decisive, uncaring back. I wanted to weep, but I had no tears left to cry. The medical tent was dimly lit, the sharp smell of disinfectant mixing with the metallic tang of dirt. A nurse was gently wiping Ben’s face with a warm towel. When the cloth touched his lips, she stopped. “Doctor! Come quickly!” the nurse’s voice was laced with alarm. “What is all this red around the boy’s mouth? Is he bleeding internally?” I floated beside Ben, heartbroken, looking at his cracked lips and the circle of dark red that was now an accusation. Connor was tending to a gash on his own forearm nearby. He scowled and walked over. He grabbed a fresh wet wipe and scraped at Ben’s mouth again. “He ate some junk food,” he stated flatly. The dried blood smeared under the friction of the wipe, smudging the edges of Ben’s dusty little face. Ben cried out, twisting his head away, pushing Connor’s hand with his small wrist. “Don’t wipe it! It’s Mommy’s strawberry juice!” I looked at Ben’s tear-filled eyes, remembering the scene clearly. How, in the midst of the agonizing pain and the encroaching lack of air, I had managed a smile for him. “Be a good boy, this is Mommy’s magic strawberry juice. Only Ben gets to drink this in the whole wide world, okay?” My poor, innocent boy. He had actually believed me. Connor’s movements stalled for half a second. Then, his anger burned hotter. “How old are you? And she’s still stuffing you with garbage like this? She didn’t even bother to come find you when the earthquake hit. How irresponsible can she be?” The phone in Connor’s pocket vibrated suddenly. He glanced at the caller ID, walked to the tent entrance, and answered, lowering his voice. I drifted silently closer. A woman’s voice came through, familiar and intimate. “Connor, any word from Avery? I checked with Central Hospital, and they said Dr. Cole never showed up for work.” It was Skylar, his second-in-command. “Don’t worry about her,” Connor’s voice was completely devoid of warmth. “She’s not dead. She’s probably hiding in some safe bunker, too scared to move. A doctor, no less.” I forced a bitter laugh. Of course. In his mind, I was nothing more than a coward, a run-away wife who abandoned her son and shirked her professional duty. “Daddy…” Ben called out weakly, then suddenly arched his back and vomited. A pool of dark red fluid spilled onto the tent floor. The heavy, metallic smell of blood instantly filled the small space. Connor sprinted back, scooped up his limp son, and roared, “Doctor!” I hovered above Ben, gripped by an absolute terror, yet utterly powerless. The doctor rushed over. After a quick examination, his face grew grim. “Severe dehydration, acute stress disorder.” The doctor looked at the vomit on the ground, then met Connor’s eyes. “His stomach is completely empty of food. It’s all… blood.” Connor froze. He looked down at Ben’s pale face, instinctively prying open his son’s mouth. “Did he bite his tongue?” The doctor slowly shook his head, offering no further explanation. An experienced old physician, he likely understood the truth, and he looked at Connor with a deeply complex expression. He was about to speak. Just then, a sweat-soaked rescue worker burst into the tent. “Captain! The wreckage at the kindergarten… it’s all cleared.” The worker paused, gasping for breath, before reporting, “We didn’t find… any bodies.” The arm Connor was using to hold Ben tightened instantly. A flash of relief crossed his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a deeper contempt. He pulled at the corner of his mouth, letting out a cold snort. “I knew she was lucky.” I floated above the tent, watching his expression of simultaneous relief and utter scorn. Yes, you couldn’t find me. Because the moment the classroom building collapsed, the ground beneath me had split open. I was buried far deeper than anyone realized. The air in the medical tent grew heavier. Ben’s face was flushed crimson, his tiny body curled up. Even in his uneasy sleep, his brow was deeply furrowed. The damp cloth on his forehead had been replaced three times, but the high fever showed no sign of breaking. I anxiously hovered over him, wishing I could reach out to check his forehead, as I had done countless nights before. I remembered how delicate Ben was as an infant, prone to fevers with every change of season. I would stay awake all night, sponging him down with warm water. When the fever finally broke, I would make him his favorite pumpkin soup. Now, I could only watch his discomfort, his parched lips, and the cold needle entering his arm. I wanted to hug him, to press my cool palm to his forehead, to tell him his mother hadn’t left. But I was nothing more than air—untouchable, untamable. Connor sat beside him, the crease between his brows never relaxing. He reached out to remove the abrasive backpack tucked under Ben’s arm, hoping to let him sleep more comfortably. The moment he touched the bag, Ben snapped his eyes open. He gripped the backpack with all his strength, pulling it close to his chest. “Don’t touch it!” the child’s voice was hoarse and tearful. “It’s for Mommy!” Connor’s hand froze mid-air. “I have to keep it safe for Mommy!” Ben’s tears fell in heavy drops, soaking into the canvas of the bag. “It’s the gift Daddy bought for Mommy… if she keeps it safe, then you won’t fight anymore…” I hung from the tent ceiling, a sharp, acidic pain seizing my chest. My foolish, three-year-old son, so sensitive, already trying to mend the massive rift between his parents. Connor’s expression instantly turned savage as he listened to Ben’s fragmented words. “What kind of nonsense are you talking about?” he snarled. “Did Avery tell you we fight? Is this what she teaches you?” I surged toward him, screaming into his ear. “I didn’t! I never said a word to him!” He couldn’t hear me. He snatched the bag from Ben’s grasp, violently yanked open the stuck zipper, and dumped the contents onto the cot. A few crushed crackers, an empty water bottle, and a slightly tattered teddy bear. I remembered that bear. It was our third wedding anniversary. That morning, I had seen the screen