I selected a diamond ring at the auction house, intending it to be my wedding band with Marcus Ashford. But no matter how high I bid, the young woman Marcus sponsored always topped my offer by a single chip. Marcus laughed, a sound laced with indulgent exasperation. “Babe, the kid has a thing for sparkly bits. Let her have it, be sweet.” In return, I executed the scorched-earth close. Daisy Monroe ran out of the room that day, crying. Marcus kissed my forehead with a look of helpless affection. “My impulsive little firecracker.” He didn’t follow Daisy. And for the next year of our marriage, he made sure I knew he hadn’t, relentlessly demanding, night after night, an exhausting variety of attention, never letting up for a moment. Then the invitation to a private event arrived. There, an intimate photograph—a blurred shot of my face lost in pleasure beneath Marcus—was brazenly displayed as an auction lot. Marcus stood with an arm wrapped possessively around Daisy’s waist. “You like your scorched-earth tactics, don’t you?” he said, his smile cold and predatory. “Three hundred and sixty-five private photos. If you don’t want them falling into the wrong hands, you can take your time buying them back.” 1 I stood rigid in the auction hall, listening to dozens of men in tailored suits talk openly and vulgarly in front of the massive screen. “God, she’s filthy! I’ve been around the block a hundred times, but this is the first time a single photo has gotten me this worked up.” “Tsk, tsk! I wouldn’t have guessed. Eliza Sutton looks like a choir girl, but she’s filthier in bed than a high-end escort. And she had the nerve to tell me to get lost the one time I tried to touch her at a charity event.” “Ashford’s got all the luck. He gets to break in a debutante from a family of academics.” A man nudged his neighbor and gave a suggestive wink toward Marcus, who sat alone at the main table. My hands clenched into fists, trembling as I turned to look at my husband. The seat that was once mine was occupied by Daisy. Marcus made no effort to hide his satisfaction, his lips curving into a subtle smirk. “For the winner of each photo,” he announced, his voice carrying clearly across the room, “we’re including the full video recording from that night.” “Ashford, you’re a legend!” The men erupted in cheers. Marcus’s beautiful eyes fixed on mine, a thread of amusement woven into his gaze. “Don’t look at me like that, Eliza. I told you, you can use your scorched-earth tactics. Three hundred and sixty-five pictures. Take your time.” “Oh, Ashford, surely you know! The Sutton Group went belly-up recently. Miss Sutton barely has two cents to rub together!” “One of those scorched-earth bids costs five million dollars! She’d be lucky to have ten million in liquid cash left.” Marcus raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Oh? Is that so?” “Damn shame. Three hundred and sixty-five shots, each one better than the last. Honestly, I’d love to buy the whole collection and observe them at my leisure.” A man stroked his chin, sighing. “Too bad, Ashford is the only one here with that kind of capital.” Marcus chuckled, raising a hand. “Gentlemen, Ashford Holdings will not participate in the bidding for any of today’s lots. All proceeds will be donated to a vetted charity. Bid freely.” The room exploded with renewed cheers. “That’s a true entrepreneur! Thank God Ashford secretly squeezed out Sutton Industries’ partners, or we might not have gotten a hold of these photos today!” “What are you worried about? We’ve got dozens of guys here. We can all share!” “No way! That third shot is too wild. I’m taking it!” Only I stood there, my fists trembling, staring at Marcus in disbelief. “The Sutton Group’s collapse,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “Was that your doing?” Marcus simply looked back, the smirk playing on his lips. Tears streamed down my face, my voice raw and coarse. “Why… because I executed a scorched-earth bid a year ago?” Marcus ignored my plea, taking the microphone. “Time is limited, Mrs. Ashford. If you aren’t going to participate in the auction, I’m going to let my friends start.” The men watched me, their expressions smug and expectant. Each man in this room was a mogul, a titan in our social circle. The paltry ten million I had left was barely enough for one of their weekend trips. How could I possibly compete? “I need a restroom.” I quickly wiped my eyes and turned to leave the hall. I genuinely feared I would lose my mind right there on the spot. A roar of laughter erupted behind me. “The little tramp actually has shame, hahaha!” “Ashford, don’t wait for her. Ten million dollars? She can’t play with us. She’s just embarrassed and using the restroom as an excuse to run.” “Silence.” Marcus’s voice cut through the noise, cold and sharp. He stared intently at the entrance. The entire room fell silent; no one dared to cross him. A moment later, I pushed the door open. I walked back in, my eyes still red, and took my seat under the collective gaze of the room. “Start the bidding.” Marcus glanced at me, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. To ensure clarity, the main screen behind the host had been transformed into a panoramic, wraparound display, continuously scrolling through my humiliation so everyone could “enjoy” it from any angle. “Lot number one.” The host smiled knowingly. “Starting bid, two hundred thousand.” A collective gasp went through the crowd. “Classy! So tasteful! A fine art exhibit! Only the Sutton debutante could make it look this good.” “Two hundred fifty thousand!” The host didn’t smile; instead, he put up a text description. I shot to my feet. It was a detailed narrative of the pivotal moments from my wedding night with Marcus. Aside from me, the only person who could have written those details was… I trembled as I stared at Marcus. He sat there calmly, a look of detached mockery on his face, as if none of this involved him. Only when Daisy leaned in to whisper to him did he turn, his eyes filling with a tenderness he’d never once offered me. The clamor around me was deafening. “I thought the photo was hot enough, but the story is even wilder! Don’t snatch it up too fast—five million! I want the video!” “Six million!” “They started this hot on the first night, I can’t imagine what came later… Ugh! Ten million!” “Scorched earth.” I heard my voice, shaking and weak. All heads turned toward me. The host maintained his professional smile. “Lot thirty-eight executes the scorched-earth bid. Are you certain?” I collapsed back into my seat, my voice a barely-there whisper. “Certain.” “Damn! Too bad, that video was definitely going to be explosive.” “What are you afraid of? How many lots can she cover?” “Exactly. The later ones will be better anyway. The more experience, the hotter the content.” “Lot thirty-eight, scorched earth! Congratulations, Mrs. Ashford, you’ve secured the video package!” I closed my eyes, my fingernails digging deep into my palms. The large screen immediately moved to the second photograph, complete with its accompanying narrative. “Lot number two, starting bid two hundred thousand!” The room erupted. “Is this even real? It’s better than any of the study material I’ve ever seen!” A man sitting close to me poked my arm. “Tsk, tsk, tsk! I never would have thought it. You look so pure, but in private, you’re just a low-down tramp.” I shot him a venomous glare. He roared with laughter. “Hey, I like them just like you! If Ashford doesn’t want you, come to me! I’ll spot you one of your bids. How about it?” “Don’t touch me.” My voice was icy enough to kill. The man snorted dismissively and sat back. “Playing innocent? You’re used goods. Ten million!” “Twenty million!” “Twenty-five million!” “Scorched… earth.” I don’t know where I found the strength to utter the words. The host glanced at me, his smile deepening with a hint of malice. “Lot thirty-eight, scorched earth!” The transaction was complete. He turned back to me with an artificial smile. “That’s two scorched-earth bids, ma’am. Based on our verification, you have less than five hundred thousand left in liquid cash, you know?” My voice was hollow. “Continue.” “Heh.” The disdain on the host’s face was momentarily unchecked as he brought up the third photograph. “Lot number three, starting bid two hundred thousand!” “Scorched earth.” My voice drew the immediate, bewildered attention of the room. The host frowned. “Mrs. Ashford, your initial verification was ten million, four hundred and thirty thousand dollars. You’ve used two bids. The remaining cash is insufficient.” A man winked at me. “Beg me, little sister, and big brother will cover it for you.” I ignored them and looked only at Marcus. He was watching me, too. But there was no sign of help in his eyes, only a curl of contempt on his lips. Everyone looked to him. After all, he was still my husband. “Why are you all looking at me?” Marcus said casually, a lazy curl to his lip. “I said, all lots are open for you gentlemen to bid on.” The men relaxed with a collective sigh. “Thank you, Ashford, for being a gentleman.” It was then that Daisy, who had been sitting quietly beside him, raised her hand. “How about this,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “I’ll execute the scorched-earth bid for my sister.” Marcus looked at her. A brief flash of astonishment was quickly replaced by undisguised delight. Daisy looked at me. “After all, big sister once sponsored my university tuition abroad. I have to show my gratitude, don’t I?” The smile in Marcus’s eyes deepened. His usually cold demeanor melted away as he looked at Daisy, his face full of warmth. The men in the room began to jeer. “No wonder Ashford loves Daisy! Who wouldn’t love such an obedient girl?” “Daisy is such an angel. She blushes at a dirty joke, unlike some people.” The implied accusation was like a sharpened blade stabbing into me. Daisy’s lips curved in a subtle, victorious smirk before she turned back to me. “Don’t worry, sister.” “You’re a hypocrite.” She faltered. “What?” “Your way of showing gratitude is by stealing my seat and hooking up with my husband?” I leaned back in the chair. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t fallen so far as to need help from a cheap traitor and a human garbage heap.” “Eliza Sutton.” Marcus finally spoke, his tone ice cold and utterly foreign. I gave him a fleeting, frigid glance and addressed the host. “It’s my bid. I’ll handle it myself.” “Well…” The host looked troubled. “If you insist on the scorched-earth bid, we’ll have to liquidate the remaining Sutton real estate. However, the value has dropped significantly since the bankruptcy. It’s barely enough to scrape together five million.” “Execute it. Don’t waste time.” “Tsk, tsk, tsk! This woman is insane.” The men shook their heads and scoffed. “Throwing away her last assets just to save face. It’s a pity; that third one was the one I really wanted.” “Don’t worry. We haven’t even gotten to the half-way point. Three hundred more to go. What are you worried about?” “Exactly. I took a sneak peek—the later ones get so filthy she looks subhuman, hahaha!” A chorus of gazes, pitying and mocking, shot toward me. “Just the death throes of a desperate woman.” “Wait for the next one. She’ll just have to watch us take her private photos.” “Tsk, tsk, tsk! I wonder what her expression will be then. Will it be the same as when she was on Ashford’s bed?” Laughter rang in my ears. I swallowed the lump in my throat, gripped my fists, and looked up at the host. The fourth photo was displayed quickly. “Lot number four, starting bid two hundred thousand!” “No way! I love this one! Fifteen million!” “Twenty million!” “Twenty-five million!” “Scorched earth.” I spoke. All eyes immediately swiveled to me. The host’s professional smile was finally beginning to crack. “Mrs. Ashford, please stop disrupting the process. If you continue, we will have to ask you to leave.” I said, coolly, “I’m not disrupting anything. I said I want to execute the scorched-earth bid. And not just for this one. I am bidding on all three hundred and sixty-five photos and videos in this entire collection.” The host and the crowd exchanged glances, then burst out laughing. Even Daisy let out a delighted little gasp and buried her face into Marcus’s shoulder. Marcus’s eyes were so full of gentle adoration they could have melted water, and the frozen mask of his face finally relaxed. “Is she insane? Three hundred and sixty-five lots? That’s over one point eight billion dollars! She couldn’t afford that even before she went bankrupt!” “Only Ashford can play that big! Who does she think she is?” The host took a moment to regain his composure and his professional smile. “Mrs. Ashford, you liquidated all your assets on the last lot. You cannot bid on this one. Now, which gentleman bid twenty-five million? Twenty-five million, going once!” Smash! I snatched the glass of water from the table and hurled it forward. It shattered at the host’s feet with a loud crack, making him leap back. I glared at him. “I said I am executing the scorched-earth bid. Are you deaf?” “Eliza Sutton!” A man’s patience snapped. “We played along for three lots! You’re broke now! Stop putting on a show!” “Fraudulent bidding has consequences. The fact that we even want your photos is a compliment, don’t be ungrateful!” The host’s smile was gone entirely. “Mrs. Ashford, if it weren’t for Mr. Ashford, you wouldn’t even have the right to execute a scorched-earth bid here. If you continue to act out, I will have security escort you out!” I narrowed my eyes. “Who said I’m broke?” Marcus watched me, an unreadable tension in his posture. The crowd paused. “Don’t joke around. This is a private auction, but do you think our asset verification methods are a joke? We know exactly how much you have.” I looked at the host. “If I still have funds, I can still bid, correct?” “Yes, but…” “Re-verify my assets.” I cut the host off. The crowd exchanged bewildered looks. Marcus frowned, almost imperceptibly. I pulled the microphone closer to me. “What’s the matter? Can’t you gentlemen handle a simple re-verification?” “Hmph! Verify it then! We’ll let you lose with honor!” My photo was wiped from the main screen, replaced by my bank account balance. The host stood back up. “Lot thirty-eight, second asset verification.” Everyone stared intensely at the numbers, a nervousness creeping onto their faces. Whispers broke out. “How is she so calm? Does she actually have the money?” “No way… Ashford secretly blocked all her company’s partnerships. Who in this city has more pull than him?” “So she’s just completely lost it? Humiliating herself in public? Maybe… maybe she got a backer we don’t know about…” “Impossible! What backer is bigger than Ashford?” “Verification complete.” Everyone leaned in, holding their breath. Subtracting the cost of the three scorched-earth bids… Account Balance— Zero. “Hahahahahaha!!” The room exploded with laughter. “We thought she had some secret plan. Turns out she’s truly lost it!” A faint sneer appeared on Marcus’s lips. Daisy was laughing so hard she was wiping tears from her eyes. The host gestured to the security detail. “I apologize, Mrs. Ashford. You are disrupting the process. I must ask you to leave. Thank you for your support of this auction. Security!” A line of large men immediately moved to surround me. “Wait.” I sat calmly, looking down at my wrist watch. My index finger tapped the armrest, keeping rhythm with the second hand. After three more taps, I made a “go ahead” gesture. “You may re-verify my assets now.” “Eliza Sutton, what do you think we are, here to waste time with a lunatic?” The host was furious, waving his hand. “Drag her out and toss her.” But the words died in his throat. His eyes slowly widened, and he snapped his head back, staring intently at the screen. “This… How is this possible?” Marcus suddenly stood up. Everyone else was on their feet. “That’s… that can’t be real, can it?”

