Part I: The Chokehold The first thing I felt was the cold. Not the kind of cold that comes from a drafty window, but the visceral, bone-deep freeze of fingers wrapped tight around my windpipe. My vision was swimming in black spots. My lungs were burning, screaming for oxygen that wasn’t coming. Above me, a face twisted in pure, unadulterated hatred hovered like a specter. “Say one more word about my father, Vivian,” the voice hissed. It was a low, jagged sound, like gravel grinding against glass. “One more word, and I will snap your neck like a twig.” I wheezed, clawing instinctively at the hands crushing my throat. My fingernails scraped against skin, but he didn’t flinch. I looked into his eyes. They were dark, endless pits of rage. But it was the rest of his face that jolted my memory awake. The left side was perfect—high cheekbone, sharp jawline, the kind of face that belonged on a Calvin Klein billboard. But the right side… the right side was a roadmap of tragedy. Burn scars, jagged and pink, twisted the skin from his temple down to his jaw. Liam Thorne. The name hit me harder than the lack of air. I wasn’t me anymore. I wasn’t the college student who fell asleep studying for finals. I was Vivian Vanderbuilt. The heiress. The queen bee of Crestwood Academy. And, most importantly, the “cannon fodder” villainess of the trashy young adult novel The Rest of Forever. And the boy strangling me? He was the villain. The future psychopath who would eventually burn half the city down. And I—Vivian—was the reason he turned into a monster. I was currently dying in the prologue. “I…” I choked out, my voice barely a squeak. “I’m… sorry.” The grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened. Confusion flickered in his dark eyes. The Vivian he knew would have spat in his face. She would have threatened to have her daddy buy the trailer park he lived in and bulldoze it. She wouldn’t have apologized. “What did you say?” he growled. “I said…” I gasped, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, “I’m sorry, Liam. I won’t… say it again.” He stared at me for a long, agonizing second. Then, as if my neck had suddenly turned into a red-hot coal, he released me. I collapsed onto the dirty tile floor of the boys’ locker room, heaving in air. It tasted like sweat and bleach. I coughed, clutching my bruised throat, and looked up at him. He was wearing a faded, oversized hoodie that had clearly seen better decades, and sneakers that were held together by duct tape and prayer. His fists were clenched at his sides, trembling. “Get out,” he said. “Before I change my mind.” I didn’t need to be told twice. I scrambled to my feet, my legs feeling like jelly, and bolted. I ran past the rows of gray lockers, burst through the double doors, and didn’t stop until I was in the pristine, marble-floored hallway of the main building. I caught my reflection in a trophy case. The girl staring back was stunning. Platinum blonde hair, blue eyes, skin that looked like it had been airbrushed. I was wearing a designer skirt that probably cost more than Liam’s entire life savings. “Great,” I whispered to my reflection. “I’m the rich bitch who dies in Chapter Ten.” Part II: The Redemption Arc According to the plot of The Rest of Forever, Vivian Vanderbuilt was obsessed with the male lead, Chase Sterling—the captain of the football team, the golden boy, the sun around which Crestwood Academy orbited. To get Chase’s attention, Vivian bullied anyone who got close to him, especially the scholarship student, Grace Miller. And Liam? Liam was just Vivian’s punching bag. She used him to vent her frustrations. She mocked his scars, humiliated him publicly, and eventually pushed him too far. In the original book, Liam kills Vivian on the night of the Senior Prom, framing it as a suicide, which kicks off his career as a high-functioning sociopath. I had about six months until Prom. Tick tock. The next day, the cafeteria was a war zone of social hierarchy. I walked in, my tray trembling slightly in my hands. Usually, Vivian sat at the “Table of Gods” in the center, flanked by her minions. I looked over. Chase was there, laughing loudly, his arm draped over a chair. Grace Miller was walking past, and I saw Chase wink at her. The main plot was moving along nicely. I ignored them. I scanned the perimeter. The outcasts. The stoners. The kids who ate quickly so they could leave. There, in the far back corner, sitting alone near the trash cans, was Liam. He had his hood up. He was picking at a sandwich that looked like two pieces of stale bread and nothing else. I took a deep breath. Don’t die. Just be nice. I walked past my usual table. My “friends”—Jessica and Chloe—waved at me. “Viv! Over here!” Jessica squealed. “Not today,” I murmured, clutching my tray. The cafeteria went silent as I approached the back corner. It was like the parting of the Red Sea, if the sea was made of teenagers wearing Abercrombie and judgment. I slammed my tray down opposite Liam. He flinched. His hand instinctively went to his pocket—I knew he carried a box cutter there. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “What game is this, Vanderbuilt? You want to pour milk on me again? Or maybe you brought your friends to film it this time?” His voice was tired. That was what broke my heart. He wasn’t even angry yet; he was just exhausted by the cruelty of his existence. “No game,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. I opened my expensive bento box. Inside was sushi, fresh fruit, and a Godiva truffle. “I just… I don’t like the noise in the center.” Liam stared at me. He stared at the sushi. Then he looked back at me. “You’re out of your mind,” he muttered, and went back to staring at his empty bread. I pushed my tray toward him. “I’m allergic to crab.” “Liar,” he said. “I saw you eating crab cakes yesterday.” Crap. Vivian had no allergies. “I developed it overnight,” I lied smoothly. “Medical mystery. Look, just eat it. Or throw it away. I don’t care.” I pulled out my AP History textbook and pretended to read. For five minutes, he didn’t move. Then, I heard the subtle sound of chopsticks. I risked a glance. He was eating. Fast. Like someone who didn’t know when his next meal was coming. We sat in silence. The rest of the cafeteria