The moment I got the test results, I snapped a photo and texted it to Sloane, telling her about the tumor in my brain. I waited a long time on a bench in the crowded hospital lobby before she finally replied. Her tone was dripping with disdain: “You couldn’t even fake a normal diagnosis, could you? Are we playing some kind of amnesia game, Rhys?” I froze. Before I could reply, another message flashed on my screen, cutting me off: “Fine. I know what you want. But honestly? You deserve whatever is happening to you!” She hung up, leaving me with the blaring, sterile tone of a disconnect. I managed a bitter, hollow laugh. Tightly gripping my phone to steady the tremor in my right hand, I clicked back onto the trending topic. 1 #ActressSloaneGarrityNewRomanceExposed Sloane and I had been secretly married for two years, and in all that time, we’d never once been husband and wife in the true sense. Yet, this news story claimed Sloane and her new boyfriend were photographed holding hands and checking into the same boutique hotel. In the comments, her fan base was ecstatic, celebrating that Sloane had finally moved past the cloud of grief over her late ex-boyfriend. A clear photo of the new boyfriend, Kian Abbott, was quickly dug up. He was a college senior, and that handsome, vibrant face was strikingly similar to the man Sloane had never stopped mourning. Sloane’s critics immediately jumped on it, savagely attacking her for playing the ‘replacement lover’ trope. Normally, Sloane would personally shut down even a minor actor trying to use her name for clout, but today, she remained silent all morning. Once his personal details were exposed, Kian—eager to protect his girlfriend—rushed to post a very public statement: “I was the one who fell for her first. I pursued her. If you have a problem, direct it at me!” Kian’s post pushed the narrative to an absolute fever pitch. But even with the scandal at a boiling point, Sloane hadn’t contacted me, not once. I scrolled through Kian’s comments, watching him tear into the haters, and a constant, aching soreness welled up in my nose and throat. Six years of loving Sloane, and in this moment, it felt like the punchline to a cruel joke. I couldn’t stop the memory from flashing back: the year Sloane was at her lowest, I, too, had stood up and declared just as fiercely and fearlessly: “Sloane Garrity is my woman!” But Sloane, what am I supposed to do now? Because suddenly, I think I regret everything. 2 I had finished an entire carton of cigarettes by the time Kian walked unchallenged into the house Sloane and I shared—the house protected by layers of security. He was clearly pleased by the shock and agony he saw etched on my face. Under my icy, furious stare, Kian made himself comfortable on the sectional opposite me, just like the man of the house. Then, he delivered the cheap, tired line of every mistress: “Rhys, the unloved one is the outsider. If Sloane loved you, why would she never let anyone know you even exist?” “You should just do the decent thing, divorce her, and clear out now.” I looked at his triumphant expression and sneered, countering his confident bluff: “Sloane loves you so much, yet she never mentioned that you’re standing in my house, on my property, did she?” Kian’s face went white for a fraction of a second. He was about to say something else when the front door swung open and Sloane walked in. Kian immediately shot up from the sofa as if he’d been electrocuted, his expression melting into a mix of fear and wounded innocence. “I was just looking around the house, Sis. I—” Sloane stopped short. Her cold gaze flickered across my face for a moment, then, seeing Kian, it instantly warmed, melting away like winter ice. “Kian, I thought I told you to wait for me?” Her tone held a hint of scolding, but her face was alight with a gentle smile I had never once seen directed at me. Kian dutifully walked to her side, his young, unweathered eyes holding a look of unconcealed accusation. Sloane seemed to understand without words. She turned her fury on me. “Rhys, Kian is just a student. Do you really have to bring your corporate cynicism and threats into this?” Kian clearly reveled in Sloane’s fierce protection. He rested his chin on her shoulder, rubbing against her like a needy puppy, a stream of low, spoiled murmurs escaping his lips. I clenched my fists. In two years of marriage, Sloane and I had never shared a moment of such raw intimacy. Kian sensed my restraint. The challenge in his eyes sharpened, and right there, in front of me, he lightly pecked Sloane on her soft, rosy lips. Seeing that, I felt my blood rush to my head, a violent, overwhelming surge. I couldn’t hold back anymore. I lunged forward and slammed my fist into him with all my strength. Kian didn’t fight or dodge. He let the momentum take him, sprawling dramatically onto the floor. He looked up at Sloane with a pitiful, wounded expression. “Sis, does Rhys hit you like this, too?” Sloane’s heart was clearly breaking for him. She helped Kian up and shielded him behind her, turning a gaze on me that was cold as a glacier. “Rhys, since you find Kian so intolerable, then you can get out and move somewhere else!” I almost thought I’d misheard. My wife had brazenly brought her lover into our home, and she was demanding that I vacate the premises for them? It felt like a tidal wave was crashing through my brain. I swayed, barely catching myself on a nearby chair. Kian tugged gently on Sloane’s arm, feigning concern. “Sis, Rhys looks unwell. Maybe you should check on him.” Sloane’s frown deepened. She gave a sharp, cold snort. “Don’t bother. He’s just putting on a show for sympathy.” “He’s nearly thirty and still using these pathetic, childish tactics! Stop looking at me like that. Your fake sincerity is repulsive. And even if I bring Kian home, so what? I refuse to believe you haven’t been sleeping around behind my back!” With that, she disregarded me completely—me, who was struggling to stand upright and clutch the searing pain in my head. She took Kian’s hand and led him upstairs. As Kian stepped onto the first stair, he twisted around to give me a look of pure mockery and triumph. Watching their intimate retreat, I swallowed the words of protest and desperate appeal that had been building in my throat. How pathetic was I? Yet, looking at Sloane’s cold, stunning face, I couldn’t bring myself to utter a single word of blame. I had been faithful for two years, never pressuring her for anything. Then, one night, I’d overheard her on the phone with a friend, joking that I must either be impotent or have a harem of mistresses. I tried to talk to her, to explain, but each attempt was met with deeper suspicion and a casual, mocking reply: “I don’t mind an open marriage, Rhys.” Now, she was finally the one enjoying the ‘open marriage’ she had proposed. The bedroom door on the second floor clicked shut. I could vaguely hear Kian’s bright, unrestrained laughter. That sound was a set of sharp knives, twisting again and again in my already shredded heart.

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My boyfriend had an hourly rate. Well, technically, a per-service rate. A hand-hold cost me eight hundred dollars. A hug, fifteen hundred. Dinner together, three thousand. Anything beyond that, seven thousand five hundred. In the five years we’d been together, I’d spent well into eight figures. My circle laughed at me, calling me an idiot, an open wallet. I didn’t care. Money? I had plenty of it. That changed when the Van Derlyn family’s long-lost biological daughter was finally found and welcomed home. My parents—who had raised me since birth—were afraid their real daughter would feel awkward seeing me, so a single relocation notice sent me to the furthest possible posting: the London branch of our company. It was only the sight of Zane’s face I really couldn’t bear to leave. I hesitated outside his apartment door, about to push it open, when I heard the low murmur of his friends inside, setting a trap. “So, Sloane’s out of cash now, right? How long till you dump the liability?” “Seriously, man, you’ve got her trained. She’s completely compliant. Future wife material for whoever ends up with her.” My heart, which had been dangling high above my ribcage, clenched. Then, I heard Zane’s voice, cold and detached. “It was just a bit of fun. Who said anything about marrying her?” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. A genuine, heart-deep sense of relief washed over me. Thank God. If he’d actually wanted to marry me, that would have complicated everything. 1 I was smart enough not to push the door open. I turned to walk away, and just as I did, I heard his phone’s special ringtone—the one he only used for important calls. He shushed his friends. When he spoke, his voice was warm, a texture I’d rarely experienced. “Wait there. I’m coming right now.” He moved quickly, too quickly for me to duck out of sight. Zane saw me and froze. Then, he quickly recovered, assuming I was there to drag him home, as I was notoriously clingy. “I’ll be home early tonight, I promise.” I didn’t say anything, just nodded. We walked in the same direction toward the elevators. His suit jacket was slung over his arm, and his brows were knit with a restless impatience. “Willow’s gotten lost outside the city, and her phone’s dying. I need to go pick her up. You grab an Uber.” His car sped off. He’d said it so earnestly. Which I found hilarious. In all five years, I had never once been allowed to ride in his car. Willow was a junior from his alma mater, and I was losing count of how many times Zane had “rescued” her. When my Uber dropped me off at the house, Willow was already sitting in the living room. She was holding a plate with a cake I had baked myself, her face smeared with chocolate frosting. Zane smiled with a helpless fondness, reaching out to gently wipe the cream off her cheek. I set my expensive leather bag down. I walked over and snatched the porcelain plate from her hands. Then, without a word, I scraped the remains of the cake—my cake—straight into the bin. Willow gasped, clearly terrified, and retreated behind Zane. Zane was instantly displeased. “What is your problem? She hasn’t eaten all day. It’s just cake. And it’s not like she didn’t leave you a slice.” Willow’s voice trembled as she apologized to me, promising to buy a replacement immediately. Then she burst through the front door and disappeared into the rain. Zane’s expression darkened. “A little girl, late at night, in the rain. How dangerous. Do you feel good about yourself, Sloane? Forcing her out like that?” His accusations were relentless. He stormed out after her, never noticing that my hair was still dripping from the sudden downpour I’d walked through. I looked at the discarded cake. I reached out, scooped a bit of frosting onto my finger, and put it in my mouth. It was rich, dark chocolate, exactly the way Logan used to like it. I called the cleaning service to tidy up the mess, then fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep. Around three in the morning, the other side of the mattress dipped. I felt the familiar heat of his body drawing near. Zane mumbled softly. “You are so dramatic. Upsetting someone like that, but you sleep like a baby.” He sighed, moving closer. “I know that cake was for our five-year anniversary, but seriously, that useless formality vs. feeding a starving person? Which is more important?” As he spoke, a large hand settled heavily on my waist. The image of him gently wiping the frosting off Willow’s face flashed in my mind. Instinctively, I frowned, moving his arm. I spoke, my voice flat and cold. “My parents froze my bank accounts. I can’t afford your rate anymore.” The air immediately turned heavy, thick with silence. I heard the rustle of clothes, the snap of buttons. Zane slammed the door as he left. He used to pull this trick often. Whenever he was mad, he knew I would always grovel and chase him down, begging for him to smile again. Everyone called me spineless and a disgrace to the Van Derlyns. Only I knew the truth: I liked it when Zane was happy. Because when he smiled, he looked so much like the one I dreamt of, the one I knew I could never see again. I woke up the next morning feeling entirely rested. To my surprise, Zane was downstairs. He acted as if the drama of the previous night had never happened. When I sat down, he put his phone away and closed the news app. He glanced at me. “Willow is graduating soon. I’m arranging for her to intern in your department.” This was Zane’s attempt at an olive branch—but it wasn’t extended for my benefit. I considered it. “She can send her résumé to HR. If it checks out, she can interview and come onboard after the approval process.” Zane was instantly annoyed. “Are you kidding? We’re not taking interns right now. Where do you expect her to interview?” So he knew. He wanted to be the generous hero, and he wanted Willow to benefit from special treatment, leaving me to be the one abusing power. “Then tell her to graduate, build a substantive résumé, and apply then.” I rarely went against him. He picked up and set down his fork with a noticeable clang, but I didn’t look up. Willow still showed up three days later. I had clearly underestimated his liking for her. That Friday night was the mandatory company social mixer. As the department head, I had no choice but to attend. My colleague, Beth, leaned over, concerned. “Is your stomach okay?” I waved her off, signaling I was fine. A disturbance across the table drew my attention. They were playing the usual post-dinner game: Truth or Dare. Willow had drawn a Dare: Kiss the fifth person to her right on the cheek. Everyone counted: “One, two, three, four…” The fifth person was Zane. He was sprawled back in the sofa, silent. Everyone knew our arrangement, and the room fell quiet. Someone tried to smooth things over. “Let’s not pressure the intern. Next round!” Willow suddenly spoke up. “No, I can’t break the rules just for me. I’ll take the penalty…” She looked back at Zane, then picked up her glass, her eyes wide and watery. “I’m allergic to alcohol, but I’ll drink this anyway. To show I accept the consequences.” Before the words were out, Zane slammed his glass down, turned, grabbed Willow’s chin, and pulled her into his arms. He shielded her face with his body and kissed her hard on the cheek, right next to her mouth. He took his seat next to mine, pulling Willow close. His eyes flickered over me without concern. “Continue,” he said. No one dared to breathe. Beth, ever the peacekeeper, tried to salvage the mood by asking me a Truth: Who was my first love? Everyone knew Zane was my first love, judging by the obscene amount of money I spent on him without blinking. Judging by how I, a girl who never cooked, had once burned my hands trying to make his favorite meal. I lowered my eyes. “I’ll drink.” Beth pressed down on my hand, smiling tightly. “Zane, help her out. She’s been struggling with her stomach.” Zane swirled the wine in his glass, his voice laced with faint mockery. “Sloane is more than capable. It’s just one drink.” A sudden, sharp cramp twisted in my gut, but I lifted the glass and forced the liquid down. Beth was the first to realize something was wrong with me. Just as she was about to speak, Willow’s voice cut in, trembling with vulnerability. “Senior, I think I’m having an allergic reaction from just that sip. I can’t breathe.” Zane immediately stood up, draped his jacket over her, and pulled her close. Beth stood up, too. “Zane, could you give Sloane a ride? She…” Zane saw me leaning over, head down, clearly in pain. His face was grim. “You can’t distinguish between minor and major emergencies? Find someone else to take her.” Everyone dispersed quickly. I waited until the severe stomach pain subsided before catching a cab home. Zane was sitting on the living room sofa, lost in thought. It was rare for him to wait up for me; I found it unsettling. “Sloane Van Derlyn, how old are you? Targeting a girl like that? Where is your decency?” I was bewildered. It took me a moment to realize he thought I had deliberately set up the dare to embarrass Willow. “Is that honestly what you think of me?” I had given Zane so much—when I was obsessed with him, I nearly ripped my heart out and served it to him on a plate. Zane didn’t get a chance to answer. A female voice chirped. “Senior, does this look okay?” I turned. Willow was standing in the doorway of the master suite, wringing her hands, wearing my favorite silk nightgown. She looked entirely innocent, as if someone had forced the garment on her. Zane’s expression shifted instantly. He strode over in three steps. “Why are you wearing this? Didn’t I buy you new ones?” Willow looked even more victimized, her voice a whisper. “The new ones are too nice. I just grabbed one of these—the others felt… old-fashioned.” She finally sought my permission. “Can I wear it, Sloane? I promise I’ll wash it for you.” I walked toward them slowly. The old me would have slapped her, told her Zane was mine, and warned her that if she touched him again, I’d take out her eyes. Zane tensed, subtly positioning himself in front of her. I smiled. “You can wear it. You can even sleep in the master bedroom. I find things other people have touched… dirty.” I walked past them and pushed open the door to the guest suite. Zane tried to grab my arm. He missed. It was late when the door handle turned again. Zane came in and settled onto the bed. He immediately launched into an explanation. “I only found out today when I took her to the clinic that her mother passed away, and her father abandoned her. She can’t even afford rent.” “She reminds me of myself, you know? I started with nothing, too. I just want to help. She’ll only be staying for a little while, until she gets her first paycheck.” He softened his tone. “She’s a little scatterbrained, a little innocent, very naive. She even apologizes when she’s bumped into. So stop targeting her, okay?” I took in his speech. According to him, I was the wicked queen, and Willow was the pure, innocent princess waiting for her prince to descend. I just mumbled, “Okay,” and let the matter drop. To my surprise, Zane was clearly unhappy with my compliance. He wanted a fight, a reaction. He turned to embrace me, but before his lips could touch my neck, an instinct flared up, and I kicked him hard, sending him sprawling off the bed. He was furious. He punched the mattress. “What is wrong with you? Are you still mad about that cake? When I’m not so busy, I’ll make it up to you…” “It’s not that.” The cake wasn’t for him anyway. Why would I be angry? “You don’t want me clinging to you, right? I’m letting go. You’re free.” I thought that would be the end of it. But Zane asked, “Why?” I pressed my fingers to my temples. I needed a reason he would understand—a financial one. “Because I’m out of money. The Van Derlyn’s real daughter is back, and I’ve been cut off. I can’t pay your rate anymore.” Knock. Knock. Knock. Willow’s voice was small outside the door. “Senior? I hear noises outside the window. I’m scared.” Zane stood up without hesitation. His voice was exquisitely gentle. “Don’t be scared. I’m coming to stay with you.” Outside, I heard their soft murmurs. “Why are you barefoot? It’s cold.” “There are no ghosts. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you company until you fall asleep.” I got up early. When I opened the door, I saw Willow putting on a pair of shoes. They were the red high-heeled pumps Zane had bought me—my first real gift from him. They had been slightly too big for me, but at the time, I’d been ecstatic. Willow walked a few steps in them. “Sloane, Senior said these were too big for you, but they fit me perfectly. They really suit me.” Zane took her old shoes to put them away. “Wear them for now. We’re short on time. I’ll take you to buy a new pair when I’m free.” I ignored their boundary-less exchange and walked past them. As I did, I glanced at the necklace around her neck. It looked incredibly familiar. When I focused, I saw the small object hanging from the chain, and a rush of pure, unadulterated rage hit me. I reached out and violently grabbed the chain on her neck. Willow screamed, covering her throat and scrambling back behind Zane. Zane shoved me. My lower back hit the corner of a nearby table. The sharp pain brought me a chilling clarity. I held out my hand. “Give me the ring.” Zane’s face was cold. “You said you wouldn’t cling to me anymore. Who I give a necklace to is my business, isn’t it?” “Keep the chain,” I bit out. “But the ring on that necklace belongs to me. Give it back. Otherwise, I swear, I will make sure your little academic darling vanishes from Manhattan’s corporate scene for good!” “Even without my family’s backing, the Van Derlyns would grant me that small request to save face.” A small, silvery sound echoed as the ring dropped. The tiny ring bounced once or twice before settling against the table leg. Willow jutted out her chin, her face a mask of wronged virtue. “Fine. Take it.” I carefully picked up the ring, blew the dust off, and slipped it into my pocket. I went into the guest room, threw some essentials into my suitcase, and walked straight out. Zane started toward me, but Willow grabbed his arm. “Senior, Sloane’s just angry. Let her have some space.” Zane was momentarily lost. I was the one who was supposed to cling to him, not walk away like this. Willow ran into the bedroom and came back with a stack of photos. They were all pictures of Zane, some blurry, some clear, all secretly taken. “See? Sloane is obsessed with you. She’s just trying to scare you. She won’t leave.” Zane ran his thumb over the pictures. He chuckled softly. “She never used to be like this.” Willow clenched her teeth. “That was before. I’m a woman, I know how she thinks. Before, you were struggling, so she felt secure. But now that she’s no longer the Van Derlyn heir and you’ve become successful, she’s insecure and panicking.” Zane considered this. It made sense—I had only grown distant after the biological daughter showed up. “Keep talking.” “If you go chasing after her now, it shows you’re desperate. She’ll own you forever. You have to assert your position.” Willow pulled a small container of folded paper stars out of the stack of photos. Tucked inside were meticulous notes detailing my dream wedding ceremony, the exact style of dress I wanted, and dense pages of hopeful plans for the future. Zane studied the detailed plans, a self-satisfied smile playing on his lips. “See? Sloane is playing a game. She’s trying to manipulate you. She’ll be back. We just need to give her a little shock, make her feel the crisis.” I finished my company handover and picked up the flight information my parents had booked for me. My social media feed was now a high-profile parade of Zane and Willow’s love. Daily “soulmate” breakfasts. Romantic candlelight kisses. The ‘Forever Ring’ on her finger. Just as I was about to power down my phone, an unfamiliar number called. It was Zane. “When are you coming back?” He cleared his throat, trying to sound authoritative. “If you come home and are obedient, I might consider a long-term future with you.” “But don’t even think about engagement or marriage. That will depend on your behavior.” My eyebrows knit tightly in distaste. I could hear his friends in the background, cheering and clapping. “Sloane, congrats! You finally earned the promotion!” “Hurry back! Zane’s about to be snatched up!” The silence from my end was prolonged. Someone on the other end wondered, “Did Sloane pass out from happiness?” I was definitely stunned. I was looking at the familiar face in front of me, my throat choked with a sudden, suffocating emotion. I couldn’t form a word. The man in front of me parted his lips. His voice felt distant, as if traveling across half a world, yet it hit my heart with the force of a physical blow. “Sloane. I’ve missed you.”

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The entire Kingston family can hear my thoughts. I, Dr. Avery Stone, the country’s top forensic pathologist, was finally brought back to the Kingston estate. They looked at my face, but recoiled from the lingering scent of formalin and disinfectant that clung to my lab scrubs. My adopted sister, Seraphina, glided over in a twenty-thousand-dollar designer gown, her voice dripping with frail concern. “Oh, Avery,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “Daddy bought you so many new clothes. You should really change out of those. They look… unlucky.” I gave her a long, cold look. [A ‘mean girl,’ huh? Too bad the last one who tried this act on me ended up as a skull fragment soaking in a jar on my specimen shelf, her cranium neatly opened. On second thought, she’s not even worth the dissection. Not even worth the gloves.] A crash! My father, Arthur Kingston, president and CEO, shattered his prized hand-thrown ceramic mug on the marble floor. My older brother, Liam, a cardiac surgeon, sprang off the sofa, his face a sickening shade of purple. He pointed a trembling finger at me. [What is he staring at? I hear he’s a doctor, too. Maybe I should send a referral for him to my lab sometime.] My mother, Eleanor, simply rolled her eyes back and collapsed onto the Persian rug. The three of them looked like they were seconds away from collapsing entirely. 1 My mother came to after someone administered smelling salts. The moment she saw me, her entire body began to shake uncontrollably. Liam braced himself against the wall just to stay standing. Seraphina drifted toward me, her hand outstretched, trying to take mine. I subtly shifted, making her miss. She pulled her hand back, the perfect, fragile expression fixed in place. “I’ve already finished decorating your room, sister. Come see if you like it.” I followed her, glancing into the room. It was done up in a cloying pink, the height of teenage-girl style, right next door to hers. The air hung heavy with a sickly sweet perfume. I frowned, the scent catching the back of my throat. “I won’t be staying here. I don’t like the aesthetic.” Liam was about to launch into a lecture about my ingratitude when my internal voice cut him short. [Bubblegum pink? The cleanup would be a nightmare. Pink shows bloodstains too clearly. No, I need something discreet. The storage room downstairs is better. No windows, far from their rooms. Much less chance of a scent complaint when I get a late-night delivery.] Liam’s flushed face instantly turned chalk-white. My father, Arthur, his voice a ragged whisper, finally spoke. “Then… then you’ll take the storage room for now. I’ll have the staff clean it out…” I cut him off again. “Don’t bother. I’ll do it myself. Just make sure the plumbing is good for a separate shower stall.” [And the drainage system needs to be reliable. I don’t want to block the pipes when I’m flushing out tissue fragments. That would be messy.] My father squeezed his eyes shut and swayed slightly, barely managing to nod his consent. Seraphina didn’t notice the others’ bizarre reaction. A flicker of triumph crossed her eyes; she thought I was being deliberately exiled to the damp, musty storage closet for irritating her parents. I ignored them all and headed straight for the storage room tucked away on the first floor. I shoved the door open. A rush of old mildew and damp dust hit me. I tapped the wall with satisfaction. [Decent insulation. The sound of the bone saw shouldn’t bother them while they sleep.] Just outside the door, my mother, who Liam had managed to steady, heard that last thought. Her eyes rolled back for the second time, and she fainted again, crumpling without a sound. The atmosphere at dinner was as dead as a morgue. The long dining table was laden with expensive cuisine, yet no one dared to touch a fork. The family sat stiffly, perfectly upright. A crime report played on the large plasma screen. “…Earlier today, police discovered the remains of a dismembered male body in the suburbs. The brutality of the act suggests an extremely disturbed perpetrator. Police are pursuing all leads…” The image on the screen was heavily pixelated, but the scattered outline was still unsettling. Seraphina dramatically covered her eyes, leaning weakly against my mother. “Oh, it’s just so awful. The criminals these days are so cruel.” I stared at the screen, my brow furrowed in concentration. [Oh. This is my guy. They’re only releasing the news now? The Bureau’s internal comms are moving faster than the local precinct on this one.] [Poor bastard. I remember his file. He suffered. They put him on a stimulant cocktail. Kept him conscious, start to finish. He watched himself being fileted, piece by agonizing piece.] Liam, the surgeon, could clearly picture the horrific scene. His stomach churned. He shoved his chair back, rushed to the restroom, and began to retch violently. Startled by the noise, my mother’s head snapped sideways, and she fainted for the third time that day. Chaos erupted. Seraphina, confused, looked around, wondering why her family had suddenly developed such a weak constitution that a news report could send them into hysterics. My father, Arthur, desperately tried to maintain composure. He was shaking as he reached for a glass of water to calm his nerves. At that exact moment, a loud, piercing wail of a siren cut through the dead silence of the room. “Wee-ooo! Wee-ooo!” The entire family, including Liam, who had just stumbled out of the restroom, jumped in terrified unison. I calmly pulled my phone from my pocket. “My call,” I explained. Arthur’s mind was instantly a storm of panic. He was convinced I had chosen a police siren as a ringtone to brazenly mock law enforcement. Oblivious to his internal meltdown, I answered the call. “Hello? What’s the situation?” “Yes, a new assignment?” I listened, my face tightening. “Blunt force trauma to the skull? Got it. I’m on my way. Keep the scene contained.” I hung up, dabbed my lips with a napkin, and stood up. “Stop right there!” My father slammed his hand on the table, springing up with a jolt. “Avery! Where are you going this late? I’ll give you money! Any amount you want! Just… just stop doing this!” The last part was a plea. [Give me money? This isn’t about money. The Bureau gave me an assignment. If I don’t go, someone else will get the material. The good material.] Arthur’s anger instantly froze, replaced by an expression of pure, deep despair. He and Liam exchanged a look, blood draining from both their faces. “She… she has an accomplice,” Liam stammered. My father collapsed back into his chair, defeated. I simply found their reaction baffling, turned, and walked out. This assignment was particularly grim. One body was a high-fall from a skyscraper, impacting a glass canopy on the way down. The other was a highly decomposed, “bloated man” submerged in water for too long. It was well past midnight when I finally finished processing the two bodies. A thunderstorm raged outside, the rain hammering against the windshield as I drove my SUV, exhaustion heavy in my limbs, back to the Kingston villa. The lights were blazing in the living room. The moment I opened the door, a wave of formalin mixed with the faint, metallic aroma of decomposition instantly overwhelmed the room’s subtle, expensive air fresheners. The Kingston family was assembled, sitting bolt upright on the sofa, clearly waiting for me. Seraphina saw me, immediately clamped a hand over her nose, and a flash of undisguised disgust crossed her eyes. In the next breath, she plastered on an expression of worried concern and rushed over. “Avery, where were you so late? And that smell! What is that smell?” Before I could answer, she reached out to grab the large, metal evidence box I was carrying. “Let me take that for you, sister. You look so tired.” Her movement was quick and aggressive. Before I could stop her, she had it. Then, she took a tiny, seemingly “unintentional” stumble. “Ah!” CRASH! The metal evidence box landed with a sickening clang on the polished marble floor. The heavy-duty latches sprung open, and several organs preserved in formalin tumbled out. A length of wet, glistening intestine, still bearing the trace of the body’s last meal, plopped onto the fine area rug. “I’m so sorry, sister, I didn’t mean to…” The words died in Seraphina’s throat. The moment she registered what was scattered across the floor, her beautiful face turned paper-white. Her stomach heaved, and she bent over, vomiting instantly onto the marble. [You wanted to play games. You wanted to see. Now look. I wasn’t going to open the box, but you just had to be nosy.] [Since you enjoy the view so much… I’ll have to figure out what to do with all of you now.] I calmly slipped on a pair of latex gloves from my pocket, knelt down, and picked up the slick length of intestine from the rug. I straightened, walked over to the retching Seraphina, and brought the organ right up to her face. “You wanted to see?” She lifted her horrified eyes to mine, saw the grotesque object inches from her nose, and promptly pitched forward, unconscious. [Such a coward. Don’t start what you can’t finish.] Holding the intestine, I slowly turned. CRACK! A flash of lightning illuminated the night sky, and the massive chandelier above the living room flickered violently. In the stark, stuttering light, my father, my mother, and my brother saw me: Dr. Avery Stone, standing over the inert body of Seraphina, holding a human intestine. The scene was pure, unadulterated horror. They didn’t even manage to scream. Their terror wasn’t even a high-pitched shriek, just a low, guttural surrender to panic. One by one—Arthur, Eleanor, Liam—their eyes rolled back, and they crumpled to the floor, joining Seraphina. The entire Kingston living room was now a tableau of bodies. I sighed and shook my head. “Well. A family that faints together, stays together.” I spent a considerable amount of time meticulously cleaning the floor, repackaging my “treasures” back into the evidence box. Then, I dragged them, one by one, back to their respective rooms, arranging them neatly in their beds. Only after the whole family was tucked in did I return to my storage room, finally satisfied enough to sleep.