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Three years later, I found him exactly where I never wanted to be: my emergency room. Rhys Thorne was frantic, his eyes bloodshot with panic, clutching his very pregnant wife in his arms. “Doctor! Please, save her first! I don’t care about anything else—they cannot die. Neither of them!” I pulled my nitrile gloves taut, the snap a small, mechanical sound of detachment. I motioned for the nurse to rush the gurney into the trauma bay. “Family must wait here.” But his grip, strong and hot, clamped down on my wrist, sharp enough to bruise. His voice was a raw, rasping whisper. “Sloan, you know your mother and grandmother’s deaths had nothing to do with Willow! Are you seriously going to use this moment for a professional vendetta?” I slowly, deliberately, pulled my hand free. The sigh I let out was barely audible, muffled behind my mask. “Mr. Thorne, if you don’t trust the staff here, you’re welcome to request a transfer. Now.” He stared, his jaw working, a muscle ticking violently in his temple. Ultimately, he snatched the surgery consent form and scrawled his signature. The operating room light flared to life, then dimmed. I walked toward the scrub sink, letting the aggressively cold water wash over my fingertips. The chilling realization was that the man who had once been the sun in my sky, who had the power to incinerate me with a word, now couldn’t even manage to ruffle my scrubs. 1 The surgery was successful, and the baby was safe, though Willow needed a few days of observation. As I left for the night, Rhys was waiting outside the hospital entrance. “It’s too late. I’ll drive you.” His voice was low, careful. “I have plans downtown, it’s out of your way.” I adjusted my scarf, avoiding his overly focused gaze. Just as I reached the curb, my phone vibrated—the notification flashed, announcing my dinner was canceled. At the same time, his black sedan had maneuvered into the only exit lane, blocking a flashing ambulance that couldn’t pass. The blare of the siren was a sharp, demanding sound. I inhaled sharply, then pulled open the passenger door and slid in. The heat was already blasting, and the cabin filled with the soft, familiar chords of an early 2000s indie track—a song I’d played on repeat back when I believed in infinite chances. “Tell me,” he paused, his voice mingling with the music, “how have you been, all these years?” “Fine, I guess.” I watched the blur of city lights streak past the window. His gaze dropped to my waistline, then flickered to my bare ring finger. A flicker of something—relief? satisfaction?—crossed his lips, pulling them into a faint, self-satisfied smile. “So… why didn’t you ever replace me?” I closed my eyes briefly. “Does it matter to you, one way or another?” His grip on the steering wheel tightened. “You’re still punishing me, aren’t you? Look, we were kids, and yes, I messed up… But Sloan, you’ve always been so stubborn. If it hadn’t been for the mess with your grandmother, maybe we—” He cut himself off, glancing sharply at me. “Don’t you dare bring her up!” My voice cracked on a high, raw note. I pressed my nails into my palms until the pain was a grounding anchor. The draft chilling my skin felt exactly like the icy, hollow gust that had cut through me three years ago when the police officer delivered the news of her death. “Pull over at the next intersection. I’ll walk from there.” Rhys fell silent for a moment. “It’s nearly midnight. You have an early shift tomorrow. This area is close to your old place, why not just—” “No. I’ll get out now.” He ignored me, instead engaging the door locks and finally stopping the car in front of a familiar, imposing stone mansion in Greenwood Heights. I had barely managed to crack the door open when a voice—perfectly pitched, familiar and yet slightly off-key—sounded with just the right amount of surprise. “Rhys? Is Willow okay? Back so soon?” The voice stopped when the owner saw me. Willow’s mother, DeeDee, who had stepped so effortlessly into the role of my father’s wife, flashed a perfectly preserved, practiced smile. “Well, look who it is! Sloan? Three years. Your father… he worries so much about you, darling.” “Funny, I haven’t lost a wink of sleep over him.” I turned to leave, but Rhys was immediately after me, gripping my arm. “It’s late. You have no friends and no family. Where are you going to go?” “I have a home.” Rhys paused, then gave a short, bitter laugh. “You ran out on your wedding three years ago. You’re alienated from everyone but a handful of hospital colleagues. That’s not a home.” His words were sharp needles, pricking at old scar tissue. “Come back,” he urged, his tone softening. “We’re family. Can’t we just be civil?” I lifted my eyes, sweeping past him, past the woman behind him with the poised, calculating smile, and up to the second-floor window where the blurred figure of my father stood, a familiar shadow. My heart seized. I remembered the night before the wedding, finding Willow in my couture gown. The sting of my palm across her face. And Rhys, pushing her behind him, looking at me like I was the intruder, a stranger he barely knew. That night’s wind had been just as cold and unforgiving as this one. I pulled my jacket tighter, crushing the last ember of warmth deep inside. “I have a new home now.” I turned and walked straight into the heavy darkness of the street. I didn’t look back. I knew he wouldn’t follow. Men like Rhys were too proud. They only chased the ones they had to gently console, the ones who were the perpetual victims, like Willow. I remembered high school. He had been the resident bad boy, and Willow, the fragile transfer student, a startled doe. I had stepped up to protect her. “She’s family,” I’d told the bullies. “Back off.” He was a rough kid, and I was always afraid he’d make her a target. I didn’t know until one afternoon, after school, when I saw him crouched down, carefully, patiently tying the loose lace on Willow’s sneaker. When classmates saw Willow walking with me into my family’s estate, they assumed we were cousins. They didn’t know the truth: she was the daughter of my mother’s cleaning lady, a woman my father later married. I gave Willow my protection, my status, and an entry point into my privileged world. But when my mother was gravely ill, Willow and her mother were always near my father. Then came the rainy night in my senior year. My mother let go of my hand and plunged from the rooftop, taking all the light and warmth with her. I slowly distanced myself from Willow, but Rhys stepped up as her sole protector. If someone slighted her, he’d fight them on the basketball court until his knuckles were bleeding. If she cried, he’d vault the school fence to buy her favorite gourmet desserts, patiently soothing her until her tears dried. He never showed me that tenderness. I became quiet, an invisible shadow in the corner of the classroom. On my eighteenth birthday, the house felt empty. I was alone. Rhys arrived with a cake, the single candle flickering. He sang softly. My throat ached, the banked-up grief and loneliness threatening to burst free. But then Willow appeared shyly behind him. She began to sing softly too, her eyes wide and innocent. In that moment, I felt a tidal wave of icy fury. I grabbed the cake, that fragile, flickering centerpiece of my delusion, and hurled it—hard—right into Willow’s face. The vanilla cream and red frosting exploded, a pathetic, sticky spectacle. Rhys instantly pushed her behind him, his voice booming with fury. “Sloan! That’s enough! Are you ever going to stop?” Tears sprang to my eyes. I pointed a shaking finger at Willow. “Rhys Thorne, choose! Right now! Choose one of us!” He looked at me, then back at the sobbing Willow. Finally, he released her hand. But the snow was falling—a quiet, unforgiving curtain—and the look he gave me was not one of relief or devotion, but of deep, raw, unwilling resentment. I was the prize he’d been forced to win. The clock read 1:00 AM. I turned off the lamp and fell into a heavy sleep. The next morning, his sedan was parked outside my apartment building. He rolled down the window, a knowing, smug smile on his face. “Tough talk about your ‘new home.’ Looks like you haven’t moved on from your old haunts, living in a sketchier part of town to save face.” I had chosen this temporary place because I was certain he’d try to track me, and I refused to let him know my true address. I glanced at my watch—I was already going to be late. Reluctantly, I opened the door and sat down. “I thought you’d be at the hospital, watching Willow.” His hand paused on the steering wheel. “I was. She woke up craving the corned beef hash from that twenty-four-hour spot downtown. Figured I’d swing by on my way back to check on you.” I nodded, saying nothing. The car zipped right past the glowing neon sign of “The Hash House.” He didn’t slow down. He didn’t even glance over. At the hospital, I pushed open Willow’s door. She was awake, her face pale and fragile. When she saw me, she gently tugged Rhys’s sleeve. “Rhys, you look exhausted from watching me all night. It’s so good you were here when I woke up.” “You’re fine,” I said, listening through the stethoscope. “You can be discharged tomorrow after observation.” As I turned to leave, Willow suddenly grabbed my wrist, her voice catching with a sob. “Sister, about your grandmother… I failed. I tried to stop her, but I couldn’t… I was drugged that night, you have to believe Rhys! We just didn’t tell you because we couldn’t bear to hurt you more…” The room went silent. Every eye in the room felt like a needle pressed into my back. Grandmother… A decade after the death of my mother, I had watched my grandmother fall from the exact same roof. The familiar, soul-crushing coldness seized my heart again. I violently pulled my hand away and walked out, my back ramrod straight. The smell of disinfectant was overwhelming in the hallway. I stopped in the deserted stairwell. My hands were clenched so tightly in my coat pockets that the deep crescent marks of my nails broke the skin. A small, sticky pain, a necessary distraction from the old, pulsing wound in my chest that had never truly closed. A familiar cramping pain flared in my stomach. I reflexively clutched my abdomen. A hand reached out, holding a small box of antacids. “Still haven’t broken that habit, have you?” Rhys’s voice was deliberately gentle, laced with false concern. I sidestepped, avoiding his hand, and didn’t take the medicine. “You work like a demon,” he sighed, his voice laced with pity. “Why not take a couple of days off? What’s the big deal?” I looked at his genuine, sympathetic expression and felt a spike of bitter humor. “My days off are reserved for things that matter.” He didn’t answer. He reached out to touch my hair, but I dodged him. “You always do this. You never give me an inch. I remember in high school, you had a 102-degree fever but insisted on finishing that exam.” “You collapsed right there in the auditorium. Scared me to death.” “You were miserable, but you wouldn’t admit you needed help.” He spoke to the air, lost in the recollection, his eyes focused on something I couldn’t see. He didn’t notice me looking down at my phone. The screen was bright, a new text message waiting. ‘Honey, meeting ended early. I’ll be home tomorrow.’ I cut into his reverie with a cold laugh. “People always romanticize the past.” “You didn’t do anything, Rhys. You just focused on consoling Willow, who was crying because her grade was lower than mine.” His smile vanished instantly. I stayed away for the next few days. When I finally stepped into Willow’s hospital room, she was being helped up by Rhys. “Why the delay in discharge?” I frowned. This was days longer than necessary. Willow looked at me, her eyes wide and soft. “I didn’t want to leave… I was afraid you’d be angrier if I left without saying goodbye.” She came forward, grabbing my hand, her eyes welling up. “Sister, please, come home with us? Dad… he genuinely misses you.” “Your room is exactly as you left it. I’ve never dared to go in.” Her voice was humble, laced with a subtle, victimized plea. The nurses around us cast looks of silent judgment toward me. I closed my eyes, swallowing the rising acrid taste in my throat. “…Fine.” I had left some of my mother’s things behind. I sat in the back of the sedan, leaning wearily against the window. When I tilted my head, my cashmere scarf slipped, pooling around my collarbone. I moved to pull it back up, but it was too late. I met his eyes in the rearview mirror. They were no longer the deep, familiar brown, but chips of hard, cold obsidian, locked onto the undeniable, dark-red evidence on my neck. His knuckles on the steering wheel instantly turned white, the blue veins popping with effort. He drove too fast. When we reached the house, Willow was pale and nauseous, dry-heaving several times. Rhys instantly helped her out, his voice laced with self-reproach. “Oh, sweetie, are you sick? I’m so sorry, I drove too quickly.” Willow shook her head weakly, but her gaze was fixed on me. “No, no, I’m fine. Just happy that Sister finally came home.” I ignored them both, heading straight for my old room on the second floor. I pushed the door open. Time had stood still. I walked to the desk and picked up the faded photo of my mother and me. She looked at me lovingly in the frame, a genuine light in her eyes. My fingers traced her smiling face, and a sharp, cruel memory pierced my mind. It was after my high school pre-exam scores had dropped. My mother had held the paper, her brow deeply furrowed. “Sloan, you’re spending too much time with Rhys Thorne.” “Please, pull back and focus on your grades, all right?” I was giddy with the delusion of first love, and I bit back cruelly. “What else do you ever do but police me?” “If you’re so concerned, why don’t you try policing your own husband for once!” My mother’s face instantly drained of color. Her lips trembled, but she never said a word. She jumped soon after. I realized now that she had been in unbearable pain, staying alive only for me. And I, her own daughter, had driven the sharpest knife into her bleeding wound. Bang! The door was slammed shut. Rhys pinned me against the wall, his finger tracing the mark on my neck, his eyes dark with suspicion. “Did you do this to yourself? Sloan, what kind of games are you playing now?” I stared, suddenly finding the man I’d loved for so long surprisingly unintelligent. I struggled to push him away, but the door suddenly flew open again. Willow stood there, her hands flying up to her mouth, tears springing to her eyes. “Rhys? Sloan? What are you… doing?” I laughed, a harsh, humorless sound, my eyes sweeping over her pathetic, distressed face and her distended belly. “At least we weren’t naked, Willow. I think that’s the main difference.” I turned my gaze to the window, the coldness in my voice deepening. “Or, you could jump from here. It’s only the second floor. You won’t die. I’ll make sure I catch you in time.” “You selfish bitch!” My father’s roar came from the hallway. “You two are exactly alike! Unreasonable, theatrical, and so damn selfish! Everything that happened—it’s what you deserved!” I closed my eyes, turning away from him. Rhys grabbed my wrist fiercely. “Sloan!” I yanked my hand free and walked down the stairs without looking back. Behind me, I heard Willow’s choked sobs and the hurried, anxious reassurances of her makeshift family. Stepping out the door, the cold winter wind whipped around my collar. I cinched my scarf tight, then pulled out my phone and sent a short voice note. “I have Mom’s photo. Come get me. Home.” I walked aimlessly down the deserted street, my thoughts plummeting into the deepest pit of my past. Soon after the wedding disaster, I pieced together the truth of my grandmother’s jump. That day, I’d gone to see her. I’d left my phone behind, and she called the house several times, but when I answered, she never spoke. Later, she brought the phone back and begged me not to marry Rhys. How did I respond? I told her she couldn’t judge my happiness by my mother’s mistakes. That Rhys and I were childhood sweethearts, perfect for each other, destined. It broke her. Her last hope for me, her only granddaughter, shattered. She had nothing left to live for in this world. Hate burned away my last scrap of sanity. I took the most embarrassing video clips I could find, used a sophisticated deepfake app to place their faces on the ‘actors,’ and anonymously dropped the link into the inboxes of his entire board of directors and the society page editor. Rhys’s response was faster than I expected. He immediately filed a police report. At the precinct, I filed my own, calmly stating the facts of my grandmother’s death. But the officer’s single, dry question—”Do you have direct evidence?”—crucified me. Rhys and Willow sat opposite me, innocent and resolute, denying everything in unison. I was the one detained. Fifteen days later, I walked out. The first notification on my phone was the extravagant wedding announcement: Willow, draped in white, on Rhys’s arm, his smile blinding. Willow’s finger was weighted with the four-carat cushion-cut pink diamond—the one Rhys had commissioned from Tiffany & Co. He’d spent months on the design, saying the blush-pink matched the flush on my cheeks when I laughed. The ring size was small, deliberately so, for a hand he had already chosen. I refused to let it stand. I burst into the reception, throwing the contents of a fuel can onto Willow’s skirt. Fire erupted, and the room was filled with screams. Rhys shoved me aside, taking the full impact of the falling truss and the flaming liquor bottle directly on his legs. Willow later worked tirelessly, spending a fortune to save him from permanent disability. I was arrested for arson and aggravated assault. My lawyer sighed through the iron mesh, suggesting a plea for leniency required the victim’s statement. He accompanied me to the hospital. Rhys, sitting in a wheelchair, delivered a stinging backhand across my face. “You are always so reckless! So demanding! You have never been half the compassionate soul that Willow is!” Willow cried, gently tugging his sleeve. “Rhys, please… Sister didn’t mean it. Let’s sign the forgiveness letter…” He snatched the papers and, directly in front of me, tore them into a thousand tiny shreds. The paper dust drifted down like a final, desperate snowfall. “Get out!” he spat, his eyes burning into mine. “Never let me see your face again.” “Or I swear, I have ways to make you regret this far more than you do now.” I smiled, holding back my tears. Who would have thought that after three years, the first time I saw him again, I would be the one saving the two people I hated most in the world, along with their child. Suddenly, a wide, dark umbrella appeared overhead, blocking the sudden onslaught of snow. A soft, warm hand grabbed my pants leg. “Mommy, carry me…” A warm, grounded voice sounded behind me, laced with concern. “I thought you were waiting in the café. It’s too cold here. Let’s get in the car.” He reached up, gently brushing the snow from my hair. Footsteps pounded on the pavement. Rhys came running out of the house. “Sloan, I—” His words died in his throat. His gaze was locked on the child in my arms and the man holding the umbrella over me. His face was a masterpiece of denial, the blood draining away to leave him ghostly white. He swallowed, the movement convulsing his throat, before he managed to choke out: “They… they’re who?” “I told you. I have a family.” Rhys seemed not to hear, or perhaps refused to accept. His eyes darted to Graham, then back to me. He managed a slow, desperate smile. “He’s… a colleague from the hospital? A doctor?” He tried to look amused, but his anxiety was palpable. “I feel like… I know you from somewhere?” Graham didn’t respond. He simply held the child steady with one arm, his other hand protectively resting on my back. He let his look sweep over Rhys with the cold, measured detachment you reserve for a broken traffic light. Rhys’s hand, which had subconsciously reached out, froze mid-air, unwanted and unanswered. Suddenly, recognition flashed in Rhys’s eyes, and his pupils shrank. “The Forbes cover! Of course. Mr. Caldwell! I… I didn’t realize you had a family. You’re much younger than I expected.” He tried to inject a professional familiarity into his voice. “My wife, she’s in journalism; she mentioned trying to get an interview…” Finally, his gaze snapped back to me. “Sloan, how… how did you two meet?” I looked at his desperate, transparent attempt to maintain composure and found it immensely pathetic. I slipped my arm through Graham’s, pulling him close, and spoke the words clearly, deliberately. “He’s my husband.” I didn’t wait for his reaction, turning and getting into the car. The little one leaned on the window, watching the street with curiosity. “Mommy, that man is still standing in the snow. Is he okay? Why is he frozen?” I looked in the rearview mirror at the figure shrinking in the snow, rigid and still. “I don’t know, sweetie. Maybe he’s made of ice.”