was whispering, cell phones out, recording the downfall of the Queen Bee. But I didn’t care. I looked at the faint purple bruises on his wrist, peeking out from his sleeve. His father. The drunk who beat him every time he lost money at the track. I have to save him, I thought. Not just to save myself. But because nobody deserves this. Part III: The Umbrella It rained in Crestwood for three weeks straight in November. The kind of relentless, freezing rain that soaked through your soul. I was waiting for my driver, standing under the massive portico of the school entrance. My Mercedes pulled up. As I walked toward it, I saw a figure walking toward the bus stop. No umbrella. Just that soaking wet hoodie. Liam was limping slightly. “Stop the car,” I told the driver. “Miss Vivian?” “I said stop!” I grabbed the oversized golf umbrella from the backseat and jumped out. My Gucci loafers splashed into a puddle. “Liam!” I shouted over the roar of the rain. He didn’t stop. He kept walking, head down against the wind. I ran after him. I wasn’t built for running. I was out of breath by the time I caught up, shielding him with the umbrella. The sudden silence of the rain hitting the canopy made us both jump. He stopped and turned. Water was dripping from his nose, his scars standing out starkly against his pale skin. “What do you want?” he yelled. “Are you trying to see how pathetic I look? Is this funny to you?” “Get in the car, Liam,” I shouted back. “Go to hell.” “You’re limping! Just get in the damn car! I’ll drop you off!” “I’d rather walk on broken glass than get in a car with you.”

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Part 1: The Notification It was the fourth year of my marriage to Wayne when my phone lit up with a notification that would incinerate my life. It was a DM on Instagram. No profile picture, just a handle like user7789. The message was short, punchy, and dripping with the kind of self-righteous indignation only a twenty-year-old in love can muster: “Hey, just a heads up. You need to stop being the side piece. Wayne is mine. Have some self-respect and stop trying to wreck our relationship.” I stared at the screen. The blue light washed over my face in the dim living room of our one-bedroom apartment. Wayne was asleep in the bedroom, snoring the soft, entitled snore of a man who thought he had the world fooled. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even wake him up. Instead, I replied: “Starbucks on 5th and Main. Tomorrow, 10 AM. I’ll be the one in the beige trench coat.” The next morning, I sat across from her. Her name was Chloe. She was agonizingly young—skin like porcelain, eyes wide and dewy, dressed in a trendy oversized sweater that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget. She looked at me with a mixture of pity and disdain. “Look,” she started, her voice trembling slightly. “I don’t want to be mean. But Wayne loves me. You’re just… the distraction.” I didn’t say a word. I just reached into my bag, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and slid it across the scratched wooden table. It wasn’t a love letter. It was a marriage license. Certified by the State of Illinois, dated four years ago. Chloe froze. She looked at the document, then at me, then back at the document. The color drained from her face so fast I thought she might faint. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. “He’s not your boyfriend, Chloe,” I said, my voice calm, almost clinical. “He’s my husband.” She stared at me, the arrogance evaporating, replaced by the sheer, crushing weight of reality. “I… I didn’t know. He told me he was single. He said he lived alone.” “I know,” I said. “He’s a liar.” She slumped in her chair, looking like a puppet whose strings had been cut. “I need to break up with him. Right now.” “No,” I said, leaning forward. “You don’t.” She blinked. “What?” “I don’t want a divorce yet,” I lied. “And you don’t want to let him off that easy, do you?” Part 2: The Foundation of Sand To understand why I didn’t flip the table, you have to understand where I came from. I grew up in a house where space was a currency I couldn’t afford. When I graduated college and moved back home, I found my bedroom had been converted into a “gaming room” for my younger brother, Tyler. My parents pointed to the couch in the living room. “It’s just temporary, Maya,” my mother had said, wiping the kitchen counter, not looking me in the eye. “Tyler needs his space. He’s… sensitive.” That night, I called Wayne. We had just started dating. I was sitting on my suitcase on the front porch, shivering in the October chill. “I don’t think I have a home anymore,” I whispered into the phone. “I don’t even have a door to close.” Wayne came to get me in his beat-up Honda Civic. He took me to his cramped studio apartment, wrapped me in a blanket, and promised me the world. “We’ll build our own home,” he said, kissing my forehead. “Just you and me.” And I believed him. I married him for that promise. We didn’t have a wedding. We went to the courthouse, signed the papers, and then ate beef noodles at a hole-in-the-wall spot downtown. He paid extra to add a fried egg to my bowl. That egg felt like the height of luxury. For four years, we grinded. We lived in cheap, roach-infested apartments to save for a down payment. I learned to sleep with the lights on to keep the bugs away. I patched holes in the drywall. I cooked cheap meals—rice and beans, pasta with butter—so we could put every spare cent into the “House Fund.” “Just a little longer, babe,” Wayne would say, hugging me when I cried about the noise from the neighbors. “We’re almost there.” And we were. We had finally saved enough for a down payment. We were supposed to start house hunting next month. And then Chloe messaged me. Part 3: The Audit After the meeting with Chloe, I went back to the apartment. Wayne was on the couch, playing Call of Duty. He didn’t look up when I walked in. “Mom’s sick,” I said. It was a lie. “I’m going to stay with her for a few days.” “Okay,” he grunted, his eyes glued to the TV. “Make sure you defrost the chicken before you go.” I packed a bag. Not just clothes, but my documents. My laptop. The hard drive with our tax returns. That night, alone in a cheap motel room that smelled of