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It was the end of the month, the day Altair Solutions was supposed to run payroll, but my bank account remained stubbornly empty. I marched straight into the Finance office. Maddie Price, the payroll clerk, barely glanced up. Her tone was all practiced, dismissive boredom. “Didn’t you pick up your annual Employee Perk Vouchers last week?” she asked, a manicured finger tapping her keyboard. “You got ten of those 1,000−off−2,000 coupons, remember? That’s ten thousand dollars in total credit. Your monthly salary is eight grand, so we actually topped you up with a two-thousand-dollar bonus, Liv. You should be thanking us.” I stared at her, my eyes wide with disbelief. They sure as hell didn’t mention this when they handed out the vouchers yesterday. More critically, the coupons were only valid at a single online grocery store. A store where an item that cost $19.99 at a regular supermarket was mysteriously marked up to $49.99—more than double the price. This was a classic shell game. The boss was just moving money from his left pocket to his right, and I’d essentially been working for free. I slammed the stack of glossy, worthless paper onto her desk. “I don’t want the vouchers. I need the money deposited into my bank account, today.” Brad Thompson, our Sales Manager, sauntered over, his brow furrowed in a theatrical expression of annoyance. “What is all the fuss, Reynolds? The company gives you two thousand dollars extra in perks, and you’re here making trouble instead of showing gratitude? You’re going to buy groceries anyway, Liv. We’re doing this for your convenience.” My voice was shaking as I forced the words out. “What you’re doing is illegal, Brad!” He scoffed, a look of utter contempt crossing his face. “Then go ahead and sue me. You think I, a legitimate business owner, am afraid of a tiny little employee like you?” Just then, my phone chimed with a text message alert. It wasn’t a work message. “Ms. Olivia Reynolds, Congratulations on successfully passing the 2025 Metro City IRS Enforcement Agent Examination.” 1 I was chewing on a stale piece of sourdough toast, scrolling through the ‘Scroll’ app while waiting for my practice test results. I landed on a thread that instantly captured my attention. “The day I passed the Federal Service Exam and got my IRS acceptance letter, my boss approved my resignation immediately, and my final paycheck and bonus landed in my account that same day, down to the last cent! And this was a company that was notorious for stalling payroll.” The comments section was full of people cheering: “That’s the taste of victory, Queen!” “Love to see it!” I cracked a wide, hopeful smile, fantasizing about the day I’d get my own moment of righteous triumph. But the moment was fleeting. My screen was constantly peppered with notifications. It was a Saturday, and yet my boss, Brad, couldn’t stop generating work on a whim. So irritating. One minute, he demanded I organize all the client data by EOD. The next, he wanted a new strategy proposal drafted. When I was hired, it was “guaranteed weekends off,” but that had morphed into “flexible work-from-home” hours, which meant being tethered to my laptop 24/7. Altair had recently executed a round of layoffs under the guise of “cost reduction and efficiency.” Now, with fewer people, the workload was the same—I was doing the job of three people. But my mother needed expensive imported medication every month. I needed this humiliating paycheck. I just had to keep my head down and work like a rented mule. At exactly 11:00 AM, my mock exam results popped up. “Holy hell! I improved again! My Analytical score is over 80!” I chewed faster, exhilarated, before realizing: Mom’s prescription! Rent! I quickly navigated to the pharmacy site and hit ‘Confirm Payment.’ Payment Failed! It hit me then. My paycheck was supposed to arrive on the 15th. Today was the 25th. The next morning, I went straight back to the Finance office. Maddie didn’t even lift her head, giving the same pre-rehearsed line. “Didn’t you pick up your annual Employee Perk Vouchers last week? You got ten of those 1,000−off−2,000 coupons, remember? That’s ten thousand dollars in total credit. Your monthly salary is eight grand, so we actually topped you up with a two-thousand-dollar bonus.” I was stunned. “But… wasn’t that a company welfare perk?” Maddie rolled her eyes and jabbed her finger at a line of minuscule print at the bottom of the voucher. I squinted to read the almost-invisible text. “These vouchers are issued in lieu of the current month’s salary. Receipt of the voucher constitutes agreement to these terms. Final interpretation rights belong solely to Altair Solutions.” Who in their right mind would notice that tiny, fraudulent print? I pushed the stack of coupons back at her. “I don’t want the coupons. I need cash. I have rent to pay and I need to buy my mother’s medication.” Maddie produced a sign-off ledger. “You signed this last week when you accepted the vouchers, Liv. That means you agreed to the terms. Your salary for this month is those coupons.” I almost laughed from the sheer audacity. “This is an unconscionable contract, Maddie! That voucher is only usable at some unknown online market. I checked the prices! Shampoo that sells for $19.99 at Target is $49.99 there! I worked my butt off for a month only to end up subsidizing the capitalist?” “Is your work done, Reynolds? Did the company hire you to stand here and chat?” That impatient, grating voice belonged to Brad. He was a master of the corporate PUA game. I quickly explained the situation. He nodded, utterly devoid of shame. “It’s company policy. Besides, we gave you two thousand extra dollars. Instead of showing gratitude, you’re looking for a fight. You’d spend the money anyway, Liv. We’re just making things convenient for our employees!” My hands were shaking with fury, but the thought of my mother’s deteriorating health forced me to suppress it. I had to try and reason with him. I managed a weak, ingratiating smile. “Brad, please. My mom needs ongoing medical treatment. I genuinely need the cash.” He thought for a moment, nodding thoughtfully. “I understand, Liv, I really do. You’re one of the company’s core employees. Altair always looks out for our best people.” My heart skipped a beat. Maybe there’s a chance? Brad signaled to Maddie. “Bring it out.” First, I saw a stack of crisp bills—cash. I started to smile, ready to thank him, but then I saw what Maddie was holding out: a loan agreement. Brad leaned forward. “Liv, the company knows your family is struggling. So, how about this: we’ll lend you the eight thousand dollars. But we do have to charge interest, of course. Ten percent a month.” He tapped the loan document. “Sign this, and the money is yours.” I was so incensed I finally laughed. I had been working the equivalent of three full-time jobs, seven days a week, and now I was expected to owe the company $8,800? “Brad, the Labor Law clearly states…” His face instantly hardened. He cut me off, his expression contemptuous. “So you don’t want the job, is that it? Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a decent job right now? If you walk, there are a hundred people waiting to take your seat!” I took a deep breath. I knew he was right, but the humiliation was suffocating. The anger flared back up. I met his gaze, my own completely defiant. “I’ll quit. But first: One, you will settle my outstanding salary, properly. Two, I finalized that thirty-million-dollar sales contract. I require the one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar bonus we agreed upon.” Brad sneered. “You can get out right now, but you won’t get a single dime.” Just then, Sarah, a colleague I was friendly with, walked in. She quickly pulled me aside, whispering urgently. “I’ll lend you the money for your mom’s meds, Liv. Jobs are impossible to find. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.” I took a moment to calm down, a plan beginning to form in my mind. I returned to my cubicle, ignoring the constant ping of Slack notifications. I focused instead on the worthless voucher in my hand. The online store was called Maddie’s Market. Could it really be that obvious? I decided to investigate after work to confirm my suspicion. The result: I watched Brad drive Maddie to the entrance of Maddie’s Market. They shared a long, passionate kiss before parting. If I remembered correctly, Brad was married. And, more importantly, Altair Solutions was entirely funded by his wife’s family. Veronica Thompson, the ‘boss lady,’ had a reputation that preceded her—a total firebrand. I quickly took several discreet photos, then anonymously bundled the images with a copy of the fraudulent coupon and emailed them straight to Veronica. The next day, Brad was about to tear apart the proposal I’d spent all night creating, picking at every minor detail, when Veronica burst through the door. “Brad Thompson, you bastard! How dare you sleep with your staff behind my back in my own company!” She launched her designer handbag at him, hitting him hard on the shoulder. Then she reached up on her tiptoes, grabbed his ear, and twisted viciously. Brad cried out, wincing. “Honey, honey, this is a misunderstanding! I’m the boss, give me some respect!” Veronica’s voice rose to a screech. “A misunderstanding?” She slapped the photos and the voucher onto his desk with a loud smack! Then she stabbed a finger at them. “What is this? Are my eyes deceiving me? You’ve been skimming off employee salaries and giving the benefits to your tramp!”

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It was the fifth birthday I’d spent with Rhys Carson, and just like the previous years, I was staring at a lavish, untouched dinner, the exquisite dishes growing cold on the table. Rhys had promised, as he always did, to celebrate with me, and as always, he broke his word. This year, the excuse was his childhood friend—his eternally perfect, untouchable muse—Blair. She needed a conceptual photoshoot, she said, and had invited Rhys and his three closest buddies to participate. Just like that, I was abandoned again, left alone while he eagerly rushed into her orbit. It was almost eleven p.m. when Blair posted a photo on her private Instagram, visible only to me. In the picture, four men in nothing but black boxer briefs and delicate Windsor bow ties knelt in worship around a woman draped in a single layer of sheer fabric. The caption read: “The little taste of cake some people beg for? I own the whole damn bakery.” I took a screenshot. I saved it. Then, I sent it to the girlfriends of Rhys’s three best friends. Since you all look down on me so much, I hope you never have to kneel down and beg for anything. 1 I calmly observed the photo on my screen, sensing something inside me quietly shatter. In the picture, warm, yellow light poured down, making the four men—each wearing only black briefs and a sharply tied knot—look like arrogant gods. They were arranged in a semi-circle, kneeling, their eyes fixed on the woman in the center with expressions of total subjugation and loyalty, as if she were a high-born queen. The woman was covered by little more than black gossamer. The fabric was practically transparent, hinting at the provocative curves beneath and oozing an untamed, raw desire. She wore an air of icy superiority, radiating a force field that made her impossible to look away from. The caption above the photo was a pure, unadulterated taunt. “The little taste of cake some people beg for? I own the whole damn bakery.” Looking at the dinner now fully cold on the table, and then at the sight of Rhys and his three buddies reduced to domesticated, almost cheap-looking pawns, I suddenly wasn’t angry anymore. There was no point getting angry over something so clearly worthless. I first hit the ‘Like’ button on Blair’s post, and then dropped a comment: “A bitch and a dog—may your love last forever.” After commenting, I saved the screenshot and sent it separately to the girlfriends of Connor, Brendan, and Declan. The moment I finished sending the last message, the post magically vanished from my feed. About ten minutes later, a flood of notifications erupted on my phone. I tapped the screen. The messages were from Rhys’s three loyal musketeers. Connor: “Sutton, what the hell is wrong with you? I was just doing Blair a favor by posing for a shoot! What business is it of yours? Why did you open your nasty mouth and tell my girlfriend? She’s flipping out! Are you satisfied, you petty, miserable cow?” Brendan: “Sutton, you crazy psycho! Did I do something to you? Why would you send that to my girl? If you’re bored, go jump off a bridge, don’t spread your madness here!” Declan: “You trash! Your hands are getting too long! Did I murder your ancestors in a past life? I hope your whole damn family gets run over by a truck!” Staring at the stream of vile abuse, I opened a dialogue box to fire back, but Rhys’s call beat me to it. I hit ‘Answer,’ and his furious voice blasted through the speaker. “Sutton, what the hell are you doing, going crazy in the middle of the night?” “Because of your damn snitching, Connor, Brendan, and Declan’s girls are all threatening to break up with them! Do you have any idea what a mess you’ve made? Are you psychologically warped, incapable of letting anyone else be happy?” “Now Blair is crying, blaming herself. And it’s all your fault!” “I don’t care what you’re doing right now, you need to get over here immediately, explain everything, and apologize to Blair. Otherwise, don’t expect me to be gentle with you again.” “Blair is crying?” I asked, my voice flat. “Duh! If you hadn’t made Blair cry, why would I be so mad at you? I’ve spoiled you, Sutton! You are becoming completely irrational.” “Well, when she’s crying right now, is she still wearing that sheer, barely-there fishing net that can’t even cover her two headlights? And are you boys still wearing your coordinated, cheap black briefs while comforting her?” Rhys’s voice became abruptly strained. “Sutton, stop being dramatic. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Oh, really?” I sent him the screenshot directly. “Rhys, Blair is dressed like a cheap exhibitionist. When you and your buddies were taking those pictures, did any of you get a physiological reaction?” He hung up. 2 He probably never expected Blair to secretly post that photo just to spite me, and Blair certainly never expected me to screenshot it and send it to the other three girlfriends. Seeing he’d hung up, I messaged him: “Why did you hang up? Why aren’t you interrogating me anymore?” The ‘typing…’ indicator flashed, but no message arrived. Fine. I took the screenshot and the vile chat logs from Connor, Brendan, and Declan, and posted them all on my own social media. The caption: “Even if no one else is here, I wish myself a happy birthday.” It was past midnight now—my birthday was officially over—but the photo instantly lit up my feed. My friends immediately started liking and commenting. “Whoa! Rhys ditched you on your birthday for that? Sutton, you’ve got a walking red flag!” “Don’t be upset, Sutton. If he won’t celebrate, we will.” “Rhys looks like such a golden boy usually. How trashy is he playing? Is this like four twos and a wild card?” “OMG! She has the guts to wear that? And post it? Is she trying to solicit customers?” Ten minutes after my post, Connor’s girlfriend (Tess) entered the arena. She also posted the screenshot, immediately announcing her breakup. “Connor can wear one pair of boxers for her photoshoot today, and tomorrow he’ll be naked and rolling around with her. Trash belongs with trash. You lapdog, go back to licking your diseased, rotten mistress.” My already crowded comments section became even more chaotic due to Tess’s public declaration. Within five minutes, her post had well over a hundred likes. Yet, through all the chaos, Rhys still hadn’t replied to me. But I wasn’t the kind of silent heroine in a novel who never speaks her mind. So, in the dead of the night, I sent the screenshot to Rhys’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Carson. That finally forced Rhys to stick his entitled head out of his turtle shell. The next morning, I got a call from Mrs. Carson. “Sutton, darling, could you come over?” “Rhys’s father and I saw the photo. I’m sure there’s some misunderstanding. Please, come over, and let’s talk this through.” “You two have been together for years, and you’re about to be married! Why make things so difficult and messy?” “Mrs. Carson, you saw the photo. I don’t believe there’s any misunderstanding.” “You’ve seen how dedicated I’ve been to Rhys all these years. I haven’t done anything to let him down. I love him, but that doesn’t mean he gets to use my feelings to hurt me without consequence.” Since she was an elder, I didn’t want to be completely disrespectful. “I’ll get ready. I’ll be over shortly.” I hung up, did a quick, simple makeup application, and drove out. When I reached the Carson family estate, Rhys’s parents were already waiting by the front door. Rhys was standing behind them, head bowed, looking like a wilted flower. I got out of the car and had just closed the door when a black sports car suddenly swerved from the side road, heading straight for me. “Sutton, look out!” Seeing the car about to hit me, Rhys charged forward and, with a desperate dive, pushed me out of the way. CRASH! I tumbled onto the ground, looking up just in time to see Rhys’s body fly into the air. 3 The sports car fled. Rhys was rushed to the emergency room. In that split second, he had managed to shove me to safety, but the black car had slammed into his legs. Both were fractured, but he was out of immediate danger. I stood over him, watching him lie on the hospital bed, his legs encased in plaster casts, and felt utterly calm. Before yesterday, if I had seen him this hurt—especially if he was hurt because of me—I would have been devastated by remorse and guilt. The old me would have collapsed onto his chest, sobbing uncontrollably, wishing I could trade places with him. But now, I was only grateful that he had pushed me away, leaving me with nothing more than a few minor bruises. Rhys was still weak from the surgery, his face frighteningly pale. His eyes found mine, and a faint, weak light appeared in them. “Sutton… you’re okay. That’s all that matters.” I didn’t take the bait. “Rhys, do you know what day yesterday was?” A hint of impatience entered his voice. “Sutton, I’m injured. I got injured for you. Can’t you see that?” “I’m lying here like this—if it hadn’t been for me, it would be you! How can you be so cold-blooded? You’re still obsessing over your damn birthday at a time like this? You are unbelievably selfish!” Mrs. Carson looked at me with an expression of gentle rebuke. “Yes, Sutton. Our Rhys was hurt because of you. He’s your lifesaver, and your fiancé! How can you speak to him like that?” “You still think of me as your future daughter-in-law? I thought you’d already decided on a replacement.” I looked back at the man on the bed. “Answer my question. What day was yesterday?” Rhys sighed, like a deflated balloon. “It was your birthday, alright?” “Sutton, I just missed your birthday. Is that really worth tearing us apart over? I promise you, I will celebrate with you next year. Does that satisfy you?” I let out a soft, almost cruel laugh. “Then tell me, what were you doing the year before, and the year before that, and the year before that?” “I…” Seeing him speechless, I helped him recall. “Last year, Blair claimed she needed someone to watch the sunset with her, so you hiked with her all day, leaving me alone at a couples’ restaurant until they closed.” “The year before that, you swore you’d be with me, but I had already decorated the yacht, and you bailed at the last minute to help Blair move apartments—and you took my car, leaving me stranded at the pier.” “The year before that, when Blair returned to the country, you and your buddies rented out the five-star hotel I own and partied for an entire week. You not only forgot my birthday completely, but you never paid the bill. I had to cover the six-figure loss myself.” “And this year? I won’t even mention the others. You dressed up like a runaway slave in cheap underwear to do a photoshoot with her. Even a streetwalker wears more decent clothes. If I had done a photo like that with another man, how would you feel?” Rhys’s eyes flashed with anger. “Sutton, stop using such ugly language!” “Blair was doing that photoshoot to document her most beautiful self! It was an artistic endeavor, a pursuit of sexiness and charm! She wore that to explore her body and break through conventional ideas. You don’t understand, so don’t talk nonsense.” He scoffed, rolling his eyes at me. “I was sacrificing for art. You think it’s scandalous because you have no artistic appreciation and you have a filthy mind. You can’t handle other people’s excellence.” “Yes, you’re right,” I nodded slowly. “My boyfriend doesn’t celebrate my birthday, and I should be generous enough to forgive him and support his pursuit of art without complaint. Is that what you mean?” “Of course! Your birthday can be missed this year and celebrated next year, but Blair is losing her youth, which, once gone, is gone forever. She just wanted to document her peak. What is wrong with me helping my friend achieve her dream?” “Right,” I agreed, nodding again. “You are absolutely correct.” I leaned in, meeting his eyes. “Since you are so committed to the pursuit of art, I won’t hold you back any longer. We’re done. We’re breaking up.” 4 Hearing the word “breakup,” Rhys finally panicked. “Break up? Over such a trivial issue, you want to break up?” “Sutton, are you insane? Blair is alone. I helped her as a friend. What did I do wrong? Can you stop being so unreasonable? I’m lying here like this! I was injured for you! How much longer are you going to drag this fight out?” “I’m not fighting. You only remember that Blair is alone, but my parents aren’t here either.” “Before they left the country, they held your hand and asked you to look after me. What exactly did you promise them? Are you keeping that promise now?” Rhys defiantly turned his head away. “The point is, you’re still in the wrong here!” “Fine. Since you are so convinced that I am the one at fault, I have nothing left to say.” I stood up. “Take care of your injury. I’ll make sure your medical bills are covered.” As I turned to leave, Mr. Carson, who had been silent, shot up and delivered a hard, stinging slap across Rhys’s face. SMACK! Rhys stared up in shock. “Dad, why did you hit me?” Mrs. Carson immediately pushed her husband away, shielding Rhys. “Are you sick? Why would you hit our son?” “I hit him because he deserved it!” Mr. Carson roared. “He’s supposed to be getting married! And he’s still running around with other women! Shouldn’t he be hit?” “If he hadn’t run off to that woman, would he have been hit like this? He brought this entirely on himself! He deserves it!” Mr. Carson turned to me, his face full of apology. “Sutton, please don’t be angry. I promise I will punish this idiot thoroughly for you. I guarantee this will never happen again.” “No need for a punishment.” I held up a hand to stop him. “I can forgive him, but I have a condition.” Rhys’s eyes lit up. “What condition? Just say it! I’ll do whatever you want!” “Call the police.” I looked directly into his eyes. “Call the police, press charges against the driver for attempted murder, and pursue it to the fullest extent of the law.” “No way!” If his legs hadn’t been broken, he would have leaped off the bed. “Connor wasn’t trying to hit me! It was a mistake! He’s my brother! If I sue him, we won’t be friends anymore!” “Absolutely not! I won’t do it!” “Suit yourself.” I couldn’t be bothered with any more futile arguments and turned to leave. I paused at the door of the hospital room. “Starting today, your so-called brothers should stop expecting any kind of benefit from the Fairchild Corporation.” “Rhys, since you believe the ‘brother’ who tried to kill your fiancée is more important, I guess I’ll handle things on my own.”

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“You’re done here.” Reid Harrington, the new Director, was leaning back in his executive chair, not even bothering to lift his gaze from the floor-to-ceiling windows. I stood in the doorway of his corner office, a freshly printed project report still clutched in my hand. “What does that mean?” “The company is restructuring, Owen.” He finally looked up, a flick of bored disdain in his eyes. “Your position has been eliminated.” Three years. I’d poured three years of my life into this company. Three core systems. Four hundred and seventy thousand lines of code. Every single character was mine. “That attitude, Miller, it’s going to follow you wherever you go,” he added, a patronizing after-thought. I didn’t say a word. I turned and walked back to my cube, staring at the screen. The four hundred and seventy thousand lines of code lay dormant in the server. My index finger rested on the Delete key. 1 I didn’t press it. Not because I was afraid. Because it wasn’t time yet. Reid’s voice echoed in my head: “That attitude, Miller, it’s going to follow you wherever you go.” What attitude? I worked past ten every night, was on call every weekend, and hadn’t taken a single sick day in thirty-six months. What kind of attitude was that? “Owen, HR wants to see you.” Tim, a younger developer, peeked his head around the partition. His eyes darted away, unable to meet mine. The news had travelled fast. I stood up and glanced at the few items on my desk. A framed photo of my wife, Sierra. Her smile was sweet, and her baby bump was just starting to show. Five months along. The mortgage is twelve hundred a month. I took a deep, shuddering breath and walked toward the Human Resources office. “Come in, Owen. Have a seat.” Diana Cruz, the HR Manager, was in her mid-forties and had been at the company for eight years. She’d seen every firing, every layoff. She slid a document across the table. The cover read: “Severance Agreement.” “Take a look.” I opened the document. Severance Pay: $56,000. I paused. “Shouldn’t this be N+1? I’ve worked for three years. That should be three months’ salary.” “The company has determined your tenure is two years,” Diana said, adjusting her glasses. “Your first year was classified as a probationary period.” “Probationary? I signed a full-time employment contract.” “It’s written in the fine print as a one-year ‘trial period.’” I remembered the conversation clearly. Wally Stone, the CEO, had clapped me on the shoulder: “Owen, the contract is just a formality. You work hard, and I’ll take care of you.” “So we can only count two years,” Diana said, offering me a pen. “Sign it. Let’s keep this professional and clean.” I stared at the number. $56,000. Three years. How much profit had I generated for them? That custom inventory platform alone saved the company two million in labor costs in the first month. The customer data platform boosted our sales conversion rate by 35%. The financial settlement system shrunk the payment cycle from 45 days to just seven. Conservatively, twenty million dollars in value over three years. They were offering me $56,000. “What about the annual bonus?” Diana’s pen hesitated. “The annual bonus?” “It’s almost the end of the year. My bonus for this year.” “Owen, you’re a terminated employee. The bonus…” “The contract states the bonus is based on performance. You know what my performance was this year.” The smile on Diana’s face stiffened. “That depends on the company’s overall profitability…” “I got eighty thousand last year,” I cut her off. “This year I took on more projects, and the profits were higher.” “The circumstances this year are different.” “How are they different?” Diana didn’t answer. I got it. Since Reid Harrington arrived, he’d attached his name to all my projects. To Wally Stone, he was the hero who “led the team to a major revenue breakthrough.” And I was the “employee with the attitude problem.” “We will issue a proportionate bonus,” Diana said. “Likely… around twenty thousand.” Eighty thousand slashed to twenty thousand. “Diana.” I placed the pen down. “I need more time to think.” “Owen…” “I know the company wants me to sign today,” I stood up. “But I have a right to consider this.” Diana’s face darkened. “The company’s clear instruction is that this must be finalized before the end of the day…” “The workday still has four hours left.” I walked out of the HR office. Behind me, Diana’s voice chased me down the hall: “Owen, you need to think this through! Making a scene won’t help anyone!” I didn’t turn back. Back at my desk, I opened my computer and looked at the code. Three years. I could remember when and why I wrote every single line. In the winter of 2021, my first month on the job, I worked twenty straight days to push out the first version of the inventory system. Wally Stone patted my shoulder and said, “Owen, do good work, and the company will reward you.” In 2022, during the Christmas holidays, everyone else went home. I guarded the server room alone, fixing a system glitch. Sierra brought me Christmas dinner in a container. Wally sent me a $50 gift card and said, “Tough break.” The entire year of 2023, I didn’t take a single full weekend off. Every module of the customer data platform was built during an all-nighter. I lost fifteen pounds that year. Sierra almost left me. Now they were telling me: “You’re done here.” My phone buzzed. A message from Sierra: “Hey hubby, I made your favorite pot roast tonight. Come home early.” I stared at the screen and suddenly laughed. Come home early? Today might be my last time in this office. “Owen.” Reid Harrington had appeared behind me. “Have you signed?” I didn’t turn around. “Still considering.” “What’s there to consider?” His tone was laced with impatience. “The terms the company offered you are more than generous.” “Generous how?” “You worked for three years. The company invested in you for three years. We’re offering fifty-six thousand and a bonus. What more do you want?” I finally spun my chair around and looked at him. Reid was 35, three years older than me, and had parachuted in as the Tech Director three months ago. He was supposedly a fraternity brother of Wally Stone’s brother-in-law—some convoluted connection that bypassed any merit. He didn’t understand the tech. His favorite thing to do was call a meeting. At least three “Technical Review Meetings” a week, where we’d report our work, and he’d nod sagely and say, “Hmm, I think we can optimize that solution.” Optimize what? He couldn’t read a single line of my code. “Reid,” I said. “Do you know what the code I wrote is worth?” He paused, then smirked. “Your code? That’s company property, Miller. It has nothing to do with you.” I smiled back. “You’re right about that.” I turned back to the screen. Reid stood there, apparently waiting for me to say something else. I kept silent. Ten seconds later, he walked away. The office was quiet, punctuated only by the click of keys. I opened the company’s code repository and stared at the folders. Inventory System. Customer Platform. Financial Settlement. And the in-development Supply Chain system, already 70% complete. All mine. Every line of code, my heart and soul. But Reid was right. It was “company property.” I closed the page, picked up my phone, and texted Sierra: “Going to be late tonight. Something came up.” She replied instantly: “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” I typed a few words, then deleted them. “Nothing. Just a bit busy.” I put the phone down, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes. Three years. What did I actually get out of it? 2 At two o’clock, Diana was back. “Owen, have you decided?” She held the severance agreement, her expression more severe than it had been this morning. “Diana, I have a question for you.” “Go ahead.” “When I started, Wally promised me a 0.5% equity stake in the company. Does that still stand?” Diana’s face flickered. “Equity?” “Yes. A verbal promise at the time.” “Verbal promise…” She gave a dry, nervous laugh. “Owen, you know that a verbal agreement has no legal standing.” “And what about the agreement on paper?” I countered. “I signed a full-time contract, not a probationary one.” “Well…” “Diana, I can file a labor claim.” The air went silent for three seconds. Diana’s composure finally broke. “Owen, what exactly are you implying?” “I’m implying that the company’s offer is unfair, and I need to renegotiate.” “The company has been more than generous!” “Fifty-six thousand, a year of service slashed, and my eighty-thousand-dollar bonus cut to twenty thousand.