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The wedding date was set. I was scrolling through a local city forum, probably looking for vendor reviews, when a post stopped my breath cold. “My younger brother has everything I don’t, yet he’s thriving more than me. How do I deal with this profound internal imbalance?” “His fiancée is a local, only child, coming with a $300k dowry and a car. I got divorced at the start of the year, and my ex-wife took half my assets.” “I’m better educated than him, but I was laid off last month, and his career is soaring. Why? What gives him the right?” “What is the best way to quietly and completely ruin his relationship?” The top comment, highly upvoted, offered the advice: “The fastest way to derail a relationship is to start a cheating rumor about the woman.” A sudden, icy chill hit me. My fiancé, Owen, has an older brother. He did get divorced early this year. He did get laid off last month. The coincidence was too grotesque to ignore. I pulled out my phone, ready to text Owen everything, when his call came in. “My brother just called,” Owen said, his voice a flat, dead line. “He saw you walking hand-in-hand with a guy and going into the Fairmont last night. He’s my brother, Scarlett. He wouldn’t lie.” A stunned silence stretched between us. “We’re done. I’m too disappointed in you…” 1 I stood paralyzed, the phone pressed against my ear, disbelief burning away the oxygen in my lungs. “Are you listening to yourself, Owen? We’ve been together for five years! You know who I am! How can you accuse me of something so baseless? So vile?” His voice, when it came back, was mocking and cold. “Baseless? My brother saw it, Scarlett. It’s a fact, and you’re still trying to wriggle out of it. Do you actually think I’m an idiot?” “Max has no reason to lie about you! He’s my flesh and blood.” “Five years. You put on a show for five years. That must have been exhausting, Lying to my face every day. Honestly, I almost feel sorry for how hard you worked.” I forced a deep, stabilizing breath. “Owen, listen to me. Please, just calm down. Could Max be jealous of you? He just went through a bitter divorce, and we’re about to get married. He just got fired, and you just got a big promotion. I actually just saw this forum post, and it said—” He cut me off, the words like stones. “Stop it. That’s my brother. He only wants the best for me. He’s not the villain you’re trying to paint him as.” “Scarlett, you’re so desperate to cover your own tracks that you’re trying to turn me against my family? You’re manipulative, and your heart is trash.” “You know what they say: Marry the wrong woman, ruin your life. Thank God I saw your true colors before I signed the papers. Otherwise, my entire future would have been destroyed by a woman who sleeps around.” “We’re through. You honestly make me sick right now.” The line went dead before I could get another word out. Rage shook me, my fingers digging crescent moons into my palms. Five years. All my commitment, all my effort, dismissed and sentenced to death based on a single, unsubstantiated lie from his brother. I thought our foundation was rock solid. Turns out, it was sand. And worse? I meant so little to him. Before I could even process the shock, his text message buzzed through. My mom gave you a $1,001 engagement gift, and the ring I bought you. Send them back. I’m doing you a favor by not demanding compensation for my wasted time. Scarlett, you are a complete joke. Max always knew you weren’t the right fit for a home and a future. He was only keeping quiet for my sake. 2 I actually laughed. A harsh, airless sound. My disgust was total. I yanked the plain diamond solitaire off my ring finger and tossed it onto the nightstand. The cheap thing. I called a courier service immediately. My text back was ice-cold. The ring is on its way. Yes, your mother gave me $1,001. My mother gave you $888. Therefore, I owe you $113. I’ve wired it to your Venmo. The money was instantly accepted. His reply followed instantly: You are unbelievable, Scarlett. You’re counting pennies now? This is the real you, isn’t it? Cold, selfish, petty, and unfaithful. I never really knew you. I rolled my eyes, blocked his number, and deleted his contact without a second thought. This spineless, easily manipulated man was a contamination. I had been blind for five years. If I was merely disappointed moments ago, this final exchange cemented the death of my love. I reopened the local forum thread. The original poster (OP) had updated. UPDATE: “Guys, I told my little brother yesterday that I saw his fiancée with some strange man at a hotel, and he immediately broke up with her.” “I also told him to demand the ring and the engagement money back. That wedding is officially toast!!” “Thank you for all the advice! I used so many ways to sabotage them before, and nothing worked. Turns out, it was this simple…” The comment section exploded in fury. “Wait, OP, I thought you were venting. You actually did that?” “That’s psycho-level cruel! Did the girl steal your life savings? Why would you maliciously ruin her reputation?” “You have serious issues. Your life sucks, so everyone else has to suffer? Seriously, seek help.” “Aren’t you worried your brother will find out and disown you?” The OP replied quickly, reveling in the chaos. “Why should I care? I only said I saw a guy walking into a hotel with his girlfriend. That idiot didn’t bother to check the facts before dumping her. How is that my problem?” “There are a million people who look alike. Maybe I was mistaken?” “And if he disowns me? Good! I look down on him anyway! He’s accomplished nothing compared to me, and he still gets the perfect life? He doesn’t deserve it!” The community turned on him, defending me. “The girl is innocent, cursed to have run into a family like yours.” “If you look down on your brother, deal with him directly! Why use an innocent woman and lie about her?” Max was unrepentant. “She’s not innocent! If she hadn’t been the picture of perfection, me and my mother wouldn’t have started hating my ex-wife so much!” “My ex and I were married for years. She never worked, she gambled, she spent money like water, and she had a terrible temper. I was fine with it for years.” “Until two years ago, when my brother brought Scarlett home. Beautiful, stable job, good money, gentle, and responsible. Why should my little brother, who is inferior to me in every way, get a wife better than mine?” “The moment my mom met the ‘perfect daughter-in-law,’ she started picking fights with my wife. She constantly complained that I had married a ‘queen’ while Owen got an equal. I grew resentful, and the fights with my ex escalated.” “Ultimately, my brother and this woman are directly responsible for my divorce.” At that moment, the last shred of doubt vanished. The original poster was Max. Owen’s brother. And Owen, that idiot, truly believed his brother was only looking out for him. He had no idea his brother was celebrating, planning to stomp him into the dirt and keep him there. 3 Owen and I fell into an easy, passionate love five years ago. Our relationship was steady, thriving even, until he brought me home to meet the family. Two years ago, we had a big family dinner. At the table, Mrs. Miller, Owen’s mom, took my hand, her eyes shining with unconcealed delight and approval. “My Owen is so lucky to have you, Scarlett. Such an outstanding girl—beautiful, a stable job, so gentle and thoughtful.” “A couple who works together, putting their effort into the same place—they’ll never fall short.” “Unlike his brother, who has so much pressure…” Mrs. Miller sighed, glancing pointedly at Max and his wife, Brenda. Brenda, sitting at the table, was scrolling impatiently through a game on her phone. Hearing Mrs. Miller’s passive-aggressive remark, her face darkened. She shot up, slamming her silverware down, and began shouting. “Who the hell are you to shade me? I honored you by showing up for dinner, and this is how you pay me back? By trying to make me look bad?” “What is the big deal? I don’t work! Max married me; he has to provide for me! It’s his duty! If he can’t support his wife, is he even a man? Maybe he should just drop dead!” “What? Do I have to be your slave to be a ‘good’ daughter-in-law? Why don’t you just hire a maid!” “Pfft! She’s the fool who’s willing to be your servant! I’m not!” With that, Brenda stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the windows. Max sat there, embarrassed but silent, while Mrs. Miller just shook her head, sighing. Owen and I exchanged a nervous glance, neither of us daring to speak. In the chaos, I missed the lightning-fast flicker of pure hatred in Max’s eyes when he looked at me. After that day, Max began his slow, subtle campaign to undermine my relationship with Owen. And Owen, little by little, started to listen to him. “Scarlett, Max says you spend too much money. Even if you earn it yourself, you shouldn’t buy such expensive makeup. He says you’re not thinking about the future, not being responsible.” “Max says you shouldn’t wear those sundresses anymore. He thinks it looks like you’re—you know—not serious. He says a respectable woman wouldn’t dress like that.” “I know you’re not like that, but you have to consider my family’s feelings, right? Their opinion matters if we’re going to be together.” We had fiery, screaming fights about it. My eyes would fill with tears of frustration and disappointment. “Your brother says! Your brother says! Do you not have a brain of your own, Owen? Is everything a quote from your brother?” “Am I marrying you, or am I marrying Max?” “It’s my money! Why does he care what I spend it on? Why does he think he has the right to dictate what I wear?” Owen would just sigh, looking stressed and helpless. “Scarlett, don’t talk about him like that. He’s trying to help us!” It took an ultimatum—break up or shut him down—for Owen to finally back off. “Fine! Fine! I’ll tell him to back off. We won’t let him ruin this, okay?” “We’ll live in our own place after the wedding. We just need to focus on us.” “I’m sorry, I was wrong. Can we please just move past this?” At the start of the year, after his own divorce, Max worked overtime to try and brainwash Owen. “Owen, listen to your brother. Don’t settle for one tree when you could have a whole forest.” “Scarlett is fine, but you could do better. Marriage is a cage. If you stay single, the world is your oyster.” Owen had rejected him emphatically, looking at me with what I thought was genuine adoration. “Scarlett, I love you. Giving up the whole forest for you is an honor.” I was so moved, tears welling up in my eyes. I genuinely thought we had overcome the hurdle. How long ago was that? A few months? He had forgotten every single word. Right. He was his brother. I was just an outsider. How could I have expected him to believe me? 4 Owen never texted me again. Mrs. Miller, however, called. She asked me to come over for dinner. I took a deep breath, keeping my tone light and measured. “Mrs. Miller, did Owen not tell you? We broke up.” There was a moment of silence, then her voice grew louder, sharper. “What? Did he do something terrible? Scarlett, tell me, I’ll take your side.” “That idiot! Does he want to kill me? A girl as good as you, and he just threw it away? What more could he possibly want?” “Don’t worry, dear. I’m calling him right now. I’ll give him a piece of my mind.” Before I could say anything else, she hung up, fuming. A half-hour later, Owen called. His voice was dripping with scorn. “Scarlett, you are truly shameless, and deeply manipulative.” “You think playing the victim with my mom will make me forget you cheated on me? That I’ll take you back? You put the worst possible stain on my reputation, and then you cry to my mother?” “You betrayed me, and this is the consequence! I’m warning you: get over it, stay away from my family, and keep what little dignity you have left!” I rolled my eyes. The cold contempt was back. “Who do you think you are, Owen? You think I’d waste my time or a single scheme on you?” “I am relieved I didn’t marry you. I am grateful I saw your true, pathetic nature before the contracts were signed.” “A weak man with no mind of his own, who bites at the first suggestion from his brother? What’s the difference between you and a dog?” I hung up on his subsequent, enraged bellowing. He was truly full of himself. Five years of my life, five years of emotional investment—I’d write it off as the cost of learning a brutal lesson. I packed up every gift he’d ever given me and dumped it into the apartment complex trash chute. Then I called my parents, confessed the break-up, and canceled the wedding. My dad let out a long sigh of relief. “Good. We weren’t convinced by that man. But you were so stubborn, your mom and I had to respect your choice.” “A man with no backbone, who won’t stand up for his partner? You would have been miserable for the rest of your life.” “Scarlett, move forward. Don’t look back. You have so many better options. Don’t waste another second on him.” I cut off all contact with Owen. Just when I thought the storm had passed, Max and Owen showed up at my condo complex gate. Max blocked my path, his face a mask of smug hostility. “Scarlett, you think you can play my brother like a fool, waste five years of his life, and just walk away?” I raised an eyebrow. “What do you want?” He sneered. “You need to pay him back every cent he spent on you over the past five years. Plus, you owe him emotional damages.” I looked over at Owen, my expression purely amused. “Wow, Owen. You’re really that broke?” Owen shifted uncomfortably, noticing the small, gathering crowd of curious neighbors. He tugged at Max’s sleeve. “Max, maybe we should just forget it…” Max elbowed him fiercely. “Forget it? This is our family’s money! Why should this woman who cheated on you get to keep it?” “She spent even one dollar of yours, she’s going to cough it back up!” He then angrily shoved a thick stack of papers into my hand. “Pay up!” he snarled. I glanced at Owen, then calmly looked down at the receipt. I couldn’t hold back the laughter.