stale cigarettes and lemon pledge, I did something I had never done in four years. I audited my husband. I logged into his cloud account. His password was his birthday. Predictable. I found the photos. There was Wayne, smiling a smile I hadn’t seen in years, his arm around Chloe. They were at a winery. They were at a ski resort. They were in a car—a nice car. I scrolled through his messages. “Baby, you look so hot in that dress. I ordered the YSL bag you wanted.” “Don’t worry about the rent, I’ll transfer it.” “My ex? She’s crazy. We’re practically separated. She just won’t leave.” I felt a cold, hard knot form in my stomach. It wasn’t heartbreak. It was nausea. For years, he had lectured me about money. “Maya, do you really need that latte? That’s five bucks. That’s fifty bucks a month.” “Maya, that dress is too expensive. We have goals, remember?” I had walked in the rain to save Uber fare. I had worn the same winter coat for five years. I had cut my own hair. And meanwhile, he was buying Yves Saint Laurent bags for a college student? He wasn’t saving for our future. He was financing his fantasy. Part 4: The Exit Strategy I met Chloe again the next day. She pulled up in a cherry-red Range Rover. “My dad bought it,” she said, catching my stare. “He felt guilty about missing my birthday.” We sat in her car. I looked at her—really looked at her. She wasn’t malicious. She was just a spoiled, sheltered kid who had been sold a fairy tale by a man who knew exactly how to manipulate insecurities. “I want to divorce him,” I said. “But I need time to separate our finances. And I need you to help me.” “How?” Chloe asked. “Don’t break up with him yet,” I said. “Be demanding. Be expensive. Be a nightmare. Make him think he has a chance, but make him pay for it. Keep him distracted so he doesn’t notice I’m moving the money.” Chloe’s eyes lit up. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face. “So… I can be a brat? I’m really good at that.” “Be the biggest brat you can be,” I said. I moved out of the motel and rented a small studio on the other side of the city. I told Wayne I needed “space” to take care of my mental health. He didn’t fight it. In fact, he seemed relieved. It gave him more time to play house with Chloe. I went to work. I was a sales rep for a mid-sized tech firm. I was good at it, but I had always played it safe, keeping my head down. Now, I needed leverage. One afternoon, Wayne showed up at my office. He was wearing his “good husband” face—concerned, soft-spoken. “Maya, honey, please come home,” he said loudly in the lobby, causing the receptionist to look up. “We can work this out. I know you’re stressed.” He was trying to control the narrative. If I left him, he wanted it to look like I was the unstable one. I didn’t cower. I didn’t whisper. I channeled every ounce of rage I had suppressed for four years. I fell to my knees. “Please, Wayne!” I sobbed, loud enough for the entire floor to hear. “Please don’t hit me again! I’ll give you the money, just leave me alone!” The lobby went dead silent. Wayne froze. His face went from concerned to horrified in a nanosecond. “What? Maya, what the hell are you—” Two of my male colleagues, big guys from the warehouse, stood up and started walking toward us. “Is there a problem here?” one of them asked, cracking his knuckles. Wayne turned pale. He looked at me, looked at the looming security, and backed away. “You’re crazy,” he hissed. “You’re actually insane.” He ran. I stood up, dusted off my knees, and wiped my dry eyes. My colleagues looked at me with pity. “I’m sorry you guys had to see that,” I said, my voice trembling just enough to be convincing. “I’m dealing with a difficult separation.” From that day on, Wayne never came near my office again. Part 5: The Blood Debt A few weeks later, I had to go back to my parents’ house for my father’s birthday. It was a familial obligation I couldn’t dodge without causing a war. The house hadn’t changed. It still smelled of old frying oil and neglect. My brother, Tyler, was there with his wife and their five-year-old terror of a son, Leo. Dinner was the usual affair. My father sat at the head of the table, complaining about politics. My mother fluttered around, refilling bowls, terrified of the silence. “So, Maya,” Tyler said, chewing with his mouth open. “I heard you left Wayne. You gonna divorce him? How much alimony you getting?” “We’re working on it,” I said, picking at my food. “Well, don’t be stupid,” Tyler said. “Get what you can. Dad and I were talking, I want to open a vape shop. Could use some startup capital.” I stared at him. “You want my divorce settlement… to open a vape shop?” “It’s an investment!” Tyler said defensively. “Family helps family, right?” Just then, a crash came from the living room. We all ran in. Leo was standing there, holding a permanent marker. My vintage Chanel bag—a gift from a wealthy client, the one nice thing I owned—was covered in black scribbles. He had also ripped the strap. “Uh oh,” Leo giggled. I felt the blood rush to my head. I walked over, grabbed Leo’s favorite Transformer toy from the floor, and smashed it against the wall. CRACK. Plastic shattered everywhere. Leo screamed. “Maya!” My dad roared, standing up. “Are you insane? He’s a child!” “He destroyed my property,” I said, my voice shaking with adrenaline. “That bag is worth three thousand dollars. You’re paying for it.” “It’s just a bag!” Tyler yelled, hugging his crying son. “You care more about a bag than your nephew? You selfish bitch!” “Selfish?” I laughed. It was a manic, jagged sound. “Let’s talk about selfish. Let’s talk about the last ten years. I paid for the new roof. I paid for Mom’s dental surgery. I paid for your bail when you got that DUI, Tyler. And what did I get? I got the couch.” My mother tried to intervene. “Maya, please, don’t cause a scene…” “No, Mom,” I turned on her. “You let them treat me like an ATM. You let Dad treat you like a servant. And you taught me to accept the same treatment from Wayne. Well, I’m done. The bank is closed.” I grabbed my ruined bag and walked out. I blocked their numbers before I even started the car. Part 6: The Settlement Wayne finally asked for a divorce a month later. Chloe had done her job well. She had convinced him that his “nagging, poor