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “Is that generous?” “You!” “Diana.” I cut her off. “I know you’re just an employee, not the decision-maker. Please relay my demands to Reid and Wally Stone.” “What are your demands?” “First, N+1 severance pay—three months’ salary, $84,000. Second, the annual bonus paid at last year’s standard, $80,000. Third, I’ll drop the equity claim.” Diana’s jaw dropped. “Are you out of your mind?” “Am I out of my mind?” I laughed. “Diana, do you know what I did here for three years?” I opened my laptop and pulled up the project documentation. “The Inventory Management System, launched January 2022, saved two million in labor. The Customer Data Platform, launched March 2023, boosted conversion by 35%, generating fifteen million in direct revenue. The Financial Settlement System, launched August 2023, shortened the payment cycle by 38 days, improving cash flow by thirty million.” I turned and looked at her. “In three years, I’ve generated at least twenty million dollars in value for this company. Do you think my request is unreasonable?” Diana’s face was flushed red. She was speechless. “I’ll wait for their response.” She turned and left. I knew this negotiation wouldn’t be simple. But I needed the time. My phone buzzed. It was an unfamiliar number. “Hello?” “Mr. Miller, this is from the executive search firm. We spoke last month. Do you have a moment to talk?” I paused, then remembered. A headhunter had contacted me a month ago, mentioning a CTO role. I’d brushed it off then, happy at my current job. “I do.” “Our client is moving very quickly on the role we discussed. They wanted to know if you’ve given it any further thought.” “What was the compensation again?” “Forty-two hundred a month, three to six months’ annual bonus, plus stock options.” I was silent for a few seconds. Forty-two hundred. A 50% raise on my current salary. “Mr. Miller?” “I’ll consider it. I’ll call you back this evening.” “Wonderful. I’ll look forward to your call.” I hung up, leaned back, and stared at the ceiling. Maybe this was my out. But before that, I had one more thing to do. At three o’clock, a message popped up in the corner of my screen. It was the company’s tech team chat. Reid Harrington: “@All. Technical Review Meeting tomorrow at 2 PM. We’ll be discussing the Supply Chain system progress. Owen’s section will now be handled by Kevin. Kevin, please prepare to present.” I stared at the message and smiled. Kevin. The new guy, only six months on the job, who mostly shadowed me. He was going to take over my project? He barely understood the database architecture. Below the message, a few people replied with “Got it” emojis. No one tagged me. No one asked what happened. In the office, my colleagues were hunched over their screens. No one looked my way. I understood. The news had been disseminated. I was the “terminated” guy, the one with the “attitude problem,” the one who was “making a scene.” No one wanted to be associated with me. “Owen.” Tim approached my desk, his voice a low whisper. “What is it?” He glanced left and right to ensure no one was listening, then spoke. “I need to tell you something. Please don’t tell anyone I said this.” “Go on.” “Reid… he’s been targeting you for the last three months.” “What do you mean?” “When he first came in, he told Wally Stone you were ‘insubordinate’ and ‘resistant to management.’ Then, in every meeting, he would ask you deliberately difficult questions, and then tell Wally you had ‘technical shortcomings.’” I was stunned. “And,” Tim continued, “he revised your project reports. He deleted your name and replaced it with his own.” “When did this happen?” “Last month. Wally asked him to present the year-end performance, and Reid took your documents and claimed he was the ‘architect’ of the success.” I took a deep breath. Three months. He had been planning this since the day he arrived. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Tim’s eyes shifted. “I… I only found out today. Reid’s assistant told me. She can’t stand him either.” I said nothing. “Owen, just be careful,” Tim whispered. “Reid’s not a nice guy.” I nodded. “I know.” Tim left. I sat at my desk, my mind a storm of thoughts. Three months ago, when Reid parachuted in, I was the one who went up to him and offered my help with any technical issues. He had smiled and said, “Owen, I look forward to working with you.” What was that smile hiding? The code repository page was still open on my screen. I looked at the folders and suddenly remembered something. When I signed the contract, there was a very ambiguous clause regarding code ownership. The gist was: Code developed by the employee during employment is the property of the company. However, if the code involves the employee’s personal intellectual property, a separate agreement is required. What qualified as “personal intellectual property”? The core algorithms I used in those systems? Many of those were concepts I had researched and developed before I even joined the company. I just integrated them into the corporate projects. Strictly speaking, those algorithms weren’t “developed during employment.” I opened the contract and re-read the clause carefully. Sure enough, the wording was vague. If it came down to a legal fight, the company might not win.

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I’d been on a brutal cut for almost a month, so my planned cheat meal was more than a reward—it was a necessity. When the delivery vanished into thin air, I was furious. I paced the floors, downstairs and back up, calling the delivery guy repeatedly. After a frantic half-hour of searching and confirming, the intern finally tagged me in the large office group chat: Willow Maybrook: Ugh, I’m so sorry, sis. I grabbed the wrong order. Willow Maybrook: And I accidentally ate two bites, poor-kitten-face.jpg. Willow Maybrook: My bad, I’m just too careless! Thanks so much for treating me, Viv! Willow Maybrook: Hehehe, love you~ 1 Before I could even reply, the intern, Willow, sent another image to the group. She’d angled her phone to get a shot of herself next to my meal. My $120 custom Wagyu protein bowl was gone—dismantled and scraped clean, leaving only two garnish pieces of lettuce at the bottom. She was puffing out her cheeks in the photo, holding her index fingers together in a pose of exaggerated contrition. Willow Maybrook: Oopsie, my mistake! I was totally dizzy from working on the report all morning. Willow Maybrook: I smelled the deliciousness and completely zoned out. Only realized it wasn’t mine after I was totally stuffed. Willow Maybrook: Seriously, though, Viv Chase has the best taste. That was amazing! Willow Maybrook: Thanks again, Viv~~ Willow Maybrook: When I get promoted, I’ll buy you a fancy latte. I promise to work super hard! Reading those last few lines, my brain went completely blank. Wait. Is she serious? My customized Wagyu bowl cost more than a hundred dollars. She was offering me a latte? And only if she got promoted? Starvation had already fueled my anger; now, I was steaming. I tagged her back immediately. Vivian Chase: You’re welcome, I guess. Since I never planned on treating you. I pasted the delivery link into the group: Vivian Chase: It’s the first set. Go downstairs and buy it right now, or order a rush delivery. I want that meal on my desk in the next thirty minutes. I dropped my phone and headed to the breakroom to find a snack to tide me over. God knows how hard this diet cut had been—I’d wrung enough sweat out of my gym towel to fill a bucket, all for this one glorious cheat meal. I grabbed a protein bar, ordered a veggie juice, and headed back to the office, timing my return perfectly. Instead of the savory scent of Wagyu, I was greeted by the judgmental stares of my colleagues. “Vivian, don’t you think that’s a bit much? Why the massive power trip?” “Seriously, the poor girl is practically in tears.” “We’ve been trying to calm her down for ages, she just won’t stop. Now, how are you going to fix this?” 2 Power trip, tears, fix this. The words were English, but the combination made zero sense to me. When I reached Willow’s desk, she was, predictably, crying into her arms. It wasn’t just crying; it was rhythmic, punctuated by perfectly timed little sobs. When someone patted her shoulder, she angled her head slightly, revealing her bloodshot eyes. “Please don’t comfort me, guys, Viv Chase still hasn’t forgiven me…” I reached out and gently—yet firmly—hooked a finger under her chin to lift her face. “Are you okay???” “Viv… sis…” “Are you okay? I don’t have any food. Why are you the one crying??!” Willow froze. The picture of delicate, pitiful distress cracked instantly. She managed a strained pull at the corner of her mouth. “I’m so sorry, Viv. I truly mixed it up. I had no idea it was yours.” “If I’d known, I swear I would never have touched it. It was a complete accident.” I could hear the passive-aggressive undertone, but I was too hungry to dissect it. “So, where is my meal? What’s the ETA?” I made a move to take her phone to check the delivery progress, but the colleagues chimed in immediately. “Come on, Viv, it’s just one meal.” “Willow is this upset, and you don’t even care—you’re still only thinking about food.” Just one meal? They clearly didn’t know how utterly demanding the client for our new project was. To land that contract, I’d spent weeks physically testing their fitness equipment, writing reports, filming promotional content, and subsisting on rabbit food. The moment we signed the papers today, I’d been counting on this meal for survival. If the fire had been in my stomach moments ago, it was now burning at the top of my head. I forced a smile at the colleague. “Sure, it’s just one meal. Barely a hundred bucks. Why don’t you be a sweetheart and run downstairs, buy it for her, and bring it up?” The person who’d just scolded me for being petty instantly clammed up. “It’s easy to be generous with someone else’s hundred bucks, isn’t it? Why are you suddenly silent?” “Enough.” Willow, who moments ago had been a tear-streaked damsel, stood up, shielding her colleagues. “Viv, it’s my fault. Don’t take it out on them. I really didn’t know it was so expensive. I never order anything over twenty dollars.” “So, you’re saying you mistakenly looked past the packaging, mistakenly opened the container, mistakenly ate every bite until it was empty, and then only mistakenly realized you’d taken the wrong order when you saw the receipt?” The Wagyu bowl I ordered was expensive not just for the ingredients but for the distinctive, eco-friendly packaging. It was miles away from the cheap twenty-dollar containers she claimed to use. She’d have to be blind to confuse them. Willow was speechless. Then, a thought struck me. I turned to the colleagues. “Hang on. Are you telling me one of you stole Willow’s meal? Is that why you’re so desperate to defend her?” Accused of theft, the group bristled. “Vivian, what are you talking about? That’s crazy!” I pointed out the obvious flaw in Willow’s story: “You said you took the wrong order. Where is yours, then?” The others finally caught on. Right. If Willow took the wrong meal, her own must be sitting on her desk. Willow stammered, “I… I forgot to pick it up.” Based on her terrified expression, I knew she was inventing the whole thing. “Alright. Fine. Go get it now.” I raised an eyebrow. “Bring your food back and we’ll swap. You can eat my twenty-dollar special, and we can call this even.” 3 Willow reluctantly got up. To prove their own innocence, the other colleagues followed her to search for the food. The company had a dedicated pickup station just outside the door for convenience. It was well past the lunch rush, and the station was completely bare. Willow peered underneath the counter, behind the cabinets—anything to avoid admitting the truth. Naturally, she found nothing. “How can it be gone?” I called out, stripping away her pretense. “You never ordered anything, did you?” Her face flickered, but she doubled down. “Of course I did!” The others immediately backed her up. “Vivian, you don’t need to be so cynical.” “Yeah, just solve the problem. Why are you harassing her?” I sighed. “I’m just trying to eat my lunch. Aren’t you the ones harassing me?” “We’re trying to help! Maybe Willow’s meal was taken by someone else!” I pulled out my phone and opened the company group chat. “The chat shows only you mistakenly took a meal. If everyone ordered something, there should still be one left here.” “Or, are you suggesting someone else in this company stole Willow’s twenty-dollar lunch?” “If that’s the case, then this is easy. We can’t have a Takeout Thief in the office. I’ll have HR pull the surveillance footage right now. That should clear Willow’s name once and for all.” The colleagues thought this was a great idea. They urged Willow: “Willow, check your order. We can look for the person based on the packaging!” Willow froze, unable to pull out her phone. I poured fuel on the fire: “What’s wrong? You don’t even know what you ordered?” “Stop with the passive aggression!” the colleagues shouted. They were so eager for proof to shut me up that they kept pushing Willow to open her delivery app. Cornered, she finally pulled out her phone. As I leaned in, ready to expose the lie, her hand suddenly trembled. The phone clipped the protruding edge of the counter. Clatter. It rolled to the floor, the screen instantly spider-webbing into a thousand tiny cracks. 4 “My phone!” Willow frantically scrambled to pick it up. Seeing the shattered screen, she burst into louder, more theatrical sobs. “My mom bought this for me years ago! It’s ruined! What am I going to do?” No one had even touched her. I knew a performance when I saw one. This wasn’t clumsiness; it was calculated panic. The moment the colleagues saw the tears, they forgot all about the missing meal. “Don’t cry, don’t cry. We can get it fixed quickly. It’s probably fine.” “As long as the motherboard isn’t damaged, all your stuff will still be there.” “Vivian, this is your fault! If you hadn’t dragged her here to look for the meal, her phone wouldn’t have been dropped!” I laughed coldly. “If you’d chipped in to buy her a replacement meal, she wouldn’t have had to come down here.” Besides, looking at the beat-up thing, that screen repair probably costs less than the meal she stole. “How can you be like this? No wonder everyone says you…” My colleague paused, then settled on the insult: “You’re un-cooperative and lack ‘office foresight’!” If not being their errand girl, coffee runner, or personal assistant was a lack of foresight, then I was certainly guilty. I was here to work, not to cater to their needs. “Since you’re all so full of foresight, why don’t you crowdsource the repair cost for her phone?” I was done watching their cheap drama and turned to walk away. After this, I figured she wouldn’t dare try for a free lunch again. I was focused on getting back to work and walked quickly. I didn’t need to look back to feel the hatred of Willow’s glare boring a hole through my spine.