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The paperwork was signed, the divorce finalized. As I drove my eight-year-old son back to my hometown, I noticed he was acting… strange. He wasn’t yelling at me anymore. He was quiet. He didn’t even touch the chocolate lava cake he usually tore into. I put it down to car sickness. I was too worn out to care much. But then, a string of bizarre mental subtitles flashed across my vision. LOL, she still hasn’t figured out that isn’t her actual kid? Seriously, why would her biological son ditch a billion-dollar inheritance to go back to her small-town life? Wait, is that THE McCarthy family prince? The one whose dad is rumored to own half the City? His father is going to lose his mind when he wakes up! I blinked, watching the text dissipate. Then, slowly, I turned my head to look at the unnaturally docile child beside me. No way. If I’d grabbed the wrong boy, then how did he end up wearing the custom-designed platinum necklace I’d given my son? 1 It was before dawn on the morning I was handed the divorce settlement. Maybe five o’clock. The sky was a deep, bruised blue, and the city skyline was still swallowed by a curtain of heavy morning mist. My bags were packed. But before I walked out of the Whitman mansion for good, I had a compulsion to stop by Wesley’s room—my son, Wesley Whitman. It was still too early for the full staff. The mansion was silent. I slipped inside. Wesy was sound asleep, the air conditioner whispering. The curtains fluttered softly. I moved closer, my heart giving an erratic little jump. I’d almost died giving birth to Wesy, but before he was three months old, my ex-mother-in-law, Penelope Whitman, had whisked him away. She said it was so I could “rest and recover,” but I knew the truth. She was disgusted by my ordinary background and terrified I’d taint the Whitman golden heir. My ex-husband, Graham Whitman, had simply stood by, cold and silent, saying nothing. Our entire marriage had been a transaction, based on a debt: my father had saved the old Mr. Whitman’s life, and a long-forgotten engagement contract was the final payment. That’s how I ended up as Mrs. Whitman, a glorified housekeeper in this gilded cage. For years, I managed the home, tended to Penelope, and Graham was… gentle enough. But beneath that gentle surface was a core of chilling indifference. I’d convinced myself that this was simply my life. Until he brought her home. Scarlett. She was the unattainable angel of his youth, the one he’d always carried a torch for. The woman he cherished, truly and openly, like an irreplaceable treasure. Watching him truly love someone finally killed the last of my foolish hope. I asked for the divorce, and he agreed with unnerving calmness. The truth was, Wesy and I barely knew each other. Our emotional bond had been severed years ago, and our few interactions were always strained, ending in miserable arguments. He definitely wouldn’t want to leave this lifestyle with me. Even knowing that, I couldn’t leave without trying. I gently shook the small figure awake. “Wesy? Wesy?” I whispered, keeping my voice low. The small person bolted upright, his eyes snapping open. When he saw me, his expression, still blurred with sleep, was nothing but confusion. The room was dark. I could only make out the innocent curve of his jaw by the sliver of light from the streetlamp outside. I braced myself for the usual shriek, prepared to clamp a hand over his mouth. But he didn’t make a sound. A tiny, illicit spark of hope lit up in my chest. I leaned down and coaxed him. “Wesy, my hometown isn’t as grand as the City, but we’ll be free. We can go crabbing in the summer and maybe even ski in the winter. They have amazing food—fresh oysters, seaside barbecues, coconut chicken… Will you come to Cape Harbor with Mom, just for a while?” It was selfish, I knew. Graham’s angel was pregnant, ready to take my place. If Wesy stayed, even as the legitimate eldest son, his life would be a subtle, cold hell. A mother’s heart always worries. Yet, I remembered that afternoon, years ago. I’d driven his forgotten tablet to his exclusive private school. The driver had dropped me off, but when I handed it over, Wesy just snatched it, turned his back, and snarled, “Just go home!” I didn’t understand. I asked, “Should Mom pick you up after school?” Students and parents were milling around, glancing our way. Wesy’s face went scarlet. He bit out the words: “I don’t want you here! Grandma said you’re just a cheap, small-town civilian who needs to stay in her garden. Why are you here? To embarrass me? Is that it?” The shock and cold betrayal had left me reeling. He shoved me away, and I stumbled back, watching him run into the school without a backward glance. The memory was a sharp, cold jab. I looked at the boy on the bed, ready to give up. “If you don’t want to, forget I said anything…” I stood up, ready to walk away. But then, a small hand gripped the sleeve of my cardigan. I turned back, surprised. I met a pair of big, dark, moist eyes. The small boy looked at me, slow and deliberate. Then, he nodded. In that instant, I felt a rush of staggering joy. Of course. What child truly doesn’t want their mother? 2 Before we left, I’d prepared a contingency plan. My family, while not the Whitmans, was well-established back home in Cape Harbor. They were comfortable. Money wasn’t an issue. I could hire the best private tutors, better than any elite school. If he didn’t want the elite life, there was a perfectly viable family business waiting. Besides, his identity as Wesley Whitman, the eldest son, was set in stone. My ex-mother-in-law, Penelope, would throw a fit. I expected a battle. But the escape was unbelievably easy. Wesley and I walked out the front door, one after the other, and no one stopped us. I found it strange, but I just chalked it up to sheer, dumb luck. The City was a long way from Cape Harbor, and the cross-country train was the only sane option. It wasn’t until we were seated, the doors sliding shut, that I finally let out the breath I’d been holding. It was early spring, and the station platform had been cold. A friendly woman next to me on the train, seeing the boy, leaned over. “Taking your son home?” I nodded, taking the cup of hot water she offered. I didn’t drink it, just held it in my palms for warmth. Next to me, the boy had been staring out the window, mesmerized. But the cold station wind must have gotten to him; he now sat huddled, shivering slightly. I smiled, a genuine, soft smile, and reached for his icy little hand. “Cold, aren’t you?” At my gentle tone, the small boy lowered his eyelids. He seemed about to snatch his hand away, but his ear tips were flushing a slight pink. He hesitated. I didn’t notice his strange reaction. I just focused on warming his hand. But soon, his hand was warmer than mine. I tried to pull back, but he reversed the grip, holding mine firmly. He kept his lips pressed together, not saying a word. …He was actually quite endearing. My heart softened completely. I let him hold my hand. 3 The train journey would take over ten hours. I was worried he’d freak out and cry to go back, so I’d brought his favorite food: the fancy, decadent chocolate lava cake. Oddly, he refused to touch it. He just ate the instant noodles and bread with me. Perhaps he wasn’t used to this kind of “hardship.” He choked on the dry bread, coughing violently. “Cough, cough, cough—” I quickly patted his back. “Slow down, slow down.” It wasn’t that I didn’t want to buy him better food, but these things were easy to carry and filling. Finally swallowing, the small boy looked up, his eyes red from coughing. He grumbled, ready to complain: “What is this lousy—” I braced myself for the usual entitled outburst. But he stopped mid-sentence. He lowered his head, then fiercely took another bite of the plain bread. The friendly woman next to us chuckled. “What a good boy, so quiet and well-behaved.” Me: “…” Not exactly. The old him would have been throwing a tantrum. Maybe… maybe it was car sickness. After we ate, I thought for a moment and took him to the sleeper car. I pulled a thick blanket from my carry-on. “Take a nap.” “Okay,” he mumbled sullenly. But as he lay down, his eyes were fixed on me—a look of cautious anticipation, mixed with a hint of anxiety. I tucked the blanket around him and sat on the edge of the berth. “I’m not going anywhere. Sleep easy.” Only then did he seem to relax, slowly closing his eyes. …The next ten hours were spent in the quiet rhythm of the train. To my complete astonishment, Wesley was incredibly placid, almost silent. When I asked him to eat the bread, he’d wrinkle his nose but force himself to chew it down. At night, he had to cling to the edge of my cardigan and wait for me to finish telling him a story before he’d finally drift off. After a few hours, a new thought dawned on me. It must have been Penelope. My ex-mother-in-law had poisoned his mind, teaching him to hate me. That’s why he was always so hostile before. The second that thought crossed my mind, The Feed flashed across my eyes again. OMG, she still hasn’t figured out that isn’t her kid? Mother of the year: Face-blind. Kid of the year: Totally game. Exactly. Why would her real son pass on the Whitman billions and move to a trailer park with her? Holy crap! She’s got the McCarthy Group’s little prince. That kid’s dad is Marcus McCarthy, The Titan. He’s going to be unhinged! What? I blinked, convinced the long ride had finally driven me insane. I looked again. The words were still there. Reading the content, my pupils dilated with shock. The wrong boy? How was that even possible? Just then, the small boy walked out of the sleeper cabin, wearing a pair of green athletic pants and the platinum necklace. The pendant swayed gently as he moved. Hearing his footsteps, I slowly turned, my gaze starting at his face and landing hard on the necklace. His face… I hadn’t seen it much. I could conceivably mix up two small boys. But— If I had the wrong boy, then how was he wearing the custom-made necklace I’d given my son? 4 I took a deep, steadying breath, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. “What is your name?” The small boy looked up, his dark eyes meeting mine, a flash of pure alarm in his gaze. He pressed his lips together, silent. I asked again. He remained mute. Oh, so we’re playing the silent game, are we? I looked at the necklace, my mind made up. I reached out. “What are you doing!” He finally spoke, his voice clear, but with the high-pitched fury of a startled kitten. I pinched the pendant and flipped it over. Engraved on the back was Wesy. I had designed it myself. I hired the best jeweler. It was one-of-a-kind. I sagged against the wall, utterly relieved. The Feed was clearly glitching. My heart wasn’t that big. I couldn’t have mistaken my own son. I tucked the chain back under his collar and patted his head. “Nothing. Just checking.” He looked at me with suspicion, his tiny brow furrowed. I didn’t explain, just leaned back, closing my eyes, ready for a nap. The moment my eyes shut, The Feed returned. LMAO she actually bought that! So dense. Doesn’t she realize her bratty kid would trade a ‘crappy necklace’ for a game console? The sister above nailed it. I just came from the Whitman gossip threads. Wesley Whitman traded that necklace for the McCarthy little prince’s limited edition gaming console and is currently destroying the mansion playing it. I’m dead. One brat got a new dad, and one prince got a new mom. The City is going ballistic. Marcus McCarthy found his son missing. They say he smashed his office and locked down every exit route. Yikes. This woman has no idea what kind of hot potato she’s snatched. My heart dropped. A sickening lurch. My hands started to shake, uncontrollably. I snapped my eyes open, staring with sudden, intense focus at the child next to me. He flinched, shrinking back, clearly startled by my expression. My voice was a shaky whisper. “Did… did you trade this necklace with Wesley for a game console?” His eyes widened slightly, then darted away. Silence. But that reaction was confirmation enough. My vision went gray. I almost passed out. Finished. I had tangled with a force of nature that would crush me without a second thought.

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I was using the trauma shears to cut through the male patient’s clothing during the rescue when it happened. My fiancé, Dean Miller, took a video of me tending to the wounds and posted it online with a caption that made my blood run cold: “I know you were saving a life, but doesn’t the patient’s privacy matter?” “And your hand was right there the whole time. It makes me, your fiancé, incredibly uncomfortable.” The video went viral, igniting a social media firestorm. The hospital’s choice was to placate the public. I was demoted, stripped of my entire year-end bonus, and given a severe reprimand. To see my years of diligence and life-saving work branded with the disgusting label of “indecency” flipped a switch inside me. Fine. I would quit caring. I wouldn’t save anyone. Suddenly, the whole hospital sat up and took notice. 1 “Sienna, this whole thing should be a lesson for you. We’re about to get married. Even as a doctor, you need to uphold your feminine propriety!” I looked at him, silently taking in the man I was supposed to marry. “Are you finished?” Dean froze. “What… what kind of attitude is that?” he stammered, his face twisting in offense. “Don’t you realize you were wrong?” “Whatever you say.” As those three words left my mouth, I felt something inside me shatter completely. Dean’s face instantly flushed crimson, as if I had subjected him to a profound insult. “Fine! ‘Whatever I say!’ Sienna Reed, we are done!” “The wedding is off!” He yelled the last words, snatched his phone off the table, and stormed out. Dr. Vivian Shaw, my Department Head, frowned, tapping her pen on the desk. “Look what you’ve done! You’ve completely infuriated Dean!” “To settle the public disturbance, you will write a deep, thorough self-criticism.” “You will read it aloud at next week’s all-staff meeting, admitting your unprofessional conduct.” I looked at her without responding. Her eyes flickered away for a second, then hardened back into the Department Head’s usual veneer of authority. “This is an order, Sienna. And it’s your final chance.” The next day, the hospital’s internal network and public bulletin boards simultaneously posted my disciplinary notice. The language was scathing: “Unprofessional medical procedures,” “Lack of sufficient humanistic care for the patient,” and “Dr. Sienna Reed will be demoted and docked her annual performance bonus, serving as a warning to all staff.” Every word felt like a public execution. Maya, an intern, secretly messaged me: “Sienna, we all believe you were just saving a life. But… you should probably just swallow it for now. Dr. Shaw is furious.” I switched off my phone. I knew the drill. Dr. Shaw’s niece, Camille Price, who just got her degree abroad, had joined the staff last week. Shaw had been eager to install her in my Chief Resident role. Dean’s reckless stunt gave her the perfect, undeniable excuse. I returned to my desk, silently opening my computer. I meticulously organized and printed out all the patient histories, surgical notes, and post-op follow-up plans for my critical patients. Then, I formatted the work computer’s personal drive, wiping clean years of personal research data and paper drafts. A week later, at the all-staff meeting. Dr. Shaw stood on the stage, her voice booming: “…Given Dr. Sienna Reed’s unprofessional conduct, the hospital has decided to revoke her Chief Resident position.” The room was silent. “Now, let us give a warm round of applause to the new addition to our Cardiothoracic Unit, Dr. Camille Price, who holds a Master’s degree from abroad!” A young woman in a crisp, brand-new white coat, her hair exquisitely styled, stood up and gave the room a reserved nod. Dr. Shaw looked at her with satisfaction and announced, “Starting today, Dr. Price will formally take over Dr. Reed’s duties.” I sat in the corner, my face expressionless.