wife” was holding him back from a life of luxury with her. We met at a coffee shop to sign the papers. “I want the car,” Wayne said. “You can keep the savings. It’s not much anyway.” He didn’t know I had been siphoning my half of the savings into a separate account for months. He also didn’t know that “our” savings account was mostly empty because he had spent it all on Chloe. “Fine,” I said. “I take the cash. You take the Civic.” He signed the papers with a smirk. “You know, Maya,” he said, leaning back. “I tried to make you happy. But you’re just… too intense. You’re always calculating. A man wants a woman who needs him, not a business partner.” “Is that right?” I asked, putting the signed papers in my folder. “Yeah. Chloe… she needs me. She appreciates me.” I almost laughed. “Good luck with her, Wayne. I hope she’s worth it.” “She is,” he said confidently. “We’re going to Cabo next week.” “Have fun,” I said. I walked out of that coffee shop a free woman. Part 7: The Aftermath I moved to Austin, Texas. I needed heat. I needed distance. I needed to not be in the same time zone as my past. Six months later, I got a call from my mother. She was crying. “I found a lump,” she said. My first instinct was to hang up. But the old programming runs deep. I flew back. She was in a county hospital, looking small and gray in the paper gown. It was a benign tumor, thank god, but it needed surgery. “Your dad… he says we can’t afford the surgery at the private hospital,” she whispered. “He wants to wait for the state aid approval. It could take months.” I looked at the woman who had let me sleep on a couch for years. I looked at her fear. “I’ll pay for it,” I said. “Maya, no, it’s too much…” “I’m not doing it for him,” I said. “And I’m not doing it because you were a good mother. I’m doing it because I have the money, and I don’t want you to die.” I paid for the surgery. I hired a private nurse. When she woke up, I sat by her bed. “Why?” she asked weakly. “Why help me after I let them treat you like that?” “Because I’m better than them,” I said. “And because I wanted you to see that you don’t have to live like a victim. You have options, Mom. Dad isn’t a god. He’s just a mean old man with no money.” She cried then. Real tears. Not the manipulative tears she used to stop fights, but tears of regret. Part 8: The Reunion I was shopping at The Domain in Austin a year later when I heard a familiar voice. “You’re trash! You’re nothing but a homewrecker!” I turned. Outside a luxury boutique, a middle-aged woman was screaming at a girl. The girl was Chloe. Chloe looked different. She wasn’t the polished doll I met in the coffee shop. She looked tired. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt. She was standing her ground, but her hands were shaking. “I didn’t know he was married!” Chloe yelled back. “He lied to me too!” “Liar!” the woman screamed. “You little gold digger!” I didn’t think. I just walked over. “Hey!” I shouted. “Back off.” The woman turned to me. “Who are you?” “I’m the ex-wife,” I said, stepping between her and Chloe. “And she’s telling the truth. Wayne is a pathological liar. If you want to scream at someone, go find him. Leave her alone.” The woman looked from me to Chloe, muttered something about “crazy bitches,” and stormed off.

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The first thing I did after I was reborn was scatter my best friend’s ashes. In my previous life, Seraphina had gotten pregnant out of wedlock, brutally abandoned by her boyfriend and her own family. She barely held on through the delivery, only to suffer a massive hemorrhage in the operating room. With her last breath, she begged me to take in her newborn son. Pitying her, I soft-heartedly agreed. Caring for the baby meant my studies tanked, and I was expelled from my elite university. Unable to finish my degree, I was forced to work menial jobs, enduring countless indignities and sneers, all while raising a child who wasn’t mine. Finally, the year he turned eighteen, he was spotted by a scout, starred in a movie, and instantly shot to fame—an Oscar-winning actor. At the awards ceremony, Seraphina, my “dead” best friend, walked in, arm-in-arm with my ex-boyfriend. I stumbled forward in disbelief, demanding an explanation. She simply smiled at me. “Congratulations on completing the test.” My mind blanked. My ex-boyfriend, Bryce, stepped forward, a look of cold condescension on his face. “Seraphina is a billionaire’s daughter. How were we to know you weren’t just using her for money?” “Now that you’ve diligently raised our son, you’ve earned the right to be Seraphina’s acquaintance.” “If you see our son through marriage and children of his own, then, maybe, you’ll earn the right to be Seraphina’s best friend.” My head exploded. Her friend? Was I desperate for her friendship? That was eighteen years of my life! A desperate tide of rage and betrayal rose up, choking me. I lunged at them, my eyes blazing. Suddenly, Kian, the son I’d raised, rushed off the stage and shoved me away. “Are you crazy? Who gave you the right to try and hurt my parents?” The sharp, sudden shock was too much. My heart seized in my chest, and I passed out cold. When I woke up, I was back. Back to the day Seraphina gave birth. 1 “The patient is hemorrhaging badly. Get Dr. Chen in here.” “Are you the patient’s next of kin? We’re short on Type B blood. Can you donate?” A nurse approached me. I blinked, dazed, then sharply looked up at the glowing SURGERY IN PROGRESS sign above the door. It was Seraphina’s surgery. I had been reborn. My breathing hitched. I instinctively pulled my sleeve down, covering the veins in my arm. The nurse, seeing my lack of response, nudged me urgently. “Hurry! The patient is fading fast.” I shook my head, settling the cold, hard certainty into my stomach. I said, my voice unnervingly calm, “I am not. You need to find someone else.” The nurse looked momentarily stunned, then quickly spun around and ran back into the operating room. I let out a cold, inner laugh. Last time, I’d rushed to donate without a second thought. They didn’t even run a proper check on me—they’d just drawn four hundred CCs of blood. It was clearly premeditated. Dizzy and lightheaded from the blood loss, I’d barely been able to