of Connor’s phone, which he hadn’t fully locked. A photo of him and Skylar. They were close, both smiling brightly. Below the photo was a caption I hadn’t wanted to read in full, something about a “teammate’s catch” and how much she “loved it.” Just a few days before, I had found a small jewelry box tucked into the back of his closet. Inside was a gold pendant I’d spent ages looking at in a store window but never dared to buy. I had assumed it was my surprise. But that evening, his gift had been this cheap teddy bear. All the suppressed resentment and suspicion had boiled over. I looked at him in silence, and he simply assumed I was having one of my small tantrums. “Don’t you like it?” he had asked. I didn’t answer. I walked to the door and tossed the bear into the hallway trash can. We had an explosive fight. But for Ben’s sake, I never said the real reason. I thought if I just endured it, he would have a whole family, a whole childhood. The child knew everything, it turned out. And he was loving us in his own clumsy, heartbreaking way. Connor picked up the bear, his eyes a mix of annoyance and confusion. He probably hadn’t expected me to retrieve the damned thing, let alone for Ben to treat it like a treasure. “Crying over this piece of junk?” He squeezed the bear in frustration. Suddenly, his fingers stilled. Through the fabric, he felt a hard lump. He frowned, turned the bear over, and pulled open the hidden zipper at the back. A sparkling gold necklace slipped out of the stuffing and fell into his scarred palm. The pendant hanging from the chain was a simple, polished A—for Avery. It caught a faint light in the tent’s gloom. I stared, dumbfounded. The necklace… it was inside the bear I’d thrown away? A suspicion I failed to voice. A surprise he never got to explain. We had missed the last possible chance for reconciliation, separated by nothing more than a discarded teddy bear that I had quietly brought back. And now, separated by life and death. Everything was a cruel, irreversible joke. I looked closely at the necklace. When we were dating, we often stopped by that jewelry store. I had pointed to a simple, classic gold pendant. “Look, Connor, isn’t this perfect? I don’t need wealth or extravagance. I only ask that our family be safe, peaceful, and content.” Peace and contentment. That was my simplest, most fundamental wish for our life together. Connor had kissed my forehead then. “Okay, whatever you want.” He had remembered. He had bought my wish. But because of one suspicious photo, because of a terrible misunderstanding, the gift meant to symbolize peace and contentment had become the deepest barrier between us. And I hadn’t known. I thought I had just recovered a cheap toy, but I had actually recovered the assurance I had desperately craved. Connor pinched the chain, his thumb rubbing the engraved A. Then, he let out a cold, cynical laugh. “Avery… do you hate me that much?” he muttered to himself. “You’re such a little gold-digger, yet you hated me enough to throw away even this?” My soul writhed in agony in the air. No, Connor. No, that’s not it. Connor shoved the necklace into his pocket and pulled out his phone, his movements jerky and agitated. He unlocked the screen and typed a message with furious force. He sent it. “Avery, stop making a scene. I know you’re mad, but what time is it? The entire city is working disaster relief. Get through these next few days. Don’t abandon your duty because you’re mad at me!” I laughed, a dry, hysterical sound. “Connor Vance, you bastard! I would never abandon my duty because of a petty fight!” “Stop lying about me!” I screamed, but no sound escaped. My hand passed straight through his body. I stood stunned for a moment, covering my face. My soul curled up in despair. We truly would never have the chance to explain things to each other. Just then, the tent flap was violently thrown open. A figure stumbled inside. “Ben! My sweet boy!” It was my mother, Martha. She rushed to the cot. When she saw the feverish, unconscious Ben, tears instantly welled up. She reached out a trembling hand to touch his forehead, then pulled back, afraid to wake him. She looked around the small tent, her bloodshot eyes frantic. “Where’s Avery? Where is my Avery?!” Connor saw her and assumed she was here to scold me for my absence, too. “Mom, calm down. She’s not here. She’s just throwing a fit and hiding somewhere. She hasn’t even come to check on Ben. After this is over, I’m going to—” My mother cut him off with a strangled cry. Martha grabbed Connor’s arm, her red-rimmed eyes wide and accusatory. Her voice was shaking. “What foolishness are you talking about!” “She asked for the day off two days ago—the day of the earthquake—specifically to pick up Ben from daycare!” Connor’s mind went blank. He stared at my mother, his lips moving soundlessly. “Time off? The hospital said she never reported. I thought…” “You thought what?!” My mother’s voice rose sharply. “She said it was your anniversary! She said you were too busy with work, so she was going to pick up Ben and bring you a surprise at the headquarters!” Connor’s body stiffened violently. His gaze fixed on Ben’s little canvas backpack. I floated over and looked at the bag. Inside, besides the teddy bear Connor had roughly pulled out, there was a neat, square, dark blue velvet box, resting quietly in the corner. It was the watch I had searched several stores for, the one I had picked out just for him. My mother slid down to the floor along the edge of the cot, covering her face and letting out muffled sobs. “Her phone won’t connect… no one’s home… I thought they were with you… Where could she be! Where is my Avery!” Connor pulled his phone from his pocket, his hand shaking. His finger slid across the screen, opening our last text message conversation. The most recent entry was from the night before the earthquake. It was a long paragraph of his accusations—calling me cold, uncaring, and impossible to understand. My reply was one sentence. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk.”

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