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I went to rescue my fiancée from a vicious assault, only to be arrested myself—for the very crime I was stopping. The public was ruthless. They spat on me, even dousing me with filth and garbage. “He thought an engagement ring was a license to do whatever he wanted? Coercion in a relationship is still rape!” “They should chemically castrate him! Save the rest of us from his filth!” The day I was sentenced, my fiancée, Olivia, was a wreck of weeping, tear-soaked lace. “Your adopted brother is barely twenty, Dean. I can’t destroy his life.” “Five years. When you get out, we’ll get married. I promise you, Dean.” Olivia kept her word. She was there the day I walked out of the prison gates. But beside her stood two men: one large, one small. 1 Before I could speak, Jude pulled Olivia behind him. “Don’t blame her, big brother. If you need someone to hate, hate me.” He watched me with the tense, feral posture of a cornered animal, terrified I’d hurt Olivia. But my expression was flat, empty. My heart had died five years earlier. That was the day I answered Olivia’s call and was met not with a greeting, but with her raw, panicked scream. “Jude! Stop! I’m your sister-in-law!” “If you come any closer, I swear, I’ll call the police!” A surge of volcanic heat exploded in my brain. I didn’t hesitate; I drove straight to the home Olivia and I shared. Her silk top was shredded. Her denim skirt bunched around her knees. Jude had her pinned by the wrists, his hands roaming, possessive and cruel. A guttural sound—a strangled sob—escaped her. The thread of reason in my mind didn’t just snap; it disintegrated. I flew at him. I hauled Jude off her, a blur of motion fueled by pure animal fury, and my fist met the side of his face. “You sick animal! Olivia is your brother’s fiancée!” “We brought you into this family, gave you everything—and this is how you repay us?” Jude, never one to back down, surged back at me. We became a tangled knot of flying fists and elbows. Olivia huddled on the edge of the bed, sobbing, unable to utter a coherent word. The police arrived then and tore us apart. We were both bloodied, bruised, and gasping, but I felt no remorse. I started toward Olivia, intending to pull her into my arms, to tell her it was over, but the moment I stepped near her, she flinched. Her entire body began to tremble. When she spoke, her voice was choked with a sickening fear. “Officer… I was just violated. By my fiancé!” I stared at Olivia, certain the five years of hell had finally broken my ability to hear. But she rushed past me, burrowing behind the policeman, and began to accuse me. I watched her cry—a devastating picture of pearlescent tears and genuine distress—but I couldn’t hear a single word. I couldn’t even recall how I ended up at the precinct. “Dean Marshall, walk us through the events of your crime!” It took that official statement to drag me back into reality. I vehemently denied it, but Olivia and Jude were synchronized. They pointed at me. They named me the rapist. I was convicted and imprisoned, my case used as a chilling example in the media. The public crucified me, calling me a monster who thought only with his lower half. “Cut the thing off! Castrate him!” The day I was transferred to the main prison, an activist, an online extremist, doused me with a bucket of filth. Olivia looked disgusted, but she still managed to step forward. “Dean, I’m so sorry.” “But Jude is so young, and he’s our family’s adopted son. If he was arrested, his whole life would be over. I can’t be the one to do that to him.” The way she spoke, with such noble, selfless conviction, pierced my heart. I ignored her and let the guards lead me away. My parents were so disappointed they didn’t even show up for my release today. Olivia’s voice pulled me from the memory. “Dean, are you still angry at me?” “I know I was wrong all those years ago. I owe you an apology.” Tears instantly filled her eyes, a sudden, heavy downfall of sorrow. I was about to speak when the small boy rushed at me, tiny fists hammering my stomach. “You’re a bad man! You made my mommy cry!” he snarled. “I hate you, and you can’t come to our house!” I looked down at the child and offered a bitter, humorless smile. The home he referred to, with that easy certainty, was mine. It always had been. I was ready to turn and walk away, but Olivia spoke again. “Come home, Dean. Mom and Dad… they miss you.” The familiar, casual way she said ‘Mom and Dad’ arrested my breath. I didn’t question her shift in address. I simply nodded. The people I owed the greatest apology to—the people I missed most—were my parents. I would see them one last time, then leave. On the drive home, the boy, Gus, kept up his low-grade assault. “You’re the meanest man! I don’t like you!” “You can’t stay with us! I’ll tell Grandpa to kick you out!” Olivia offered a tight, embarrassed smile and whispered a weak warning. “Gus, be polite!” Before she could finish, Jude’s expression darkened. He slammed the gas pedal, and the car lurched forward. Gus didn’t stop. “I just don’t like him! He makes Mommy sad!” “Daddy, tell him to leave, okay?” Jude, silent until now, finally spoke: “Don’t worry, kiddo. Daddy will get rid of him.” Olivia started to protest, then swallowed her words. She said nothing. I looked out the window, the world a gray blur, and felt that this December was somehow colder than the five years I had just spent in prison. When we arrived, I could hear the lively voices inside, even before we hit the front porch. “He’s coming home today! Hurry and get everything ready!” “Did you remember to cook his favorite—Dad’s signature barbecue brisket?” My heavy heart, for a moment, lifted. My parents did still care. Gus charged into the house first. The moment Mom saw him, her voice went up an octave in thrilled delight. “My sweet boy! Grandma missed you so much!” “Come give me a kiss! Both cheeks, now!” Gus was still pouting, immediately reporting on me to his grandmother. “Grandma, can you make him leave, please?” “I don’t like him. He makes Mommy cry!” At that, Mom quickly pulled Gus into a fierce hug. “Where is he? Tell Grandma, and I’ll throw him out!” A strange ache pulsed in my chest, a feeling of deep wrongness. But I told myself Mom wouldn’t actually do it. She walked toward the door, soothing Gus as she came. “Were those two people by the door bothering you?” She looked up at last. Our eyes met. She froze. I choked out a single word: “Mom…” Gus’s small, petulant voice cut through the silence. “Grandma, that’s him! He’s the one who hurt Mommy!” “Gus hates him. Don’t let him inside!” Mom’s face went white. She didn’t say a word. Ignoring Gus’s whining, she gently set him down and hurried toward the study. I stood dumbfounded. Olivia touched my sleeve. “Come on in, Dean.” My guts twisted. I was the outsider now. In the living room, my gaze instantly snagged on the wedding portrait hanging over the fireplace. Olivia and Jude, beaming, their smiles harsh and blinding. The family portrait next to it only contained the five of them. Jude followed my eyes and laughed. “Great photo, right, bro?” he said, wrapping an arm possessively around Olivia. “Olivia was so stubborn about using this photographer. She had to have him.” He looked at me, triumphant. I stared deeply at Olivia, but remained silent. I recognized the photographer instantly. I had recommended him to Olivia. Years ago, curled up together, I promised her that I would hire that very specific, small-time artist to shoot our wedding. She got her photographer. But the groom wasn’t me. The dinner table was cloaked in a bizarre, suffocating silence. Mom and Dad’s faces were rigid. They hadn’t spoken a word to me since I walked in. I opened my mouth, unable to find the words. I finally just reached for the platter of barbecue brisket. Gus’s sharp voice cut through the air. “No! That brisket is mine!” My hand froze in mid-air. I didn’t know what to do. Mom quickly comforted Gus. “It’s all yours, honey. This was cooked just for Gus.” My eyelids fluttered, a stinging realization: The brisket wasn’t for me. Mom muttered something under her breath. “A grown man fighting a child for a meal,” she hissed. “Five years in prison—didn’t they teach you basic decency?” I glanced at Dad. His expression was flat, unreadable, his eyes shadowed. The meal was unbearable. I managed only a few grains of rice. “I’m full. I’m going to the restroom.” Before I reached the hallway, a sharp, disciplinary voice barked my name. “Dean Marshall!” I straightened instantly, a conditioned reflex. My voice boomed out. “Sir! Present!” Jude’s laughter bounced off the walls. I realized he was just messing with me. The five years of prison routine had ingrained itself in my bones. I couldn’t help it. As Jude continued to cackle, I scrambled into the bathroom. I stayed until my legs were numb, then stumbled out. Leaning against a corner wall, I waited for the pins and needles in my legs to subside. A cautious voice drifted from the living room. “Jude, why on earth would you bring that asshole back here without telling us?” “We deliberately sent him to prison five years ago, remember?” My body went rigid. I froze, listening. The whole family knew? Dad sighed before I could process the thought. “That idiot is inferior to you in every way. He had no right to be with Olivia.” “If we had known you’d turn out so successful, we would never have had him at all!” “Thank God you and Olivia are in love. She was perfect for helping us fool that idiot.” “I told you we should have paid someone to make sure he died in there! You wouldn’t listen!” I stumbled, catching myself on the door frame. I almost went down. Because Jude was more capable than me, they had decided to discard their own son. But all of Jude’s so-called achievements—I had handed them to him. When he cried about the robotics competition as a kid, I’d built the robot for him. He won the championship. In college, I was the one who tutored him relentlessly. That’s how he achieved his success. Yet, in my parents’ eyes, Jude was the brilliant one, and I was the waste. My heart was thoroughly dead now. I didn’t need to hear another word. I turned and headed for my old bedroom. I didn’t expect Olivia to be waiting there. The moment she saw me, she looked genuinely flustered. I took two steps back, putting distance between us. She looked wounded by my movement. I ignored it and spoke in a cold, level tone. “Ms. Marshall, did you mistake the room? This is my bedroom.” Olivia’s expression was complex. “Dean, do you have to be so hostile?” “What happened was complicated. Could you really stand by and watch Jude’s brilliant future collapse?” I lost control then. My eyes burned red with fury. “And mine? Was that just supposed to be collateral damage?” The words were out before I could stop them. I instantly regretted the outburst. How could I be so naïve, so weak, to argue with her after hearing the full, sickening truth? I scoffed at my own foolishness and turned my back to her. “Just leave. I’ll pretend you were never here.” I didn’t love her anymore. Olivia panicked, rushing to explain. “Dean, don’t overthink this! I still have feelings for you…” I cut her off with a shout. “Are you going to divorce Jude, then? Are you going to raise the child of a rapist?” Olivia looked truly hurt. She inhaled deeply, as if gathering all her courage. “I wanted to terminate the pregnancy,” she whispered. “But the doctors said my body couldn’t handle the stress. I had no other choice.” Olivia stood there, a picture of tearful, fragile vulnerability. If I hadn’t overheard my parents, I would have believed her. Now, I didn’t believe a single word. Perhaps sensing my utter disinterest, she tried one last time. “Dean, you’re tired. You just got out today. Please get some rest tonight.” With a lingering look, she left. I stared at the closed door, feeling like the biggest fool on earth. This house held nothing for me anymore. I reached for the small wooden box hidden deep in my drawer. I needed the heirloom prayer beads my grandfather had left me. That was the only reason I had come back. But no matter how I searched, the beads weren’t there. A ghostly voice startled me from behind. “Are you looking for this?” I jerked my head up. Jude stood there, casually playing with the beaded bracelet. I lunged for it, but Jude sidestepped, and I slammed against the wall. Rage boiled in my veins. I snarled, “Give it back!” Jude clicked his tongue, a sound of mock concern, and then held out the beads. Surprised by his sudden compliance, I reached out. He violently smashed the beads to the ground. They shattered into a hundred fragments of jade. I stared down at the scattered pieces, beyond the point of reason. I raised my fist and lunged. But Jude was ready. He grabbed my wrist, wrestled me to the floor, and began to savagely beat me. “Did you think I was the same kid you used to pummel five years ago?” he spat. He pinned me down, making sure I couldn’t move an inch. I looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, manic. “Olivia came here to see you earlier. Did you think she still loved you?” “She’s just afraid of losing her little puppy, her perfect, pathetic martyr.” Then Jude smiled, a slow, malicious curve of the mouth. “You’ve been locked up for five years, haven’t you? I bet you’re desperate for a woman.” I knew, instantly, what he was planning. I struggled, a desperate animal, but it was useless. He zip-tied my hands, taped my mouth, and crammed me into the large linen cabinet in Dad’s study. Through the crack in the door, I saw Olivia walk in. She asked, nervously, “Is this okay? Here?” Jude nodded. “Perfect. Mom and Dad are asleep.” He pulled her jacket off. She was wearing a tiny, sensual black lace set underneath. Jude met my gaze through the crack, his eyes mocking me, then lifted Olivia onto the massive mahogany desk. I squeezed my eyes shut, desperate to block out the sickening spectacle. But the sounds—the intimate, careless sounds—and the sudden, acrid scent of cheap cologne and desperate sex were impossible to shut out. Finally, they were done. It wasn’t until the middle of the night that Jude let me out of the cabinet. “Pathetic coward. You deserve to be unloved.” I didn’t acknowledge him. I dragged my numb legs out of the study. I had intended to say a proper goodbye to my parents. There was no need now.