think. When the nurse had helped me into the delivery room, and Seraphina had begged me to raise her baby, I’d blindly and miserably agreed. While I was lost in the memory, the OR light flickered off. The doctor emerged, his face grave with regret. “We did our best. The patient is still conscious. You can say your goodbyes.” I walked slowly into the room. Seraphina was there, looking exactly as she had before—pale, weak, a vision of suffering. She looked at me, a hint of accusation in her expression. “Rowan, why wouldn’t you donate blood for me? If you had helped, maybe I could have pulled through.” The nurse from earlier chimed in, her tone dripping with moral judgment. “Exactly! She considered you her best friend, and you wouldn’t even give a little blood? That’s a living life you refused to save! Don’t you feel any guilt?” Seraphina wiped a fake tear from her eye. “It’s done, I won’t blame you. My parents and my boyfriend abandoned me; I have nothing left to live for, anyway.” She looked down at the tiny bundle beside her. “But my son… he’s so small. I’m terrified for him. Rowan, you’re the only one I can trust. Please, can you raise him for me?” The nurse started sobbing softly, shooting me a look of pure condemnation. “How tragic! You contributed to her death. Are you really heartless enough to abandon her baby, too?” Watching the two of them perform this manipulative duet, I felt a deep, chilling disgust. Last time, weakened by the blood draw, I had been easily cornered and morally blackmailed. I had genuinely believed Seraphina was my friend, and the sight of her fading away had broken me. But what had that “pity” gotten me? My boyfriend had instantly accused me of cheating and fathering an illegitimate child, abandoning me without a backward glance. I couldn’t afford childcare and was forced to drop out of university, falling from a high-achieving student to someone with a high school diploma. Without a degree, I couldn’t find a decent job. It was all minimum wage, manual labor. When the child was eight, he developed a relentless high fever and ended up in the ICU. The medical bills were impossible; I was forced to take out predatory online loans. When the boy recovered, the debt collectors arrived, threatening and intimidating me. The child cried constantly, and the neighbors, tired of the noise, complained to the landlord. I was evicted, forced to wander with the boy like a beggar. For eighteen years, I worked as a diner waitress, a cleaning lady. Just when I finally found a boss who valued skill over a degree, and my work stabilized, I tried to find a stable relationship, some support. The first time I brought an almost-boyfriend home, an old neighbor cornered him the minute I was out of earshot. “Listen, handsome, you’re making a mistake! Don’t you know she’s got baggage? You’re too good for a woman with a stray kid.” He hesitated. “But Rowan told me the boy is her friend’s son.” The neighbor sneered, clucking her tongue. “You believe that? She definitely got knocked up when she was young and wild, and made up that story so she wouldn’t be stuck alone. I’m telling you, I’ve seen her type before. Go find a nice, clean girl.” He paused, then turned and left without even saying goodbye. I collapsed behind the door, quietly sobbing. Eighteen years of sneers and judgment, eighteen years of raising him alone—only to be told, at his glorious awards ceremony, that it was all a test? Did I want her friendship that badly? My youth, my future, my chance at a normal life—all destroyed. And it was all a joke. Worst of all, the son I’d sacrificed everything to raise didn’t hesitate to side with them. The familiar hatred surged, almost making me shake. I took several deep, measured breaths to steady myself. My eyes, now completely devoid of warmth, fixed on Seraphina. “I have no obligation to raise your child. If you can’t manage it, send him to foster care.” 2 Seraphina bolted upright in the bed, perfectly healthy, and pointed a finger at me. “You heartless monster! You call yourself my best friend? You won’t donate blood and you won’t raise my child? What kind of friend are you?” I eyed her coolly. “You look remarkably well, Seraphina. Perhaps the hospital was mistaken about your condition.” She realized she’d given the game away, panicked for a split second, and then collapsed back onto the bed, groaning and calling for a doctor. The scene descended into chaos, and I was shoved out of the room. A few minutes later, the cooperating nurse emerged, clutching a baby. She forcibly thrust the infant into my arms. “The patient had a sudden turn—she’s gone. The birth certificate is filed; your name is listed as the mother.” “Don’t even think about abandoning him. If you do, we have the authority to call the police.” I almost laughed out loud. High-pressure, forced sales. I was the one who should be calling the police! I brushed past her and stormed back into the OR. I wanted to see how far Seraphina would take her act. But she was nowhere to be found. How could she disappear in a matter of minutes? The nurse followed me, scolding furiously. “This is an operating room! Who let you in here? Get out now!” I cut across her rant. “Where is she?” She rolled her eyes. “She died, of course. They took her for cremation.” As if on cue, a small urn containing her “ashes” was delivered. I remembered. Last time, it had happened this way, too. I was pushed out, and shortly after, they told me she had passed away. Distraught, I wept with the baby in my arms, and moments later, they delivered the urn. No hospital has the right to cremate a body without family consent, and cremation certainly doesn’t happen that fast. But in my weakened, emotional state, I hadn’t seen the blatant scheme. This time, I wouldn’t be fooled into taking on this burden. I reached out, grabbed the urn, quickly lifted the lid, and scattered the contents directly onto the floor. A cloud of dark powder billowed out. The nurse shrieked. “What are you doing?! That’s the patient’s remains!” The surrounding crowd scattered in terror. “Oh my god! That’s bad luck! Why would she scatter ashes here? Is she crazy?” “What are the hospital security guards doing? Get her out before she causes more trouble!” “Did any get on me? If she’s passed on bad karma, I’ll sue!” The crowd erupted in angry accusations. The nurse, desperate to protect the hospital’s image, quickly addressed me. “That is deeply disrespectful to the deceased! Now, you get down on your knees and scoop up the ashes with your hands!” “You need to kneel and knock your head three times to appease the spirit’s resentment, before you taint any more innocent people!” I gave a bitter, mocking laugh. “Since when did a hospital subscribe to superstition?” “If these were real ashes, I’d apologize for my conduct. But look closely, everyone. Do those look like human remains?” 