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My sophomore year of college, my grandfather called out of the blue. He wasn’t asking how I was—he was commanding me home to discuss his will. Honestly, the thought that I was even in the running for a piece of Arthur Kincaid’s estate had never once crossed my mind. My mother, Laurel, died when I was little, and my contact with her family was virtually non-existent; we exchanged a two-minute, obligatory phone call on Christmas Day, then hung up like strangers. I took an academic leave, enduring a grueling seven-hour train ride to Hickory Creek. A sea of relatives I didn’t recognize were already packed into the old Kincaid compound. When I walked in, Art looked mildly surprised. “You actually came?” “You told me to,” I said. “You said I had to be here today.” He pulled the woman next to him, who was wearing a crisp, expensive-looking linen dress, closer. “This is Avery Wells. Laurel’s girl.” He then addressed me. “This is your grandmother.” 1 I’d heard years ago that my grandfather had remarried, taking on a woman named Lilly Shaw. My father had considered bringing me down to meet her at the time, but when he called, Art said the wedding was done and dusted, no need to make the trip. My father had hung up and scoffed, “Didn’t even invite us. I guess we’re not family.” After that, my dad rarely mentioned Art. He made me the one to call on holidays. When I told him Art had summoned me home for the will, he only said, “Be careful on the road.” Lilly Shaw sized me up, her gaze lingering a little too long. “Came by train, I see? Did you remember to book your return ticket?” I was genuinely taken aback. What kind of relative, meeting a family member for the first time, asks about the way out? “Not yet,” I said. “Tickets are easy. Plenty of trains heading back to the city.” Lilly pointed to the corner. “Well, you can rest over there, then.” The Kincaid compound was huge—a sprawling, multi-structure home built on ancestral land, with front and back yards and a central Great Hall. I sat on a rough wooden bench in the front yard corner, watching the constant stream of people flowing past, none of whom felt remotely connected to me. As twilight settled, the front yard emptied, and a chill set in. The heavy oak door to the Great Hall was closed. After a long wait, I finally heard the noise of a celebration—shouting, laughter, and the clatter of silverware. I walked up and peered through the crack in the door. They were feasting. A huge table packed with people. Art and Lilly sat at the head, facing the door, their faces flushed with the pleasure of good food and company. It was a proper country feast, the wine flowing freely. I had been traveling all day and hadn’t eaten a thing, yet no one had bothered to call me inside for dinner. I pushed the heavy oak door open. “If there’s nothing else, Grandpa, I’ll head back to school.” Art’s wine glass froze mid-air. He looked genuinely embarrassed. Lilly Shaw, however, was the quickest to react, sliding over with a saccharine smile. “Oh, you silly goose, why didn’t you just come in? You can’t wait for an invitation! Arthur’s been so scatterbrained lately, he’s forgotten he needs my permission just to sit down. Have a seat, darling, and eat up.” She pulled out a chair for me. I picked up my chopsticks, ready to dig in, when Art slammed his palm on the table. “Stop! Did you even greet everyone? You just sit there like a bump on a log?” Except for Art, I didn’t know a single person at that table. “You never bother with us, and when we call you all the way back here, you act like a mute,” he shouted, pointing his chopsticks at me, as if my presence were some grievous offense. “No manners. Just like your mother.” I dropped my chopsticks. Hard. I stared straight at him. “Like whose mother?” The feasting stopped. The room went dead silent. No one gets to talk about my mother. That was my rock-bottom boundary. And of all people, Art Kincaid knew exactly why my mother died. I was hungry, but I wouldn’t eat this food. I grabbed my backpack and walked toward the door. “You stand right there!” Art roared. “You think you can just show up and walk out? You’re here to disrespect your elders? Apologize to your grandmother!” I turned back, speaking each word with cold precision. “I am not here by choice. You called me. If my presence is such an issue, why did you even bother? You said you had an estate to settle, Arthur. But you look healthy as a horse. Why did you really call me?” Unable to argue with me, he turned to the room. “Look at this! See what kind of daughter she raised!” “I’m going back to school. Consider this visit erased. You can divide the estate however you please.” I turned and walked out, fuming. I was exhausted, agitated, and I still had no idea what the purpose of my long, insulting journey had been. At the main gate, Lilly called out. “Avery, wait a minute.” She rushed up and grabbed my arm. “It’s dark. Where are you going to go? Come on, eat something, stay the night, and leave tomorrow. Your grandfather really did call you here for a reason. Don’t antagonize him. Come with me, let me introduce you properly.” Lilly was surprisingly strong; she pulled me back to the Great Hall. I had no choice but to follow. “These are the Kincaids,” she gestured, “your grandfather’s sons, their sons, and his brothers’ children. You’ll call them Uncle, Aunt, and Cousin.” She moved her hand. “And over here, the Shaws. My side. We’re all family now. You can just call them all Uncle, Aunt, and Cousin.” Before she finished, one of the Shaw men laughed. “So you’re Laurel Kincaid’s girl? Your mother was famous, you know. Gossip about her spread from Hickory Creek all the way to Shaw Settlement.” The man next to him snickered. “I heard your father cried himself to sleep every night.” Lilly shot them a hard look, then pushed me onto a chair and sat next to Art. “Before everyone gets too drunk, Arthur, tell them why they’re here.” Art nodded, placing his wine glass down. “Everyone quiet down. I’ve called you all here today to settle my affairs and Lilly’s, mainly to divide up the estate. We’ll have peace of mind, and you’ll stop worrying about it.” The table instantly became quiet and deferential, like students waiting for a lecture. “Lilly and I have sorted through everything: the land, the liquid assets, the business, the vehicles, and some smaller personal items. The business is primarily Lilly’s. I never understood it, and I wouldn’t dare touch her assets, but Lilly said that since we’re married, we’re family, and there’s no my or yours. It’s all Kincaid-Shaw, one big, happy family.” Everyone applauded enthusiastically. I felt like the alien in the room. “Lilly and I have decided on the following…” Art began to announce the division. “This house will go to the oldest boy, Art Jr., in exchange for him taking care of us until we pass. The new home down by the creek goes to the second boy, Ben. The condo we bought in the county seat goes to the third, Chad. “Lilly’s business, Hickory Creek Clean-Plate Supplies, has always been run by her oldest boy, Robert. Lilly has already given him twenty percent of the shares and will transfer another thirty-one percent, giving him fifty-one percent control. The remaining forty-nine percent will be family shares, held by her two other children, and nine percent managed by Art Jr. “Lilly’s ancestral home, where her youngest boy is currently living, will be his to either live in or sell. “Lilly’s daughter, who is married and lives out of state, received a house and a car as a dowry when she married, so she will not receive any more property. “Our liquid assets and all other property will be used for our retirement. Any remaining balance will be split equally among the six children. Does anyone object?” The entire table shouted, “No objections, thank you, Dad! Thank you, Mom!” Art chuckled happily. “Good. Now eat.” So, that was it. I was never a factor. The entire point was for Art to put on a show of his immense wealth and the generosity of his new wife, while explicitly leaving out his own flesh-and-blood granddaughter. I felt nothing but a wave of relief. I had never wanted his money, and having to deal with it would have been a hassle. I grabbed my chopsticks and attacked the nearest platter of fried chicken and ribs. I had been humiliated for the better part of a day, and I wasn’t going to leave without at least recouping a decent meal. I caught several people watching me out of the corner of their eyes, waiting for my reaction. After tearing through a mountain of food, someone finally broke. “Avery,” Lilly asked with faux sweetness. “You don’t feel… slighted? You don’t mind that you received nothing?” Art banged the table again. “Stop eating! Your grandmother asked you a question!” I swallowed the piece of chicken I was chewing. “No, I don’t mind. It’s your money; divide it up however you want. I have no opinion.” “Don’t act so high and mighty,” I heard Lilly’s daughter whisper from across the table, rolling her eyes. Art was clearly unhappy with my lack of outrage. He needed me to play the part of the resentful, abandoned granddaughter. “You say you don’t mind, but you came running the minute I mentioned the will! You can’t even be bothered to call on Christmas, but you show up like a lapdog when money’s involved. You’re being dishonest!” I didn’t look up from my plate. “You said you were dividing the will. I thought you were dying.” Robert Shaw, Lilly’s oldest son, slammed his chopsticks down. He pointed at me. “Watch your mouth, you crass little animal! Who’s dying?” I didn’t know this man, so I didn’t waste any energy getting mad. I just looked at Art, then back at Robert. “He’s your step-father, not mine. If I’m an ‘animal,’ what does that make your mother’s husband?” “You little…” “Enough!” Lilly cut him off, her veneer of graceful, virtuous wife starting to crack. “Avery, it’s not that Arthur and I don’t want to give you anything. But you are a Wells, not a Kincaid, and not a Shaw. You’re an outsider. It wouldn’t look right, dividing Kincaid and Shaw assets with an outside name. People would talk.” “I already told you, you can divide your assets however you want. I truly don’t care,” I repeated. “But I’m confused. If this has nothing to do with me, why call me here in the first place?” “We invited you for two reasons. One, your grandfather and I missed you. Two, we wanted you to witness it. You’re a college student, studying in the city; you’re going to be successful. We want you to see that everything is settled.” I finally understood. Lilly Shaw was worried that a successful college-educated granddaughter might one day return to claim what was hers. This whole dinner was a calculated theater performance designed to have me witness my exclusion and hopefully, watch me throw a pathetic, futile fit. They were sorely disappointed. Based on the terms I heard, the total assets were worth a couple of million. No wonder everyone’s spine was so straight. “I’m full. Uncles, Aunts, Cousins, enjoy your meal.” I put down the bowl, grabbed my backpack, and walked out. “Where are you going? It’s dark! We need you for something tomorrow…” Lilly called out, but this time she didn’t follow. I gave a dismissive wave as a goodbye. It was dark. Dark in the country isn’t the same as dark in the city. In the city, there are always lights. In the country, when the sun goes down, it’s truly black. Working from a memory many years old, I stumbled around the village a few times until I found a wooden gate that looked familiar. “Open up! J-Rod! Open the door!” A figure stumbled out, fumbling with the latch, and stared at me in the dim yard light. “You’re… who is that?” I kicked the gate. “Don’t you recognize your Aunt Avery?” He pulled the porch light closer to my face. “Avery Wells? How did you find me?” “I remember you used to have a pickup, right? I need a ride to the county seat.” “Right now?” “Is there a problem? I’ll pay for gas.” Jesse “J-Rod” Rhodes looked back toward his house, then turned back to me. “The pickup’s long gone. I’ve got a beat-up old Chevy now. What’s the rush?” “Just tell me if you’ll take me. If not, I’ll find someone else.” As I turned to leave, he grabbed my arm. “Yes! I’ll take you! Wait, let me get my keys.” I hopped in the passenger seat, and J-Rod pulled the car onto the road leading out of the village. “How long has it been?” I asked. “Thirteen years. Man.” “Thirteen years. We were just kids then.” Thirteen years ago, the summer I was seven, my mother brought me here to live for a short time. Because I was the “city kid,” the other village children wouldn’t play with me. Only J-Rod followed me around every day. That summer, he took me climbing trees and wading in the creek—the perfect, authentic country childhood. Afterward, I sent him gifts every year, and he always referred to me as “Aunt Avery” in his letters. “Thirteen years, and you still found my place. You’re amazing.” “What about you? Got a girlfriend?” “Yeah, my folks set it up. We’ve been talking for six months. Planning to get married next year.” “Congrats. You’re efficient.” J-Rod got a little shy. “Don’t laugh. We don’t do all the city romance stuff out here. You meet, you see if you can get along, and that’s that. She’s from another village. We don’t see each other much; she calls, we talk for a minute, and then she has to get back to work.” The ride took almost an hour, and we talked the whole time, from childhood memories to adult life. J-Rod let slip a lot of local gossip, including the fact that Art’s sprawling house had encroached on several of his neighbors’ properties. I found a motel in the county seat, slept, and took the morning train back to school. That pointless, exhausting estate meeting wasted two days of my life. I recounted the entire saga to my father. He listened and then, without hesitation, said, “They just wanted you to waive your right to the money so you wouldn’t stick around and hassle them later.” It was absurd. Two days after I got back to school, Art called again. “You left without saying goodbye! That was so disrespectful. You didn’t sign the papers. You need to come back immediately and sign.” “Sign what?” I asked. “The Estate Distribution Agreement.” “I wasn’t included in the estate. Why would I sign?” “You weren’t included because you’re a Wells, not a Kincaid or a Shaw. That’s not our fault. But you are my granddaughter, and you still have to sign. Waiving your claim is part of the distribution, and it’s your responsibility.” I struggled to keep my voice even. “Grandpa, if you’re worried, hire a lawyer in the county seat to draft a certified will. Or get a notary. It’s your money; give it to whomever you want. It has nothing to do with me. I will not come back, now or in the future, for your money or Lilly’s. I have too many classes. I can’t sign.” “Why are you being so difficult? It’s just a signature! If you don’t come back and sign this, don’t ever come back to Hickory Creek!” “I’m late for class. Gotta go.” I hung up, irritated. The more I thought about it, the more bizarre it seemed. Even if Art was senile, he had three able-bodied sons, and the village had a mayor. Why were they so fixated on my signature waiving my claim? Unless there was something that already belonged to me, something Art had been holding onto, and he didn’t want to include it in the will because it wasn’t his to give away. It hit me like a train. I stood up and shouted, “Exactly!” The whole class stared at me. My academic advisor, standing at the front, looked confused. “Avery Wells, do you have an objection to the material?” Mortified, I stammered, “No, Professor. I just… I think you’re absolutely right.” “Oh, good. Since you’re so enthusiastic, I’ll have you write the piece for the university literary magazine.” I slumped back down, my mind racing. That document Art wanted me to sign—it had to contain the clue. But I had already rejected him. I couldn’t just turn around and agree to sign. The bell rang. The class president, an earnest guy named Sam, walked up. “Avery, what are you going to write for the lit mag?” I blurted out, “A will.” Sam’s face went pale. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, don’t think about doing anything stupid, okay? If you’re under pressure, I’m here. That lit mag thing is just a formality, you just need to meet the word count.” “The will is the trick,” I muttered. “They’re going to contact me again. I know it.” The words were barely out of my mouth when my phone rang. Unknown number. “Hello, is this Avery? It’s your Granny Lilly.” I was almost delighted. They did call. “Avery, darling, Granny Lilly wants to apologize. We didn’t take care of you when you came home. It was all my fault. I knew you were a smart college girl, and I was so afraid of saying the wrong thing that I let Art handle you, and he, well, he gets a little drunk and forgets things. Please don’t be angry.” Slight praise followed by an apology. She definitely wanted something. “It’s fine, Granny Lilly,” I replied. “It was a busy house. I’m rarely there, so it’s normal for the relatives not to know me. I’m back in class now. Is there something you needed?” “Such a smart, polite girl. Just like a college student should be.” Lilly chuckled. “Well, your grandfather and I actually put together a big cash bonus for you—one for getting into college, and one to help you out while you’re there. I was waiting for you, but you left so fast! I was going to take you out for a nice dinner at the country bistro. When are you coming back?” “Granny Lilly, I have too many classes. If I take time off, I lose credits. Maybe when the semester ends.” “Okay… your education is what’s important. That’s what matters.” She paused. “Well, then I’ll just mail you the agreement, and you can sign it and mail it back. Honestly, your signature doesn’t change anything. I don’t know what’s gotten into Art lately, he’s just obsessed with signatures and fingerprints. He even makes me sign a contract for his groceries. Don’t worry about it. I’ll just transfer the cash bonus directly to you; it’s easier than mailing cash.” Back to the agreement. It was clearly vital to them. “Sure, Granny Lilly. Mail it over. I’ll sign it as soon as it arrives. I’ll text you my address.” Lilly hung up happy. A few days later, a thick manila envelope arrived from Hickory Creek. Inside were two identical, densely-typed agreements. [I voluntarily waive all claim to the inheritance of the Kincaid ancestral land in Hickory Creek, I voluntarily waive all claim to the land used for the ancestral home, I voluntarily waive all claim to all of Arthur Kincaid’s personal property, I voluntarily waive all claim to the condo in the county seat…] [I voluntarily waive all claim to the inheritance of Lillian Shaw’s ancestral land in Shaw Settlement, I voluntarily waive all claim to the land used for the ancestral home, I voluntarily waive all claim to all of Arthur Kincaid’s personal property, I voluntarily waive all claim to…] Paragraph after paragraph, thousands of words. It even included waiving my right to vote or run for the village council. Was all this necessary? I was holding the document when Sam, the class president, rushed up. “Avery, are you feeling better now?” He’d been keeping a close eye on me, worried I was going to have a breakdown. “I’m telling you, the lit mag thing is just bureaucratic nonsense. Just fill the word count with garbage—long, pointless filler—praise the school at the beginning and end, and you’re done. If you’re really angry…” Sam leaned closer and lowered his voice, “…hide one line insulting the administration in the middle of all the filler. They’ll never find it.” Hide one line in the middle of all the filler… My eyes widened. I slammed my fist into his shoulder. “Thank you. Thank you for the idea.” Sam grimaced, rubbing his arm. “Just glad you’re feeling better.” Filler exists to hide the truth. That was it. I tore through the convoluted text. […I voluntarily waive all claim to the inheritance of Lillian Shaw’s Audi A6 sedan…] […I voluntarily waive all claim to the shares and the right to inheritance for Hickory Creek Clean-Plate Supplies, LLC…] […I voluntarily waive all claim to the Shaw Settlement Village Council voting rights…] […I voluntarily waive all claim to…] My eyes fixed on the word shares. Every other asset was phrased as “waive all claim to the inheritance.” Only the factory included the term “waive all claim to the shares and the right to inheritance.” “Hickory Creek Clean-Plate Supplies, LLC… Sam, do you know how to look up a company’s information?” He pulled out his phone. “It’s easy. I have a subscription to the corporate database. The Student Council makes me hunt for sponsors all the time. What are you looking for?” Sam typed Hickory Creek Clean-Plate Supplies into the app. The screen refreshed. The name jumped out at me. My mother, Laurel Kincaid, was listed as a shareholder.