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I’ve known one thing since I was old enough to know anything at all: I was the Heroine, and Rhys Maxwell, my brilliant, perpetually-scowling boy-next-door, was the Hero. The captions floating in my periphery—the ones only I could see, a constant, shimmering overlay I called The Script—always told the same story: ‘The clueless ingénue and the genius scholar.’ ‘They are literally endgame. Total OTP material.’ Egged on by a thousand digital whispers of ‘Ship them!’ and ‘Such a vibe!’ I’d been Rhys’s shadow, his devoted little barnacle, for years. Until today, when I found a box of emergency contraception tucked deep inside his backpack. The Script would tell me, as it always did, that this was just a massive misunderstanding. But I was tired of being the girl who always understood. I decided, right then, that I was done loving Rhys Maxwell. 1 The box of birth control was lying there, stark white and unforgiving, when I pulled open Rhys’s travel bag. I replayed his words in my head—the ones he’d delivered after our last fumbling kiss, his breath minty and cool: “Wren, we’re still young. Some things should wait until we’ve thought them through.” So, if we were still waiting, who was he planning to not wait with? The Script went ballistic. The text became huge, blinding: ‘Here we go! Time for the angst arc!’ ‘Don’t be mad, sweetie! It’s totally a misunderstanding! Rhys only has eyes for you!’ I held the small box, my expression a confusing blank slate of shock and exhaustion. I considered shoving it back in, pretending I’d never seen it, but then Rhys, fresh out of the shower and smelling of pine and academic stress, emerged from his bedroom. “It’s for Sylvie, the Senior Research Fellow,” he sighed, running a tired hand over his wet hair. “The pressure on the computational chemistry project is killing her. She’s been having debilitating cycles and can barely function in the lab. I spoke to the university clinic—this might help regulate things. I was going to drop it off tomorrow.” He took the box from my hand, his touch surprisingly gentle, and slid it into a hidden zipper pouch in his pack. “There’s nothing going on between us, Wren,” he insisted. “Just professional courtesy between lab partners. I know how much you overthink things.” His voice was heavy with a profound fatigue that felt less about the lab work and more about fighting with me. We’d had too many arguments about Sylvie; too many explosive scenes fueled by my insecurity. “It’s true, little sis! I swear, Rhys hasn’t done anything with Sylvie!” The Script screamed in my vision. ‘Don’t let this misunderstanding ruin things! Fighting is so destructive!’ I nodded, the movement almost imperceptible. I looked him in the eye, and for the first time in my life, I lied to Rhys Maxwell. “I believe you.” The dramatic shift in my demeanor—the lack of tears or yelling—actually made him pause, his disbelief visible. I sealed the zipper, closing off the pills, the argument, and the Script’s frenzied pleas. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop. Your mom—Aunt Eliza—just asked me to check if you packed your chargers for the research seminar trip.” I turned to grab the clothes he needed, anything to break eye contact and put distance between us. “No—wait—I didn’t say you were snooping. You can…” He didn’t finish the sentence, and I kept my back to him, deliberately missing the bewildered, slightly wounded look on his face. 2 Rhys messaged me right after my afternoon lecture, asking where I was. I’m meeting my roommates at the dining hall. What’s up? I hit send and then saw his silhouette across the courtyard, waving. He was waiting for me. Rhys rarely waited for me. He was always booked: classes, the lab, research meetings, leaving me with slivers of his time. He reached me and took my hand. “My team meeting ended early,” he said, pulling me in the direction of the main gate. “How about that sketchy Thai place you love? The one with the crazy spicy Pad See Ew?” I pulled my hand free. Rhys stopped, a flash of genuine hurt crossing his features before he gripped my hand tighter. His palm was warm, even as the early autumn wind whipped around us. “Don’t be mad, okay?” he pleaded. “There’s nothing with Sylvie. I was wrong. I’ll be more careful, I promise. I’ll keep a professional distance from now on.” I looked into his eyes. They were sincere. I truly believed he meant it right now. But sincerity is fleeting. Every time we fought, he gave me this exact apology, this exact promise. And every time, we ended up fighting about Sylvie again. I scanned the quad, searching. When I spotted my roommate, Jamie, I gave her a small, tight wave to show I was on my way. “You always say that place smells like feet,” I reminded him, the lie smooth and easy. “And anyway, I made plans with my roommates. That place closed down last month.” I slipped my hand out of his and walked toward Jamie. The truth was, I’d gone to that Thai place alone weeks ago. The owner had been so heavy-handed with the chili oil that the “mild” dish had made me cry. I had sat in the corner for hours, eating and sobbing until the heat and the sadness were both completely purged. 3 The next morning, my phone buzzed with texts from Rhys. Finals are coming. I highlighted all the key concepts for your Intro to Bio and your Lit Theory classes. I also compiled a predictive question set. Please study hard. You can’t afford to fail this semester. I’ve always been slow. In elementary school, a teacher worried I might have a learning disability and suggested my parents get me tested. My IQ score was 71. Seventy is the clinical definition of a developmental disorder. My parents moved from panic to acceptance. “It’s fine, Wren,” my mother always said. “A little slow, a little simple. Simple people have simple luck.” I guess I did have simple luck. Rhys’s parents moved in next door shortly after. Their son, Rhys, was the genetic lottery winner. Handsome, smart—cooler than any Ken doll. I was instantly obsessed. When I was still wiping snot on my sleeve, I was trailing after him, a tiny, annoying satellite. Rhys was so standoffish and easily annoyed that the kid-me wanted to retreat a million times. But The Script always appeared: ‘Don’t be shy, baby girl! Be persistent!’ ‘Rhys is just a repressed hottie! He pretends to hate it, but your innocence melts his cold heart!’ Cheered on by the digital chorus, I became his permanent fixture. I knew he liked me, too. Rhys was a high-functioning genius who excelled at everything without effort. There was only one thing he threw himself into: tutoring me. I, the girl barely above the line of being considered intellectually disabled, was tutored by him all the way to the same top-tier university. The day I got my acceptance letter, Rhys actually smiled. “Congrats,” he said, his eyes bright. “Four more years of having to keep up with me.” We made it official shortly after. The Script showered us with blessings. Everything looked like the perfect, inevitable trajectory. But something shifted in college. The time we spent together dwindled. We weren’t the sweet, messy couple from the romance comics I read. He was always busy: lectures, labs, research seminars, grad student study groups… I accepted it. His texts, even the brief ones, were enough to sustain me for days. Until the day I saw him eating with Sylvie in the dining hall. I stared at the phone in my hand, at the text Rhys had just sent me: ‘Can’t talk. Busy.’ My eyes welled up immediately. I read The Script’s hasty explanation: ‘They’re just lab partners getting a quick bite after their experiment. It means nothing.’ It was nothing. His smile was wide and genuine—that was nothing. They were in the same cutting-edge research team, intellectually matched. It was expected they’d have things to talk about. I’d subtly suggested Rhys create some distance with Sylvie, but he always dismissed me with his classic: “She’s just a colleague, Wren. You’re being too dramatic.” Then the campus gossip board blew up. A post speculating that Rhys, the untouchable scholar, had been claimed by Sylvie, the glamorous research star, went viral. My roommates looked at me with pity. I pretended not to care. “They’re in the same lab,” I shrugged. “They have to interact. It’s unavoidable.” But the excuses were starting to taste like dust. I couldn’t swallow them anymore. 4 It was Rhys’s birthday. I baked him a cake from scratch and waited outside his apartment building. I imagined the look on his face when he got home. Would he give me his usual tired, exasperated chuckle, or would he actually be surprised and tell me my baking had improved? I waited from dusk until late into the night. Sitting, then crouching, then finally curled up on the cold steps. Rhys never answered his phone. Just as I was about to panic and call the campus police, my roommate sent me a screenshot. It was from Sylvie’s private Instagram story. “Celebrating my junior research fellow. Happy Birthday to the best lab partner!” Attached was a photo of her and Rhys. They looked incredible together. Rhys was smeared with frosting, but he was laughing—a genuine, unrestrained laugh. I remembered my own eighteenth birthday. I’d dabbed a tiny smudge of icing on his nose, and he’d lost his temper, telling me he had a phobia of messes and hated things like that. But the Rhys in the photo didn’t look displeased. He was gazing at Sylvie with an expression I instantly recognized: fondness. The Script started its defense again: ‘It wasn’t a private dinner! The whole lab was celebrating!’ ‘Sylvie only posted a photo of the two of them to stir up trouble! Don’t fall for it!’ This time, the digital excuses couldn’t stop the long-suppressed bitterness from finally rising. I sat on his doorstep and cried until my eyes were dry. Rhys finally came home long after midnight. “Where were you?” My voice was raw and hoarse. He took one look at the melted, misshapen cake box in my hands, wrinkled his nose in distaste, and pulled out his keys. “Team bonding dinner.” I felt something sharp and excruciating twist in my chest. I shoved the photo in front of his face. “I’ve never seen you smile like that at a ‘team bonding dinner.’” His hand froze on the doorknob. He turned back, his brow furrowed. “What is your problem, Wren? Are you being sarcastic?” The cake fell from my numb hands and splattered on the concrete. My eyes burned red. “You hate people putting icing on you! You said you had a phobia of messes!” I yelled. “Is it that you don’t like icing on you, or is it that you don’t like me?” I grabbed his shirt, shaking it violently. “If you didn’t like me, why did you let me chase you for all these years? Why did you agree to date me?” I was tearing at his collar, and a button popped off, clattering onto the ground. It wasn’t a standard button. It was the one I’d personally sewn onto his shirt the day we started dating. “Rhys,” I’d whispered, “the second button on a man’s shirt is closest to his heart. I hope you only keep me in yours.” Rhys looked at me with utter contempt, as if I were a screeching, unreasonable child. “It’s my birthday,” he said, peeling my hands off his shirt. “I didn’t ask you to come here. How I spend my time is my business.” He stepped over the ruined cake, his voice cold. “I told you a hundred times, she’s just a colleague. And you choose to pick a fight about it on my birthday. Can you please, for once, just grow up?” 5 I told Rhys we were done. I blocked his number, his social media, and every way he could contact me. I went back to my dorm and, in a fit of despair, started tossing every piece of evidence of our relationship into the trash. The love letters I’d written him, the candid photos I’d taken of him, the journals where I’d documented my secret crush. The Script, of course, was heartbroken: ‘She’s really hurting now. Just letting out the frustration.’ ‘I wish they would just talk! It’s all a misunderstanding. Rhys and Sylvie have nothing going on!’ ‘They’ll get back together, obviously, but this fighting is damaging.’ ‘Rhys is just emotionally stunted, a genius with a blind spot for feelings. Only his sunshine girl can handle him.’ ‘If she’d just calm down and think back, she’d realize Rhys loves her.’ Calm down and think back? I salvaged the items from the bin and looked at them. They felt… different. I pulled out the stack of love letters. Rhys had returned them immediately when I gave them to him, unread. Now, flipping through them, I saw tiny corrections in red pen marking my spelling errors and misplaced commas. My heart hitched. When had he looked at these? The Script immediately started swooning: ‘Rhys, the repressed academic, correcting her love letters! Dying!’ ‘I remember that! He stole them back just to read them and correct her grammar. He was planning for her to find them and realize he’d seen them all along!’ ‘Look at the candid photo too! He told her he was asleep from studying, but he was actually exhausted from making her study guides!’ I picked up the photo of Rhys asleep on his desk. ‘Rhys is a genius, he doesn’t have to study that hard. He spent days building a curriculum for her so they could get into the same college. That’s what made him pass out!’ ‘He worked all night on her coursework and tutored her all day. He’s the silent guardian. That’s just his personality, let him be.’ I flipped through my old diaries, the pages marking the time before the college entrance exams. My parents had practically given up. They had hired expensive tutors, but the ROI was dismal. They were ready to settle for the nearest state college when Rhys stepped in. He offered to tutor me, saying he had the time and figured he could at least try to pull off a miracle. Under his guidance, my practice scores climbed steadily. I genuinely believed I was finally “smart” and that his casual tutoring was enough. I had been blind. It had been Rhys. All of it. A rush of warmth washed over the icy pain. When everyone else had lowered their expectations for me, it was Rhys who had lifted me up, dragging me to this incredible university. 6 I gathered the scattered pieces of my life off the dorm room floor and put them back in the cabinet. I tossed and turned all night, watching the pre-dawn light bleed through the window. Finally, I unblocked Rhys’s number. I’m sorry, Rhys. I was too insecure and overreacted. I still want to be with you. Please don’t let us break up. He didn’t reply. He’d been complaining about the lab being overwhelming. I decided to get up, grab coffee and bagels, and wait for him outside the research building. The door required a key card, so I stood in the biting, mid-winter wind, clutching the warm bag of food. My fingers were starting to go numb as I called him. No answer. I looked through the glass, desperation mounting, and spotted a student who looked like he was taking a break. I knocked on the glass, hoping for help. The student cracked the door open and told me outside students couldn’t come in, but he’d page my contact. “I’m Rhys Maxwell’s girlfriend,” I said, trying to look composed. “Can you check if he’s in the lab? I have his breakfast.” The student looked confused, then told me he’d ask. He pulled out his phone. The automatic glass door closed, but the seal was bad. I could still clearly hear his phone conversation. “Yeah, that Rhys Maxwell, can you check?” “Oh, he’s not in? Okay, I’ll tell her.” I was about to thank him when I heard him lower his voice, whispering conspiratorially to the person on the other end. “Can you believe it? This girl says she’s Rhys’s girlfriend!” “I know, right? It’s wild. Rhys and Sylvie are practically glued together. Everyone thought they were the couple.” My legs felt like jelly. I gripped the cold wall to steady myself. The Script was a deafening, panicked blur, but I couldn’t focus on the words. Glued together. The couple. A shared meal meant nothing. A shared workspace meant nothing. A birthday celebration meant nothing. Did kissing mean nothing? Was that another misunderstanding? I fought for breath. I knew the student could hear the frantic rhythm of my breathing. I managed to adjust my expression into a tight, strained smile and called out to him before he could put his phone away. “Hey, could you do me one last favor? I need you to pass another message to Rhys.” He looked uncomfortable, realizing the poor acoustics of the door. “W-what is it?” I kept the painful smile fixed on my face. “Just tell him… the message I sent him on his phone this morning? It doesn’t count anymore.”