3 People peered down at the dark powder, murmurs of doubt spreading through the crowd. “That doesn’t look like bone fragments, does it?” Human remains, post-cremation, are a mix of gritty bone shards, not fine, homogenous powder, like a pile of dirt. I turned back to the nurse. “You cremated my friend without my consent, and now her remains are nowhere to be found.” “Am I right to suspect that there was a surgical error, and you’re rushing to cover up the evidence?” The nurse instantly lost her composure, shouting in panicked denial. “Nonsense! Our hospital is fully certified!” But the seed of doubt was planted, and a simple denial wouldn’t clear it up. Several family members began to exchange worried glances. “My grandmother died suddenly during a routine operation here, too. Could the hospital be involved in something sinister?” “They recommend the crematorium and the funeral home. Maybe it’s a black market scheme.” The nurse was sweating profusely. She’d never imagined I would scatter the ashes on the spot, causing such a massive public scene. She managed to stabilize the crowd, then frantically ran back into the OR. I chuckled lightly, then looked down and gently touched the baby’s soft, pink cheek. Oh, you want me to raise him? Fine. But it will cost you. A few minutes later, the nurse returned, out of breath, clutching a document. She gave me a nervous, placating smile. “It was a misunderstanding. The patient signed a waiver beforehand, stating that in the event of her death, she wanted an immediate cremation.” “That’s why we didn’t notify you. As for the ashes—a new, inexperienced nurse made a mistake. Your friend’s body is still waiting for cremation.” “We take full responsibility. We’d like to offer you twenty thousand dollars in compensation for the distress caused by our oversight. Does that sound fair?” I took the envelope, feeling the thickness of the cash inside. I glanced at the contract—the ink on the signatures was still wet. I didn’t push for more details, just took the money and left with the baby. Since Seraphina trusted me so much, willing to pay me to raise her child, I thought with a sneer, I certainly won’t disappoint her. Eighteen years flew by in a flash. I used the twenty thousand dollars as seed capital to establish a strong presence on social media. I hired countless influencers, even invested in film and television production. The money multiplied, and I spared no expense in cultivating the child. This time, I started him young, casting him as a child actor in various shows. By the time he won his Oscar, he was already America’s Sweetheart, a household name. His current fame and status far exceeded what he’d achieved in the previous timeline. I sat in the VIP section, watching my adopted son give his acceptance speech. I counted down the seconds in my head. I had raised the child so successfully; Seraphina must be desperate to claim him now. Sure enough, the moment Kian finished his speech, Seraphina and my ex-boyfriend, Bryce, sashayed down the aisle toward the stage in a blaze of high-profile confidence. Seraphina, her eyes red with false emotion, threw her arms around Kian. “Son, Mommy has finally found you!” The audience and his fans were stunned. “What is this? Is this some kind of staged family reunion?” Kian, my adopted son, looked utterly bewildered. “My mother died eighteen years ago. Who are you?” Seraphina beamed, delighted by his mention of the death. “That’s right! I suffered complications giving birth to you and entrusted you to Rowan Ashworth’s care.” “I was miraculously saved on the way to the crematorium. But when I came back to look for you, you were gone from the hospital.” Seraphina turned to where I was sitting, her voice thick with sobs. “Rowan, I am so grateful you looked after my son all these years. But I don’t understand why he’s so cold to me.” “Did you, perhaps, speak ill of me behind my back?” Her eyes welled up, a picture of wounded innocence. I laughed coldly to myself. Seraphina was still clinging to the delusion that the superstar I had invested millions in was her son. But this time, I wasn’t the idiot she needed me to be. I was here for revenge. “I certainly won’t stop you from reuniting with your son,” I said calmly. Joy instantly flashed in Seraphina’s eyes, a triumphant smirk crossing her face. Then I tilted my head, feigning confusion. “But the Oscar winner isn’t your son, Seraphina.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387311”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I was juggling caterers and florists, trying to finalize the details for the engagement party scheduled for the holiday weekend. That evening, I scrolled past a trending gossip thread: “OMG, you guys, I’m dying. My friend—the one who’s always been so boring and always been less than me—is marrying up! His family? Major players, serious Capitol Hill connections. They’re flying in this weekend to meet her family, and the rehearsal dinner is at my family’s high-end hotel! She’s basically rubbing it in my face! I’m so angry, how do I crash this dinner and ruin her engagement?” The comments were mostly people condemning her for being a psychopath. But one comment, which she had pinned and ‘liked,’ jumped out: “Simple. Kitchens have huge blind spots. Swap out the expensive, fresh-prepped meals with cheap, expired, industrial-grade frozen meals. Use heavily seasoned stuff to mask the taste and expiry date. You might even pocket a little refund.” “That kind of family—the polished, political type—won’t make a scene, but they will absolutely blacklist her family internally for disrespect. A dinner like that is enough to send her straight to the curb. You’ll hear about their breakup in two days…” A message notification from my best friend, Tatum Sinclair, popped up at the top of my screen: “Babe! I looked over the menu. Don’t worry about a thing! I personally told the kitchen to use the absolute freshest, high-grade ingredients to make sure you have the perfect event. It’s your big day, after all (hug emoji).” 