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The day my wife’s “Golden Boy” finally returned, I knew enough to pack my suitcase and prepare for a discreet exit. But Savannah, Savy, pressed her hand flat onto the lid of my luggage. “Where are you going so late?” “He’s back. It’s time I stepped aside.” Before she could respond, my in-laws were already making their presence known. “Nonsense!” Mr. Winston Weston, my father-in-law, grabbed the handle of my Tumi and dragged it back toward the main hall. Mrs. Caroline Weston, my mother-in-law, clutched my arm with both hands. “Our family recognizes only one son-in-law, Dean. That’s you.” Savy laughed, a soft, familiar sound, and wrapped her arms around my waist, hugging me tight. “Silly. I forgot Garrett years ago. I only love you now.” I, however, found myself staring blankly, mentally drafting a list of all the ways I knew Garrett Maxwell would inevitably try to frame me: Taunt me about being a stand-in. Splash wine on himself at a dinner party and accuse me. Feigning a fall down the main staircase to blame me. … The Westons gasped, the sound sharp and collective. Caroline immediately pulled out her phone and snapped a photo of the list, sending it to her Chief of Staff. “Effective tomorrow, the entire house is to be fitted with discrete surveillance devices and GoPros,” she instructed, her voice crisp. Savy looked at the last point on the list, a wry smile touching her lips. “If you hadn’t used a little dramatic flair to get my attention back then… I might not have gotten over Garrett so quickly. Relax, Dean. He’s a good person. He would never hurt you.” This misplaced faith was my life, exactly. And then I met Garrett Maxwell. “You must be Dean Sullivan, the younger husband?” Garrett offered, his smile easy and radiating the kind of natural charm only inherited wealth can buy. “You know, you actually look quite a bit like me. Savy, you’ve done well for yourself.” 1 The moment Garrett’s words hung in the air, Winston, Caroline, and Savy all froze. I sighed internally, giving Savy a look that said, See? Told you so. Prediction number one. Yet, the moment stretched, and Garrett’s expression softened. He walked closer, placing a warm, seemingly genuine hand on my shoulder. “My apologies, Dean. I meant that Savy is lucky to have married such a handsome husband. You two are a very good match.” His tone was sincere, his eyes warm and guileless. It was enough to make me momentarily dizzy. The Golden Boy was not following the script. Savy leaned into me, her breath warm against my ear. “See? I told you you were overthinking it. Garrett is a genuinely good man. He won’t make things difficult.” The relief on my in-laws’ faces was palpable. Caroline patted my hand. “Dean, dear, you’re just too sensitive. Let it go. We only see you as our son-in-law.” Halfway through the reception, I excused myself to the powder room, needing a moment to collect my frazzled nerves. In the hallway, I ran straight into Savy’s former mentee, Miles Jennings. Miles had always treated me with thinly veiled hostility, and his eyes now held blatant scorn. “Well, well. If it isn’t the understudy husband.” He leaned against the wall, sizing me up with a sneer. “The leading man is back in town. How do you still have the nerve to show your face? If it were me, I’d have taken the hint and been halfway out of the state already.” I glanced at him, my gaze deliberately cold. “You’re awfully concerned with my departure, Miles. Is it possible you’re just jealous I’m the one who married Savy?” Miles’s face immediately flushed a furious red. He clenched his jaw. “You! Fine, Dean Sullivan. Just you wait.” Later, I decided to grab a glass of wine and step out onto the balcony for some fresh air. As I approached the buffet table, Garrett was a few feet away, his back to me, engaged in polite conversation with a group of older guests. I tried to slip past, but suddenly, a sharp, hard shove landed between my shoulder blades. “Ah!” I gasped, my body lurching forward. The red wine in my hand flew up in an arc, landing precisely on Garrett’s expensive, bespoke white suit. A crimson stain instantly bloomed across his chest. The room went silent. Garrett stared down at the ruined fabric, his face draining of color. Guests immediately turned, the low hum of conversation dissolving into shocked whispers. “Dean!” Miles’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and accusatory. He rushed forward, his face a flawless mask of shock and outrage. “You—you can’t be so jealous of Garrett that you’d deliberately throw wine on him in public! That’s unforgivable!” I staggered, catching my balance. I instantly recognized this clumsy setup. Miles had been the one to push me. I took a deep breath, turning to Savy and her parents, who were now hurrying over, their expressions a mix of confusion and dismay. “It wasn’t deliberate,” I stated calmly, my eyes locked on Miles. “Someone shoved me from behind.” “Who shoved you? Everyone saw you walking straight toward Garrett with the glass in your hand!” Miles was relentless, his voice escalating with fake indignation. “Savy, Mr. and Mrs. Weston, you have to stand up for Garrett! This is completely unacceptable!” Savy looked at me, her expression complicated, a flicker of something that felt like judgment crossing her eyes. She then looked at the thoroughly humiliated Garrett, her brows knit tight with concern. A hollow, sinking feeling settled in my gut. Of course. When the Golden Boy is victimized, rational thought goes out the window. I offered Savy a wry, bitter smile, leaning close to whisper. “See? Item number two on the list. Late, but right on time. Now, can you release my suitcase? Just let me leave.” The surrounding guests buzzed with open gossip: “The son-in-law is using such petty tactics? He’s so insecure.” “Must be jealousy. The man is clearly green with envy. The stories about Savy and Garrett are legendary.” “Shh, I heard Dean is just a stand-in…” “Silence!” Winston’s voice boomed, cutting through the chatter. “Dean is not the type to do this! Until we have a clear explanation, no one is to jump to conclusions!” Caroline immediately gripped my hand, her voice ringing with determination. “Exactly! This entire area is covered by our security cameras. We will review the footage right now! We’ll find out who’s behind this!” Just as the house manager prepared to follow the order, Garrett, who had been silently dabbing the stain on his suit, finally looked up. He first shot a quick, indecipherable glance at Miles, then turned to me, his voice perfectly even and calm. “Mr. and Mrs. Weston, Savy, please, don’t bother with the cameras.” He paused, ensuring he had everyone’s attention. “Just now… I think someone accidentally bumped into Dean, and that’s why he lost his grip on the glass. It was an accident, truly. He didn’t mean it. Everyone, please, don’t misunderstand him.” Miles’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “Garrett! But…” Garrett cut him off gently but firmly. “Miles, I appreciate your concern, but it was just a fluke.” He then gave me a slightly strained, pale smile. “Dean, it’s fine. It’s only a suit. Don’t think another moment about it.” The truth had been glossed over, my immediate guilt erased, yet this act of kindness made me distrust the Golden Boy even more. Savy visibly relaxed, pulling me close to her side. “See? I told you Garrett was kind. He would never hold it against you.” Caroline patted my back in a gesture of maternal reassurance. I watched Garrett being led away by a server to deal with the stain, then glanced at Miles’s livid, miserable face. I felt no relief. Garrett… why didn’t he take the easy path and frame me? Why did he protect me instead? 2 After Garrett Maxwell’s seemingly noble honesty and subsequent “rescue,” he secured the good graces of everyone in the Weston family, including my in-laws. Caroline patted my arm. “Dean, darling, Garrett is such a respectable young man. You had it all wrong about him. You really must learn to be more generous.” Winston, reading the Wall Street Journal in the living room, added without looking up, “He and Savy are old friends. He has nothing but good intentions. Stop being so paranoid.” Savy was the most relieved. As she tucked me in that night, she sighed, “Now you can finally relax, right? I knew Garrett wasn’t a bad guy.” But I couldn’t relax. Staring at the ceiling after everyone was asleep, I pulled out my notebook. I placed a small checkmark next to item number five: Everyone starts protecting Garrett; I am painted as “irrational.” In the days that followed, Garrett became a fixture at the Weston estate. He arrived promptly at nine, either with a rare-batch single-malt scotch for Winston or the Dutch orchids Caroline adored. He and Savy would fall into easy conversation about their college days, laughing uproariously, only to stop the moment I approached. Garrett would turn and smile at me. “Dean, Savy was so clumsy back then. She once forgot the microphone for a big event, and I had to dash across campus to borrow one.” At dinner, he’d serve me my favorite pan-seared halibut, murmuring, “Savy mentioned you have a sensitive stomach. Eat a little more.” His familiarity felt so natural, so intrinsic, it was as if he were the master of the house, and I was the guest. My grip on my fork tightened until my knuckles were white. When Savy went to the home office, I followed her, my voice trembling. “Did you keep me here just so you could watch Garrett play the role of your husband?” Savy, who was flipping through a binder, froze. She turned, her eyes holding a flash of impatience. “Dean, are you having a breakdown? Do you have some kind of persecution complex? He moved on years ago. Why are you constantly dredging this up? It’s exhausting.” She slammed the door shut behind her as she left. The first major confrontation happened during the Sunday family meeting. Winston tapped the mahogany desk, announcing that Weston Corp.’s new overseas project required an experienced leader. Garrett walked in carrying a tray of iced tea, and as he set it down, he casually dropped a remark. “It’s funny, I actually liaised with the Asian director of that specific financial group when I was in London. He mentioned he was looking for a trusted team to partner with.” Winston’s eyes lit up. He turned to me. “Dean, why don’t we have Garrett join the company and help out? His experience is directly relevant.” “Absolutely not!” I shot up from my chair. “We can’t let an outsider handle a major corporate project. He’s…” The words caught in my throat, strangled by Savy’s sudden, furious gaze. Garrett’s eyes immediately welled up. He began anxiously twisting the corner of the apron he was still wearing. “Mr. Weston, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just saw how tired Savy has been lately, and I wanted to help out. After all, years ago…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but his shoulders gave a delicate, dramatic shake, as if he were fighting back immense, undeserved sorrow. Savy’s face hardened. “Dean! Garrett is a professional, and he’s trying to help our family. Why are you suddenly so petty and jealous?” Caroline rushed to pull me back into my seat. “Dean, Garrett means well. Stop thinking the worst of him.” Looking at the room full of eyes siding with Garrett, I dug my fingernails deep into my palms. That night, I added two more points to my list: He will use “helping” to infiltrate the company and He is an expert at feigning injury/victimhood to sway opinion. But it didn’t matter. I had already decided I was leaving. Whatever game Garrett was playing, I would no longer be a pawn. 3 The next day, a sharp scream woke the entire house. Caroline stumbled into the living room, hysterical, claiming the antique Art Deco sapphire and diamond necklace—a family heirloom passed down for three generations—was missing from her jewelry box. We tore the house apart, from the wine cellar to the garage, even searching the housekeeper’s quarters. Finally, Savy’s assistant found the necklace, tucked away in a hidden compartment of my personal cufflink box. Wrapped around the delicate chain was a single strand of my short, dark hair. Caught red-handed. What a cheap, clumsy frame-up. I couldn’t believe I was facing this on the very day I planned to walk away. Savy held the necklace, her knuckles white, looking at me like I was a stranger. “Dean, if you wanted jewelry, I would buy you anything. Why would you steal Mom’s heirloom? It’s the most precious thing she owns!” “It wasn’t me!” I said, my voice ice cold. “Someone planted it. Garrett was in my room yesterday afternoon!” She recoiled, taking a hard step back. “Garrett was downstairs with Mom all afternoon, arranging flowers. He was never alone! Dean, will you please stop falsely accusing him?” I watched her silence, watched the deep disappointment in my in-laws’ eyes. My heart felt skewered by an ice pick. At that moment, Garrett walked over, gently taking Caroline’s arm. He hesitated, clearly struggling with himself, before speaking softly. “Mr. and Mrs. Weston, Savy… I think I saw Dean lingering by your jewelry room the day before yesterday… Maybe it was just a moment of poor judgment. Please don’t be too hard on him.” Winston slammed his fist onto the coffee table, making the teacups rattle. “Dean! We’ve given you everything! We don’t lack for money! How could you do something so shameful?” I let out a cold laugh. “Mom, Dad, you installed surveillance cameras everywhere, didn’t you? Let’s check the footage.” I stared hard at Garrett, expecting a flicker of panic. He was completely calm, a picture of wounded innocence. “Why bother checking anything? The only person with dark intentions in this house is you, constantly acting paranoid, believing everyone is out to get you,” Savy snapped, exasperated. “You stole the necklace because Mom complimented Garrett. Dean, you have disappointed me profoundly.” A trumped-up charge. There is no defense. My explanations were useless. I decided to give them what they wanted. “Fine. Yes, I took it.” I walked back to my room and pulled my luggage out. I couldn’t bear another second in this house. The suitcase had barely reached the front door when Savy and Garrett followed me out. “Not this again, Dean,” Savy ordered, gripping the handle of my luggage. “You’re going to explain yourself before you leave.” I yanked my case free, ready to shout, when a car, screeching horribly, ran a red light and careened off the road toward us. The sound of the brake was deafening. In the ensuing chaos, Garrett lunged, tackling Savy to the ground, rolling them both safely into the bushes. I was thrown by the impact and momentum, landing hard on the pavement. My knee slammed down, and blood immediately stained my jeans. Savy scrambled up, instantly checking Garrett. Seeing the blood seeping through his shirt, her eyes flashed with pure hatred as she turned to me. “This is all your fault! If you hadn’t been making a scene trying to run away, this wouldn’t have happened! If Garrett is seriously hurt, I will never forgive you!” Ambulance sirens screamed nearby. As Garrett was being loaded onto a stretcher, he spoke weakly. “My blood type is rare… I don’t know if the hospital has a match…” Savy immediately grabbed my wrist, her fingers biting into my skin. “You’re coming to the hospital. You’re going to give him blood!” “I won’t!” I struggled violently. “His emergency has nothing to do with me!” Savy clamped down on my shoulder, dragging me toward the ambulance. The rough asphalt scraped my pants leg, and the wound on my knee screamed in protest. Caroline ran up, clutching my arm, her voice chillingly cold. “We have treated you well, Dean. Give Garrett the blood, and I will give you the sapphire necklace. We can pretend this entire incident never happened.” Killer manipulation. This is it. Watching them use the one thing I despised—an attempt to buy my obedience—to save Garrett, I felt a devastating mix of derision and hopelessness. Winston arrived, cane in hand, his usual gentle demeanor gone. He slammed his cane on the ground. “You defiant fool! At a time like this, you’re still being selfish! Garrett saved Savy’s life! You will donate blood! If you refuse, I will publicly disown you and have you leave this house with nothing!” Seeing my continued resistance, Savy finally nodded to two nearby security men. “Let go of me! Savy, let me go!” I yelled, my voice raw, tears mixing with the dust on my face. “Did you forget the last item on my list?! The most innocent-looking people hide the darkest intentions!” Savy flinched, looking down for a fleeting moment of pity, then waved her hand, ordering the men to forcibly push me into the ambulance. At the hospital, a nurse approached with a needle. Staring at the cold, silver tip, a profound chill washed over me. In a haze, I saw Garrett being wheeled into the bed next to mine. I heard him whisper. “Do you know why I went abroad?” “To find someone.” He paused, a strange, chilling smile touching his lips. “Remember when I said you looked like me the first time we met?” My heart plummeted. Just then, Savy’s Chief of Staff rushed in, his voice panicked. “Boss! The overseas project… it’s gone!”