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It was my eighteenth birthday party, my official coming-of-age. And my cousin, Trevor, handed me a half-scratched lottery ticket as a gift. A cheap joke. Until I actually won twenty dollars. Then, he suddenly offered me forty thousand dollars to buy the ticket back. The absurdity—the sheer, bizarre leap from a $20 win to a $40,000 offer—made my stomach clench. It felt wrong, utterly grotesque, and I refused. Trevor went ballistic. He screamed obscenities, cursed me to hell, and in front of every guest we’d invited, he shoved me off the balcony of our high-rise apartment. Dozens of people were there. My own mother and father stood watching. They all silently approved, chiming in with the chorus of curses that proclaimed I deserved to die. I opened my eyes again. Thirty minutes before. Trevor stood before me, his smile a cruel, familiar twist, holding out that half-scratched ticket. The words were the same, too. 1 “Sierra, don’t call me cheap, okay? This baby is worth two hundred thousand dollars!” “I scratched half of it myself—just to eliminate half the wrong options for you. Whatever you win is all yours, little cousin.” I automatically reached out for the card, but the moment my fingers brushed the cheap, shiny paper, I snatched my hand back as if burned. I looked up at the wall clock: 11:00 p.m. Exactly thirty minutes before I died. No one knew I was back. Tonight was supposed to be my eighteenth birthday celebration, the dinner party where Mom and Dad hosted all our relatives. Trevor, the cousin who never missed a chance to look down on me, had come, and he’d used a half-scratched lottery ticket to publicly humiliate me. Last time, I’d been mortified. The surrounding relatives, smiling placatingly, had encouraged me to scratch it off. “We’re family, sweetie. Just do it.” Trapped in that raw, humiliating spotlight, I’d scratched it off. A measly twenty dollars. And then Trevor, who had been waiting for the punchline at my expense, had suddenly surged forward, his eyes burning. He offered $40,000 cash on the spot. I’d always been cautious, a habit reinforced by all the college fraud warnings. Trevor despised me; the sudden, massive overpayment for a $20 ticket screamed trap. I’d flat-out refused. That’s when he’d snapped. “Bitch.” “Jerk-off.” “Ingrate.” Every poisonous word he could spit. He screamed that if I didn’t give him the scratcher, he’d kill me. He pushed me backward, hard, until I was stumbling against the window. I’d screamed for help, but the same relatives who’d been all smiles and “family” moments before had faces twisted with pure malice. Even my parents had joined the chant: I deserved it. He’d finally shoved me out. I died on the pavement below. Until the moment I hit the ground, I didn’t understand what I had done to deserve that. Maybe it was a cruel joke, or perhaps the universe took pity on me. I was back. I acted immediately, cutting him off with a bright, tight smile. “No need, Trevor. You should keep that two hundred thousand dollar value all for yourself.” Trevor’s smug expression curdled instantly. “Sierra, you are truly ungrateful. You think you’ve hit adulthood and grown wings, so you don’t have to show respect to your cousin anymore?” My mother, Elaine, quickly scooped the ticket up off the floor. “Sierra! Are you insane? You don’t turn down money!” We’d never had the financial standing of Trevor’s family, and since Trevor had a high-paying finance job in the city, my parents always deferred to him. They felt perpetually inferior. The other relatives chimed in, their voices a practiced chorus. “Sierra, just take your cousin’s generous gift. Scratch it now. Who knows, maybe you really will win that two hundred thousand dollar jackpot!” I wanted to refuse again, but my eyes locked with Trevor’s—icy and calculating. What if a firm refusal landed me back over that railing? I took the ticket. “I’ll scratch it later, at home,” I said, trying to sound casual. “We’ve all come together for my birthday, Trevor. It would be rude to hold up the party with a silly game.” He leaned in, his voice dangerously low. “Don’t insult me, Sierra. If you don’t like my gift, just say it. Don’t you dare shame me by calling it a ‘delay.’” Trevor’s mother, Aunt Lisa, yanked him back, shooting me a hateful glare. “So dramatic. Take it or leave it, brat.” Trevor’s father, Uncle Mark, lit a cigarette, a mocking chuckle escaping his lips. “Got into college, now she thinks she’s somebody, huh?” That single sound sent a wave of panic through my parents. They instantly redirected their fear and shame onto me. “Sierra! Who taught you to be so materialistic and spoiled? Your cousin is being generous, and you’re making excuses?!” I tried to object, but Mom grabbed my hand, pressing the ticket hard against the tabletop. She used her own fingernail to viciously scrape the surface. My nail plate tore, and a bead of blood welled up, but Mom didn’t even flinch. Her eyes were glued to the winning number area. Suddenly, she shrieked excitedly. “It’s a winner! Twenty dollars!” A cold, heavy rock settled in my chest. In my peripheral vision, I saw all eyes snap to me. Trevor slammed his palm on the table and lunged across the dinner setting, his gaze fixed on the hand I was instinctively tucking into my pocket. “Damn it! It really is a winner!” The next second, he spoke the exact words that had started the chain reaction last time. “Sierra, I’ll give you forty thousand dollars. Sell me that scratcher.” I held the small ticket tightly in my fist and smiled at him. It was a cold, empty smile. “Trevor, Mom must have misread it. Why would I ever have the luck to win the lottery?” Trevor wasn’t an idiot. Offering $40,000 for a $20 ticket meant something massive was wrong. I could take the money, but if he regretted it, I knew he wouldn’t hesitate to kill me for a second time. I absolutely could not give him this ticket. “No win?” He didn’t believe me. He reached out a demanding hand. “Let me see it.” A spike of panic hit me, but I steadied myself and calmly pulled a ticket from my other pocket, handing it over. Trevor snatched it and scrutinized it. He flipped it, scratched areas he’d missed, and finally, confirming it was a complete loss, he let out a frustrated shout. He threw the ticket on the ground and ground it under his heel. He shot a venomous glance at my mother. “Aunt Elaine, you seriously need to get your eyes checked.” Mom flinched, not daring to speak. The other relatives quickly bent down, jostling each other to pick up the ticket, then sighed in a dramatic, pitying unison. I quietly let out the breath I’d been holding. Thank God I hadn’t washed these jeans. About two weeks ago, I’d bought a losing scratcher on a whim and shoved it in my pocket. It had just saved my life. But my relief was short-lived. My younger sister, Piper, spoke up, her voice sharp and eager. “Wait, Sierra. Didn’t you buy one downstairs earlier today? You didn’t mix them up, did you?” My mother’s eyes lit up with renewed fury. She rushed at me, gripping my arm until her nails dug into my skin. “Sierra! Did you hide the winning ticket?! I knew I didn’t see it wrong! Hand it over, now!” Trevor, feeling manipulated and robbed, returned, his hand whipping out and connecting with my cheek in a stinging slap. “You little tramp! You think you can play games with me? Give me the real ticket, or I swear I’ll beat it out of you!” “I told you, it didn’t win!” I cried. “Why would I lie?” Piper added, “But I didn’t see you throw anything away!” Just then, my father, Robert, who had been silent, stepped in front of me. I thought he was going to protect me. Instead, he struck me across the other side of my face. I collapsed to the floor. He leaned over me, screaming. “You wicked girl! Hand that ticket over to your cousin right now! If you mess this up, I’ll personally destroy you!” A tidal wave of black despair washed over me. My mother sneered, rolling up her sleeves as she approached. “Just wait. I’ll search her pockets myself. If I have to, I’ll strip her down to nothing. She’ll talk then.” I screamed, “Mom! Dad! Are you insane? You’re turning my eighteenth birthday into a nightmare over a stupid scratcher!” Trevor kicked my side. “Sierra, if you keep this up, forget your birthday. I’ll make sure you lose that scholarship and never step foot inside that college you worked so hard for.” I looked at my parents, incredulous. They met my gaze with cold, contemptuous smiles. “Sierra, we don’t have money. Your cousin’s family is paying your way through college. You want to go? You do what Trevor says!” Before I could fight back, several relatives grabbed me, pinning me facedown across the dinner table. In front of everyone, my mother tore at my clothes, desperately searching for a second ticket. Shame flooded every nerve ending in my body. Tears streamed down my face. After fifteen minutes of invasive, degrading searching, they found nothing. Mom threw me away from the table, spinning around to slap Piper across the face. “You stupid girl! Say one more lie and I’ll sew your mouth shut!” Piper clutched her red cheek, her eyes blazing with hatred—aimed not at my mother, but at me. Trevor just stood there, staring, his eyes unreadable. The party was a disaster. On the day I was supposed to celebrate a new chapter, I was subjected to the greatest humiliation of my life over a slip of paper. I couldn’t stay in that house for another second. Just after midnight, I quietly slipped out and made my way to Liam’s apartment. Liam, the boy next door, my best friend since kindergarten. The moment he opened the door, he pulled me into a fierce hug, his voice thick with concern. “I wanted to go to your place, but they said you were busy. Then Piper told me what happened. Sierra, you didn’t deserve that.” I broke down. All the raw, accumulated trauma of the day—the murder, the rebirth, the betrayal, the shame—poured out in tears. Liam held me, soothing me, even offering to go find Trevor and fight him. “No, don’t,” I pleaded, holding him back. “Don’t be reckless. I still don’t know why Trevor did any of that. If we move too fast, we might fall right into his trap.” Liam was silent for a moment. Then he asked, his voice soft, “Sierra, was the ticket you gave them… the real one?” Looking up into his gentle, familiar eyes, I almost told him everything. After all, Liam hadn’t been present when they murdered me. But as I opened my mouth, I caught a flash in his gaze—a sharp, desperate eagerness. My throat tightened. It felt like an invisible hand was squeezing my windpipe, and every alarm bell in my brain screamed: Do not tell him! Liam nudged me for an answer. I feigned annoyance. “They searched me until they nearly stripped me naked! Even if I had superpowers, I couldn’t hide anything after that.” The truth was, the winning ticket was taped under a serving platter back at the house. When Mom had screamed about the $20 win, I’d quickly swapped the real ticket for the old, losing one in my pocket and shoved the real one under the platter while everyone was focused on the cash value. Seeing Liam’s continued skepticism, I forced myself to sound indignant. “Do you think I’m an idiot? Would I hide a twenty-dollar ticket and turn down forty thousand dollars?!” Liam stroked my hair, a look of manufactured affection in his eyes. “Of course not. My Sierra isn’t stupid.” My heart hammered against my ribs. I had to know what was going on. “But Liam, what do you think made that scratcher so special? Why was Trevor so desperate for it?” He shrugged, his tone dismissive. “It’s just a lottery ticket. What’s the big deal? Maybe he just went crazy and used it as an excuse to mess with you, you know? He’s always hated you being smarter.” Trevor definitely resented my grades and my college acceptance. But not enough to kill me over a $20 prize. The questions piled up inside me, stealing my appetite. Liam took me back to his place. “You can stay here tonight, safe. Tomorrow, I’ll go with you and talk some sense into your Mom and Dad.” I tossed and turned that night, unable to sleep. Sometime after 3 a.m., I heard the distinct click of the doorknob turning. My heart seized. A burglar? But then I realized we were twenty-six floors up. A burglar was impossible. Only one person could be entering. It was Liam. Sure enough, Liam tiptoed to the bedside. He whispered my name once. When I didn’t respond, he started meticulously going through my discarded clothes. I heard him muttering to himself. “Where is it? Is it really gone?” Then, louder, a voice filled with rage I’d never heard from him. “Damn it, I drugged her for that ticket! I have to find it tonight!”

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It was my seventeenth birthday, and I was staring at the flickering candles on my cake, about to make a wish. Rhys Ellington, out of nowhere, spoke. “Can you just give the scholarship money to Anya? You’ve already taken everything you can from my family by living here—do you really have to be greedy for that tiny bit of cash, too?” Rhys had always been selectively mute. Since childhood, this was the first time he had ever spoken to me—and he was doing it for the transfer student. I didn’t dare say a word. I simply conceded. After all, I was just the poor, live-in ward who had secretly accepted ten million dollars from his father. As soon as high school graduation was over, I was leaving for college abroad. As for the prize money and the boy. I decided not to be greedy anymore. 1 Rhys Ellington was an anomaly. The Ellington family had thrown every imaginable resource and a torrent of money at his condition, but nothing could make him speak. Until one day, when the Ellingtons were at a local children’s home for a charity event, they happened upon me. I was fighting tooth and nail with a group of much taller kids over a single cream-filled sandwich. Rhys saw the spectacle, pointed a hand at me, and uttered two halting words: “Help… her.” Those two simple syllables brought the Ellingtons an overwhelming, joyous relief. They finalized the paperwork immediately. Just like that, I became Rhys’s designated “companion.” Back then, he was thin and small, and still didn’t talk. A group of older, meaner kids at school decided his silence was an act and picked a day to beat the truth out of him. I was living on borrowed time and borrowed money. I had to prove my worth. So, I didn’t flinch. Faced with thugs who were much larger than me, I felt like I was staring at a field of gold, or maybe a walking merit badge. I snatched a shovel from a school board member who was tending his prized rose bushes and chased them off. I was reported and had to stand outside the Principal’s office, but I’d still smile goofily and perform a quick headstand outside Rhys’s window. He was mortified. He would tighten his jaw and refuse to look at me. After class, he’d slide me a note—he hadn’t spoken a word to me since that day at the home. I know you’re obsessed with me. But you can’t possibly think these cheap little stunts will win me over, can you? It’s pathetic. Stop trying to make yourself into some kind of princess. Ah? He was the Young Master. I was the help. If he went down, I was going down with him. Love? Affection? I wouldn’t dare dream of it. But the Young Master didn’t care. He was convinced I was hopelessly in love with him. Which is why, when a nightmare woke him up in the dead of night, he had zero hesitation about calling and waking me up, too. I peeled myself out of bed, still half-asleep, and dragged myself to the bathroom to splash some water on my face before going to his room. The room was pitch black. I found my way to the bedside, gently covered his eyes with one hand, and reached for the lamp with the other. A few seconds later, I dropped my hand. Rhys’s dark eyes were fixed on me. His face was still pale from the bad dream, but his fingers were already tapping away furiously on his phone screen. His complaint: I just had a nightmare and couldn’t sleep. I asked you to come read to me, and it took you that long to get here. That was your ‘no-makeup’ makeup look, wasn’t it? Don’t splash water on your face next time and pretend to wash it. It’s pathetic. Just come straight here next time. I’ve never said you were ugly. There he goes again. I gave a half-hearted “Uh-huh, sure,” pulled a book from his shelf, and began reading. Halfway through the page, a gust of wind flipped the leaves. I looked up. The window was open. I got up, closed the window, and cautioned him, “Don’t leave the window open so wide at night. You’ll catch a chill and get a headache.” Turning back, I tucked the edge of the blanket back around him. He absolutely could not get sick. If he did, I wouldn’t be able to sneak into his private tutoring session tomorrow. That exclusive tutor charged a fortune—two thousand dollars an hour. As I moved, Rhys gave me that strange, unreadable look again. “What is it?” I asked. When we apply for college, I’ll permit you to apply to the same university as me. He suddenly brought up the college application process, which was only a month away. I was a little slow to process. Rhys got anxious, practically shoving the phone screen in my face: What? You don’t want to? Why would you not want to? Getting into The University with me is an honor. Don’t play hard-to-get with me! Besides, I doubt you can even get into The University! I took a deep breath and shook my head slightly. “No. Of course not.” “I was just… too excited.” Rhys looked satisfied with my answer. He let out a small, self-important huff and closed his eyes. 2 I slipped quietly out of the room, closing the door behind me, and bumped into Henderson, the butler, who had been waiting for me. “Please.” Henderson offered me a cup of tea. I took it, recognizing the expensive blend the Ellingtons reserved for important guests. Mr. Ellington was sitting opposite, rubbing his temples. The timepiece on his wrist was worth enough to buy a condo in the city’s most exclusive district. Henderson thoughtfully smoothed a newspaper across the coffee table for him. The headline was stark: ELLINGTON HEIR RISKS LIFE TO SAVE MYSTERY WOMAN A while ago, a disgruntled former employee had stormed the school and, unfortunately, taken me hostage. Rhys had stepped in, offering himself in my place. I knew Mr. Ellington, just back from an overseas business trip, had completely misunderstood. He thought Rhys was in love with me. It wasn’t true. Just today, Rhys had been planning to move me to the remedial class, the one full of rich screw-ups, purely to make room for the transfer student in the Honors section. Rhys was in love with Anya Flynn. Not me, Amelie Brooks. But just as I was about to explain, a check was pushed across the table toward me. “Aside from this small amount of cash, I will cover all expenses for your university education abroad once you graduate.” “The price is simple: complete and permanent severance from Rhys. Can you honor that?” “I do not wish to see scenes like the one from which you just emerged from my son’s room ever again.” Mr. Ellington’s gaze was heavy, silently applying pressure. “Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir.” I let the tears of supposed humiliation fall, clutched the check, and walked back to my room, my shoulders shaking dramatically.