1 I stared at the rapidly escalating post, my mind completely numb. No way… could this be that much of a coincidence? I tapped the anonymous account. The profile was a decade’s worth of fragmented, continuous posts, all centered on one person. It started with things like: “My deskmate lost thirty pounds over summer break. What should I do? She’s clearly prettier than me now. If I slipped her weight gain pills, would anyone notice?” It progressed to: “She scored 150 points higher than me on the SATs, sob. My dad already compares me to her, now she’ll outpace me forever, sob. But I have access to her college portal—if I change her university application to a community college, she won’t notice, right?” “It worked! She missed her deadlines and didn’t get into her top school! Hehe!” My eyes narrowed into slits. I remembered that year—the inexplicable slip-up with my college applications, the crushing realization that without a full scholarship, I might have to go south and bus tables to support my parents. I was lucky a spot opened up in a deferred admission program at a decent state school, forcing me into the then-unpopular Computer Science program. I had suspected everyone but her. I couldn’t believe the person who had nearly derailed my life was Tatum. Shaking, I scrolled. “My friend got an acceptance into a top Ph.D. program, but she’s still in the final review stage. I have photos of her skipping classes to work her side hustle—can I use that as evidence to report her?” “Reporting didn’t work! She ditched the Ph.D. to go abroad! She went to my dream school in LA! But her family is dirt poor… you guys, she must have been sleeping with an old professor to afford that, right?” I devoured the posts, one after another. Countless details perfectly overlapped with my reality. It felt like a rapid-fire succession of slaps across the face. No wonder my academic advisor gave me that loaded look when I turned down the Ph.D. offer, subtly asking if I had offended anyone lately… No wonder none of my former classmates invited me to reunions, their eyes holding a strange, guarded pity… No wonder. All the puzzle pieces slammed into place. My fingers trembled as I typed: [Tatum, when can we schedule a food tasting?] My phone vibrated immediately. [Babe, look at you, you’re so busy with the engagement! A tasting is totally unnecessary. Don’t you trust me? We’re sisters! If you keep asking, I’ll seriously break up with you! (pinch cheek emoji)] It was meant to sound playful, but for the first time, I heard the thinly veiled control and threat beneath the joke. The person I had considered my best friend for a decade had been secretly jealous of me, hated me, and fabricated lies about me. I had been blindfolded the whole time. Why? The comments on the hot thread were mostly turning against her: [Wait, Poster, are you serious? I looked at your old threads. Your friend lost weight, did well in school, got an academic award, went to LA… how do you have the nerve to say she’s ‘always been beneath you’?] Tatum’s account replied, brazenly: “So what? No guy ever gave her a second look growing up, while I’ve dated a dozen! The fact that I get all the attention proves who the winner is, doesn’t it? Besides, her parents are market vendors, scraping by to sell produce. How dare she try to marry into a prominent family? The universe is seriously unjust!” Other users were appalled: [I’ve never met a friend this poisonous… She’s marrying up, not winning the lottery. You own a high-end hotel chain; why would you do something this evil?] She replied: “It drives me crazy! This hotel was founded by my dad and his old, bitter ex-wife, so it’s not really mine. All the real money and accounts are run by my half-brother, Rhys, who hates my guts. And my mom is a total doormat who never fights for me! Eliza knows I’m already feuding with Rhys, and she still booked her event here? She’s deliberately giving my brother a massive payout right in front of me!” The hand I was raising to block the account froze mid-air. Devon’s parents—Senator Harrison and his wife—were due to fly in for the weekend meeting with my parents. I had originally wanted to keep the business “in the family,” so to speak, and gave the contract to Tatum’s hotel. The Poseidon Grand had just opened, but the food was distinctive and exquisite. Even Devon, who was notoriously picky, had approved of the food after trying it once. His family was incredibly prominent, their social circle vast. The wedding reception would likely host hundreds of people. My original plan was this: if the initial meeting dinner impressed the Harrisons, I would lock in the hundred-plus plate wedding banquet with Tatum’s family. That real, quantifiable success could elevate Tatum’s status in her patriarchal, dismissive family, finally making her father look at her with respect. Instead, she was plotting to use expired, low-grade food to destroy my engagement and my family’s reputation. “What’s wrong? You look pale.” Devon’s voice cut through my thoughts. He walked up behind me and naturally draped his arm around my shoulder. I quickly locked my phone screen. I managed a weak smile. “Nothing. Maybe I’m just a little nervous about your parents arriving.” Devon smiled. “Don’t worry. My mom and dad will love you. But you’re freezing. Your hand is like ice.” He squeezed my hand, looking at me with genuine concern. “Seriously, is everything okay?” I shook my head and leaned against his solid chest. We’d been classmates in grad school in LA. He was quiet, steady, and never boasted about his background. I only learned his father was a powerful State Senator after we started dating. “Oh, right,” Devon suddenly said. “My dad has an old friend who’s the head of Municipal Health Compliance. When he heard we were using The Poseidon Grand, he asked if we could set up a surprise inspection to help his team hit some targets. He said it would be doing him a favor.” I