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Six years after the Forrester family had coerced me into divorcing my husband to make room for their preferred, real daughter, I saw them. Liam Prescott, my ex-husband, and my brother, Grant Forrester, walking straight toward me across the wide lawn of the city park. Liam held our seven-year-old daughter, Phoebe, while he looked at the quick, stylized sketch I was working on. He shed the sharp edges he’d once possessed, sat on the small stool in front of my easel, and scanned the twenty dollars I charged for a sitting. “Since you’re back in the States, why didn’t you reach out?” He looked genuinely exhausted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His eyes, framed by his thin glasses, landed on me with a desolate, unmistakable sense of regret. “I never meant to drive you away, Anya.” I held my palette, my voice flat. “Sir, what style of caricature are you looking for?” 1 I treated them like strangers. But my brother, Grant, was as aggressively volatile as ever. He kicked my easel over, his eyes burning with familiar contempt. “Stop pretending you don’t know us. Sera has already forgiven you for… that mess with her scholarship and your miscarriage.” He spat the word out like poison. “Now, she’s being dragged into a scandal about an affair, and it could wreck her Gold Prize nomination. Come back with us, clear her name, and we’ll allow you back in the house.” “You haven’t seen your daughter in six years. Don’t tell me you don’t miss her.” “After all, you knelt outside our estate for ninety-nine days just to fight for custody, didn’t you?” He stood over me, triumphant. But my daughter had already forgotten how to call me Mommy. Her eyes fell on the loosely wrapped bandage around my wrist, and her face twisted in childish disgust. “Daddy, Uncle Grant, her hands are gross.” “Sera Auntie’s hands are way prettier.” I remembered the sound of the bone cracking—the intentional, brutal shattering of my hand. I tightened my jaw and wrapped the bandage back into a tight cuff. “I won’t go back, and I won’t clear anything up for you.” “I gave up on my daughter a long time ago.” The days I’d spent swallowing blood and tears with every bite of food—they were long buried. Liam’s gaze lingered on the scars hidden beneath the bandage. He took a step forward, as if to touch me. “All right, Anya. Stop throwing this tantrum.” “Don’t say things like you don’t want your daughter. She’s the baby you carried for ten months.” A bitter, familiar taste filled my mouth. What did ten months matter? It never stacked up against Sera’s sweet, calculated whispers. Grant’s brows knitted together. He kicked the small tin I used as a tip jar, his voice laced with impatience. “Why waste time talking to her? Just take her. If we weren’t worried about the press dragging Sera through the mud, who would willingly come to this dump?” “It’s filthy.” The deep-seated arrogance of the wealthy Forrester heir was still palpable. I bent down to pick up the tip jar, which had rolled into a patch of muddy earth. My voice remained flat. “I’m not coming with you.” That was all it took for Grant to ignite like a firecracker, the explosion a painful echo in my chest. “Anya Wells, don’t push your luck! Do you have some back-alley dog-boyfriend here you can’t leave? You can barely make a few bucks a day. I don’t believe you can live like this—you’re probably running some kind of dirty hustle to get by.” At the accusation, Liam’s initially soft expression turned dark. He seemed to agree with my brother. He grabbed my wrist with one hand and began to drag me toward the park exit. A sharp, spreading pain flared across my skin. The tip jar tumbled to the ground again, scattering ten and fifty dollar bills. “Liam, let go of me! I am not going back!” He ignored me completely. Grant strode ahead, deliberately stepping on the paper money, grinding the bills into the dirt. A flash of orange fur burst from the flower bushes. Hiss! The stray cat I fed, Rusty, clawed at Liam’s arm. Seizing the chance, I yanked my arm free. But as I turned, Grant’s foot slammed into my knee. I collapsed with a loud thud, hitting the dirt road. On one side, I was down. On the other, the little cat was sent flying several feet. I struggled to get up, large tears splashing onto the ground. “Rusty!” I managed a single step before both Liam and Grant cornered me and dragged me toward the SUV. My struggles were pointless. The stray cat lay in a pool of blood. The money I’d saved to buy my grave plot was smeared in the mud. It felt exactly like six years ago. I was shoved into the back seat of the familiar SUV. My daughter, Phoebe, strapped into her safety seat, immediately began to wail when she saw me. “Daddy, I don’t want to sit next to this ugly monster! She smells!” Liam glanced into the rearview mirror, putting on a show of scolding her. “Phoebe, that’s not polite. That’s your mother.” Phoebe wrinkled her nose and huffed. She spoke just loud enough for all of us to hear: “She is not my mom. Only Sera Auntie deserves to be my mom.” Grant scoffed with derision. Liam tightened his grip on the steering wheel and attempted to explain. “Phoebe just isn’t used to you, Anya. She’ll warm up.” I turned my head to look out the window, my tone detached. “It’s fine. I was never her mother. Wasn’t that exactly what you told me?” Six years ago, also in this car, when Phoebe was barely a toddler, Liam had said it directly to my face. “Anya Wells, do you honestly think you’re fit to be a mother in your current state?” “Phoebe is a child, she doesn’t understand. If she wants to call Sera ‘Mom,’ let her. Do you have to make a scene in front of her?” Liam’s furious expression flashed in my mind. We drove the rest of the way in silence. The house I had once meticulously decorated was unrecognizable. The delicate Honeysuckle bushes I had planted in the garden were gone, replaced by rows of aggressive red roses. The swing beneath the old oak tree was removed, and the tree itself had been cut down. Everything was changed, a scene of desolation. I looked around with cold indifference and lowered my eyes. I followed them inside. Liam opened a small door in a forgotten corner. The room was thick with dust, and cobwebs lined the ceiling. He covered his mouth and coughed, waving away the dust motes floating in the air. “Your old room is Sera’s music studio now. Just manage here for a while.” “In a few weeks, once all this is sorted…” I cut him off. “It’s fine. I don’t need anything else.” My only true destination was to be a handful of ashes. The condition of the room made no difference to me. Grant hated my aloof composure, as if it implied they had all wronged me. He rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Liam, let her stay here. It’s been years, and her dramatic act still hasn’t worn off.” Liam sighed heavily but didn’t contradict him. “Stay if you want to.” I simply hummed in acknowledgement and closed the door. I couldn’t decipher the look in Liam’s eyes. He was the one who drove me out of the country, wasn’t he? Why the show of guilt now? I stopped trying to understand. Slumping onto the narrow twin bed, a sudden, brutal wave of pain crashed over me. My face went white, and cold sweat soaked the pillow. Knock. Knock. The sound jarred me awake. I forced myself to open the door. Grant stood there, holding a thin, cheap throw blanket. “Who are you trying to play the victim for with that ghastly look?” he blurted out when he saw my pale face. He tossed the blanket at my feet. “Here. Don’t get sick and then blame it on Sera.” “I’m warning you, don’t try anything funny, and don’t go near Sera. You know exactly why we brought you back.” The familiar words of threat washed over me. I had heard this warning countless times. From initial defiance, I had become numb. I knew how to respond now. “Got it.” I slammed the door shut. I lay back down, the blanket remaining on the floor. A person who was about to die had no reason to fear a cold. In the morning, a pounding on the door woke me. “Miss Wells, are you awake? Do you still think you’re the princess of the house?” The stiff wooden bed and unfamiliar room meant I hadn’t slept well. “I’m awake.” I opened the door to see the familiar, frigid face of Mrs. Olsen, the nanny. Her expression was one of ingrained disgust. “Then get to the dining room. Don’t hold up everyone just for you.” Six years hadn’t softened her. Mrs. Olsen had always cared for Sera like a daughter, viewing me as an intruder. When I was first found, she’d once thrown dishwater on me, convinced I should have stayed lost and never come back to take Sera’s place. I didn’t have the energy to argue. The pain from my cancer was relentless. Every breath felt like shattered glass. In the dining room, Sera was seated between Liam and Phoebe. She was blushing prettily as Liam fed her a piece of his sandwich. “Liam, darling.” She saw me and her eyes darted away in a brief moment of panic. “Sister, you’re back. Are you mad at me? I was forced to marry Liam, I really thought…” Screech! The sound of my chair scraping against the floor was painfully loud. “Not at all. You said you two were ‘soulmates,’ didn’t you? Why would I be mad?” Sera’s eyes immediately welled up. Liam slammed his cutlery onto the table, his face clouding over. “Anya Wells, if you don’t want to eat, then don’t.” I allowed myself a cold, mocking smile. I sat down, ignoring them all. I took a bite of a sandwich, and the sweet, cloying taste of the mayonnaise and tomato sauce made my stomach churn violently. I pushed the chair away abruptly and rushed to the restroom, where I dry-heaved over the toilet. “Sister, do you think… she could be pregnant?” Sera’s suggestive voice drifted in from behind me. I splashed icy water on my face, letting the shock ripple through me. She was still a master of twisting the narrative. She ruined my hand because she was jealous of my talent. Now she wanted to ruin my reputation by suggesting I was pregnant out of wedlock. Her methods were transparent, but people believed her. Sure enough, upon hearing Sera’s words, Liam frowned, a hint of repulsion in his eyes. “Anya Wells, a woman should maintain some decorum.” A bitter laugh caught in my throat. Decorum? Did that word even apply to me? Where was their sense of decorum when they threw me to the wolves that night? “It has nothing to do with you.” Liam scoffed angrily, throwing out a single word before leaving. “Fine.” I returned to the table and sat back down. “Sister, now that you’re back, why don’t you perform with me at my concert in a few days?” Sera looked at me expectantly. “We used to be called the Duet Stars.” I froze, my gaze falling on the hands perpetually wrapped in bandages. These hands would never hold a violin again. Before I could hide the fleeting look of despair, Phoebe’s clear voice rang out. “Sera Auntie, this ugly monster doesn’t deserve to play with you. I saw her hand last time—it’s super gross.” The innocent voice felt like a needle in my heart. “Yes, I can’t play anymore.” My voice trembled slightly. No one knew the breakdown I had suffered when I realized my hand was permanently ruined. I had wanted to die right then. But I remembered the words of Mama Elena, the director of my old orphanage. “Everyone dies, sooner or later. But if you can come home for a peaceful rest, then you’ll be reborn into a happy family.” I believed her. I wanted a family that truly loved me. I washed endless stacks of dishes until I earned enough for a ticket home. Back in the States, I worked as a street artist. I had my eye on a beautiful spot beneath an old Magnolia tree for my grave. I was just five hundred dollars short. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Sister. I… I completely forgot.” Sera’s apologetic voice registered in my ear. “It’s fine, Sera. You don’t need to apologize. Her inability to play is her own doing.” Liam’s cold words followed. My heart was so scarred that any harsh word, no matter how cruel, was absorbed without reaction. “Stay here and keep to yourself for the next few days. I’ll come for you when we need you.” Liam gave me a final threat. “And behave. You don’t want to see St. Jude’s torn down, do you?” The name of my old orphanage made my chest clench. Liam still knew exactly where to twist the knife. “Understood.”

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