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Preston Reed hired me specifically for my bad juju. He calls it a “statistical anomaly,” but let’s call it what it is: I’m a cooler. A walking entropy machine. Every company I clock into faces a catastrophic meltdown within three days. Preston, being the cutthroat CEO of Reed Enterprises, thought it would be brilliant to weaponize me. He pays me an exorbitant salary to act as a corporate saboteur, infiltrating his competitors and watching them burn. It was a perfect arrangement until the new Head of HR stormed in on my first day at his subsidiary, slapping a timesheet onto my desk. “You show up for three days a month and have the audacity to pull a hundred and eighty grand a year?” Her voice was a shrill drill against my temples. “Who signed off on this?” I didn’t look up from my empty desk. “Your brother. The CEO.” That was the wrong thing to say. Her perfectly manicured acrylics—long, sharp, and painted a blood-orange red—jabbed the air inches from my nose. “Oh, I see. You think you can sleep your way into the payroll? You think you can seduce my brother?” A nervous executive next to her tried to intervene, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Ms. Reed, please. This is Lexi Reed, the heiress to the Reed empire. She’s… she’s here to experience the grassroots level.” Lexi shot me a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. It was the look old money gives new money, or in this case, the look a princess gives the help. “I don’t care who you’re screwing,” she hissed. “I won’t tolerate ghosts on the payroll. From tomorrow on, you are coming into this office every single day. And if you want to step outside for so much as a breath of fresh air, I expect a written request on my desk. Single-spaced.” She leaned in, her perfume cloying and expensive. “I’m here to crush parasites like you.” I shrugged, leaning back in my chair. “If you insist. I guess I’ll just have to set down roots here at Reed Enterprises.” My curse is undefeated. Preston doesn’t even let me linger in the lobby for more than an hour for fear of the stock price dipping. If his little sister wants to play chicken with fate, that’s on her. If she doesn’t want her family to remain the wealthiest in the city, who am I to stop her? 1 In the past, Preston would practically shove me out the door the second my “shift” was done. But now, with Lexi’s decree, I had permission to stay. Still, out of a shred of humanitarian duty, I tried to call Preston. I barely got the phone to my ear before it was snatched away. Lexi looked at the screen, her eyes widening in theatrical horror. “You little homewrecker! Calling him right in front of me?” She sneered, looking me up and down. “Look at you. You’re bargain bin. You really think you have a shot at the CEO of Reed Enterprises?” I frowned. The sheer vulgarity was exhausting. It was ironic, really. Preston Reed started as a working-class kid with an eight-person startup. He only became the city’s richest man because my “bad luck” dismantled his competition one by one. When I didn’t respond, Lexi scoffed and smashed my phone onto the linoleum floor. The screen shattered with a satisfying crunch. “Know your place,” she spat. “This is a place of business, not a brothel for you to find a sugar daddy.” I took a deep breath, trying to channel some inner zen. “Get Preston on the line. He signed my contract. Tell him I quit.” The Director of Operations, a sycophant who had parachuted in with Lexi, stepped forward. “You don’t get to use the CEO’s first name. Mr. Reed is in Europe on business. While he’s gone, Ms. Reed is the acting authority.” Lexi inspected her nails, looking bored. “I took this HR role to clean house. Even if you want to quit, policy states you need to give fifteen days’ notice. I suggest you keep your head down, or I’ll make sure you never work in this town again.” Watching her walk away, I felt a strange, cold sense of satisfaction. I only agreed to this job because Preston begged. Lexi thinks I’m a leech; she has no idea that the only reason I don’t work more is that the companies literally cease to exist after seventy-two hours. She wants to trap me here? Fine. Fifteen days? I won’t need three. I packed my things from the competitor’s office—which was already showing signs of structural failure—and officially set up shop at Reed’s subsidiary. As I changed into the stiff company uniform, Kevin, a junior associate, whispered to me, looking terrified. “Nova, hey… management said I can’t give you a keycard. You can’t leave the building without Lexi’s personal approval.” I almost laughed. I’ve never seen someone sprint toward their own funeral with such enthusiasm. “It’s fine, Kevin,” I said. I sat at my desk and did absolutely nothing for four hours. When lunch rolled around, I stood up. A hand shoved me back down. “Did I say you could eat?” Lexi loomed over me. “Is your work done?” “I don’t have any work,” I said calmly. “That’s because you’re a slacker,” she countered, her eyes scanning my outfit with disdain. “That skirt is obscene. Is that how you get by? Flashing skin? You don’t leave this desk until you earn your keep.” My team lead, a nervous woman named Sarah, tried to intervene. “Ms. Reed, Nova is… she’s a special hire. There are superstitions…” Lexi shrieked. “Superstitions? Is that the best lie you people can come up with to cover for her laziness?” The other employees looked down, trembling. They knew the rumors. They knew what I was. “I’m not buying it,” Lexi snarled, her eyes flashing with malice. She lunged toward me, hand raised to—do what? Poke me? Slap me? She took two steps, and her heel caught on the slick floor. Snap. “Ah!” She went down hard, flailing, knocking over the janitor’s bucket. Grey, soapy water splashed over her designer blowout. As she hit the floor, the vibration caused a stack of heavy binders to slide off the adjacent desk, burying her under a pile of quarterly reports. The office went silent. Then, a few stifled giggles broke the tension. Lexi screamed, a sound like tearing metal. “Shut up! Shut up, all of you!” She scrambled up, dripping wet, mascara running down her cheeks. She pointed a shaking finger at me. “You think this is funny? From now on, you’re the janitor. You want to leave? You scrub this office until it shines. If I see a speck of dust, I’m docking your pay.” I looked at this woman, this embodiment of hubris. “You’re blaming me for gravity now?” The Director stepped in, puffed up like a toad. “Ms. Reed is the legal representative of this subsidiary now. Her word is law.” The staff exchanged glances but said nothing. I turned to leave, but Lexi’s bodyguards—two mountains of muscle in cheap suits—grabbed my shoulders and forced me to my knees. “Attitude problem,” Lexi sneered, throwing a filthy rag into my face. “Scrub. Inch by inch. On your knees.” I gritted my teeth, staring up at her. “You really don’t want to do this. You can’t handle the fallout.” “A stray like you threatening me?” She laughed. Then, she stepped forward and ground her stiletto heel into the back of my hand. I cried out. The pain was sharp and white-hot. “Stop playing the mystic,” she whispered, leaning down. “If you don’t learn your place, today is just the appetizer.” Satisfied with my gasp of pain, she strutted off to change. My colleagues rushed over to help me up. “Is she insane?” Kevin whispered. “Does she not know who—what—you are?” “She doesn’t believe in karma,” I said, rubbing my bruising hand. “But she’s about to get a crash course.” ** By afternoon, my hand was throbbing. Lexi dumped a mountain of unfiled paperwork on my desk. I was sorting through it when someone screamed. “Fire!” I looked up. Smoke was billowing from under the door of Lexi’s private office. Orange light flickered against the frosted glass. The smoke detectors remained silent. Malfunction. Naturally. Kevin grabbed a fire extinguisher and rushed the door. He squeezed the handle. Nothing. “It’s jammed!” he yelled, panic rising in his voice. “Everyone out! Run!” The office turned into a stampede. We spilled out onto the sidewalk, coughing in the afternoon sun. A few minutes later, Lexi stumbled out, her face covered in soot, coughing violently. The staff looked at me with renewed terror. “It’s starting,” someone whispered. “We have to get her out of here.” Lexi wiped the soot from her eyes and zeroed in on me. A manic grin spread across her face. “It is her fault,” she announced. “But not because of some voodoo.” She pointed an accusatory finger. “I saw you go into my office earlier. You’re an arsonist.” I blinked. “Excuse me?” The Director, ever the opportunist, chimed in. “I saw it too! Nova went in there when no one was looking. I felt suspicious, so I… I recorded it.” He whipped out his phone. The video showed me pacing outside her office, then entering. The crowd gasped. “I’m recovering the internal surveillance footage now,” Lexi said, her voice dripping with venom. “Once I have proof, I’m sending you to prison.” “Go ahead,” I said. “Knock yourself out.” “You arrogant little…” She trailed off, shaking with rage. An hour later, the IT guy emerged with the recovered footage. The staff huddled around the laptop. The video was clear. I walked in, placed a file on the desk, and walked out. Ten minutes later, the sun shifted. A heavy crystal paperweight—one of Lexi’s gaudy decorations—caught the beam. It acted as a magnifying glass, focusing the intense heat onto a stack of loose papers. Physics. Not arson. “Well,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “Is that the evidence sending me to jail?” Lexi’s face turned a violent shade of purple. She stormed off without a word. But she wasn’t done. Minutes later, a dolly was wheeled to my temporary desk in the parking lot. Thousands of pages were dumped onto the asphalt. “Since paper is a fire hazard,” she said, her voice tight, “you’re going to digitize the archives. All of them.” “All of them?” “Horizon Capital is coming tomorrow at 10 AM for the merger talks,” she said, leaning in close. “I want these scanned and indexed before they arrive. I told you, I have ways of dealing with you.” She wanted me to stay? Fine. I stayed. I pulled an all-nighter, scanning document after document while the building smoldered behind me. I finished just as the sun came up. ** The next morning, Mr. Blackwood from Horizon Capital arrived. He was the biggest fish in the pond. Reed Enterprises was big locally, but Horizon was national. Lexi had cleaned up. She was charming, deferential, the perfect heiress. The deal was going smoothly. They shook hands on the preliminary terms. “We have a new line of products,” Lexi offered, beaming. “Let me show you the promotional video.” Mr. Blackwood nodded, intrigued. Lexi clicked the file. But her hand twitched. Or maybe the mouse lagged. Instead of the promo video, she opened the master spreadsheet labeled INTERNAL COST_REAL. The screen filled with rows of data exposing the massive markup and cut corners on materials. The room went quiet. Panic flashed in Lexi’s eyes. She scrambled to close it, her fingers hitting keys blindly. She hit the spacebar. It triggered the media player. Specifically, a voice note from her WeChat desktop app. Her own voice, amplified by the conference room’s surround sound, filled the air. “Babe, you won’t believe this. I have to babysit this old dinosaur from Horizon tomorrow. Ugh, he’s apparently some fifty-year-old bald greaseball. I swear, if I have to look at his shiny head for more than five minutes, I’m going to vomit my lunch.” Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence. Mr. Blackwood slowly raised a hand to his very bald, very shiny head. His face turned the color of a bruised plum. “I was supposed to fly to D.C. this afternoon,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. “Canceling that to come here was clearly a mistake.” He stood up. “It was a struggle for you to deal with this ‘greaseball,’ wasn’t it? Don’t worry. Horizon Capital will never do business with Reed Enterprises again. I wouldn’t want to make you sick.” He walked out. Lexi stood frozen, sweat beading on her forehead. Losing Horizon wasn’t just a lost deal; it was a blacklist. She whirled on me, screaming like a banshee. “You! You sent me that file! If you hadn’t sent it, I wouldn’t have clicked it! If we lose this account, I will ruin you!” I looked at her, feeling absolutely nothing. “You clicked it, Lexi. You recorded the voice note.” The next morning, Lexi boarded a flight to D.C., desperate to intercept Mr. Blackwood and beg for forgiveness. At lunch, the cafeteria was buzzing. “This is the end,” Kevin murmured over his salad. “Lexi poked the bear. We should all be updating our resumes.” The Director slammed his hand on the table. “Shut your mouths! When Ms. Reed gets back, you’ll all be fired for insubordination!” “Director…” Kevin’s voice trembled. He held up his phone. The news anchor’s voice drifted from the speaker, grave and professional. “Breaking news. Flight AU7 from A-City to Washington D.C. has crashed. Rescue teams are on the way…” The blood drained from the Director’s face. “That’s… that’s her flight.” The cafeteria erupted into chaos. I kept eating my sandwich. Suddenly, a tray was slapped off the table. Soup dripped down my hair. I looked up. Lexi. She looked like a wreck—disheveled, wild-eyed. She hadn’t been on the plane. “Disappointed?” she screamed. “You wanted me dead, didn’t you?” “Ms. Reed… the news said…” The Director stammered. “I missed the flight!” she shrieked. “Because of traffic! And why was there traffic? Because of her!” She grabbed a metal tray and hurled it at my head. I ducked, and it clattered against the wall. “You’re a spy! A saboteur! You’re trying to kill me!” Her bodyguards pinned me to the ground again. Lexi kicked me in the ribs, then grabbed a handful of my hair, yanking my head back. Slap. Slap. “You think you’re special?” she screamed, her face inches from mine. “You’re nothing. I’m going to make an example of you.” My cheek stung, but my anger was a cold, hard knot in my stomach. “Have you ever asked yourself why your family is rich, Lexi? Really asked?” “Shut up!” “Let me go,” I said quietly. “Or the consequences won’t be something money can fix.” “Consequences are for poor people,” she laughed, a manic, terrifying sound. “I can buy my way out of hell if I have to.” She signaled the bodyguard. “Hit her.” The fist came down hard into my stomach. I doubled over, gasping for air. Before the second blow could land, a door burst open. “Nova?” I cracked an eye open. Preston Reed stood there, looking like he’d seen a ghost. “What is she doing here?” Preston shouted, his voice cracking. “Lexi! Do you know what you’ve done?” Lexi smirked. “Cleaning up your mess, brother. She’s just a gold digger. I’m teaching her a lesson.” Preston went pale. “How long has she been here?” “As long as I have! I kept her here to fix the culture!” Preston looked at the employees, then at the TV mounted on the wall behind us. The news anchor was back. “Emergency update. A massive recall has been issued for Reed Foods after reports of botulism. 193 hospitalized. Police are investigating…” Before anyone could process that, the front doors exploded inward. “Police! Nobody move!” A squad of officers swarmed the room. The lead detective held up a badge. “We have a warrant for the executives of Reed Enterprises regarding the sale of toxic food products. Who is in charge here?”

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