stiffened. “And you agreed?” He laughed. “Your friend promised it was absolutely pristine. The surprise inspection is fully filmed. I figured it would be a huge PR boost for her family.” After a moment, I tightened my grip on his hand, the decision crystalizing. “Good. Tell him yes.” The next day, I was in a company meeting when I got an urgent call. My mother was sobbing on the other end, nearly hysterical. “Eliza, your father… your father was beaten! They took him to the emergency room!” My brain went numb. I grabbed my blazer and ran out. Rushing into the ER, I saw my father lying in bed, pale and frail, his forehead wrapped in gauze, his eye bruised. My mother sat beside him, crying, surrounded by familiar faces—the longtime vendors from the farmers’ market. I felt a surge of panic and anger. “Mom, Dad, I told you I make enough now! You don’t need to be out there selling produce! Why won’t you listen?” My father mumbled weakly. “Your in-laws are so high-status, honey… we were afraid the difference in class would embarrass you. We wanted to sell a few more truckloads to give you a substantial dowry. We didn’t want them to look down on you…” Tears instantly blurred my vision. “But the market can’t just let people beat you up!” My mother, furious now, recounted the event: “They claim they’re the ‘management,’ but they’re just outsourced thugs! They come by every few weeks demanding ‘fees.’ Today, they tried to take two boxes of the best bell peppers. Your dad refused. They saw his refusal, got angry, and the leader claimed he was severely allergic to nightshades—said your dad gave it to him on purpose. Then they shoved him…” She pulled over a man nearby. “Thank God for Mr. Lopez! He rushed over to intervene, drove your dad here, and even paid the initial hospital deposit.” I knew him. Mr. Lopez owned a very popular local gourmet comfort food restaurant. My parents had been supplying him with vegetables for years. He was a kind man, and years ago, knowing our financial struggles, he’d even offered to help pay for my college. I bowed deeply to him. “Mr. Lopez, thank you so much! I’ll pay you back the medical expenses right now…” “Nonsense, we’re neighbors. It’s the least I could do,” he said, waving it off. He leaned in, lowering his voice. “The guy who led the beating, the one who runs the outsourced security? His name is Vince. He’s the younger brother of the owner’s wife at The Poseidon Grand.” I froze. “The Poseidon?” “Yes. That guy is Mrs. Sinclair’s brother. He acts like a thug because of his brother-in-law’s money… Small folk like us, we can’t afford to mess with them.” I felt a bucket of ice water cascade over me. I was chilled to the bone. It wasn’t just online defamation anymore. Now, her family had physically attacked my father. I looked at the bruises on his face, the redness around my mother’s eyes, and slowly curled my hands into fists. The comments under Tatum’s post had become an angry mob, and she couldn’t delete them fast enough. She laid low for two days, then popped up with a smaller, anonymous account, doubling down on her malice: “Her mere existence is a provocation to me! She has everything she doesn’t deserve! Just wait, I’ll make her understand that stealing my life will eventually cost her!” “Did I lie? If I hadn’t messed with her college app, would she have been forced to take that slot in Computer Science and end up as a mid-level executive at a huge tech firm? She stole my good fortune!” “Besides, do you really think her market vendor parents paid for her to study abroad? Professor Henderson was awfully fond of her… Any real man would be disgusted by that kind of shady past. I’m just giving her a relationship test! Maybe she’ll even thank me for it later…” She even posted a picture, almost like a threat, captioned: “Just wait!”— In the corner of the photo, a massive stack of cardboard boxes filled with commercial pre-packaged meal kits was visible. I was shaking with rage when Devon put his book down. “You’ve been distracted for days.” I took a deep breath. “It’s nothing major. My dad had a small scuffle at the market and is resting in the hospital. I was thinking… maybe we should ask your parents to postpone their trip? Airfare is crazy this weekend, and I feel terrible making them fly out when things are so hectic here. Could we arrange the meeting once my dad is fully recovered?” He furrowed his brow. “I don’t think that’s right. If your father is hurt, we should visit and support him.” I quickly cut him off. “Truly, no! It’s just minor cuts and bruises, but he needs complete rest. Let’s wait until everything settles down so they can come and relax comfortably. Please, honey?” Seeing my absolute insistence, he finally conceded. “Okay. We’ll follow your lead. I’ll tell them not to book their flight yet. But you have to promise to tell me immediately if your dad needs anything.” Just then, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to find Tatum Sinclair standing there. I noticed she was wearing a perfect, full face of makeup, a low-cut, tight top, and a miniskirt. “Babe!” She threw her arms around me as she walked in, but her eyes, like searchlights, instantly locked onto Devon in the living room and practically sparked. “Oh, Devon, you’re here today too?” She practically shoved me aside, swaying her hips as she approached him, deliberately bending over to showcase her figure. “I came here to thank you both! Thanks to your booking, my dad finally put me in charge of the back-of-house operations for the hotel!” She shoved a large bag of gifts into my hands. I glanced down—only a few small things were for me; the majority were expensive men’s accessories. One cologne was clearly the male counterpart to the perfume she was wearing today. She naturally picked up the men’s scent and walked toward Devon. “This is the newest cologne. I thought it would be perfect for a CEO like you…” Devon coldly sidestepped her, his brows slightly knitted. “No, thank you. I’m good.” Tatum’s hand hung awkwardly in the air, but she quickly plastered on a smile and pulled out her phone. “Right, I just sent you the menu and the price quote for the engagement party! It’s the absolute top tier, I promise!” I tapped the screen, and my eyelid started twitching. Disguised as fresh-made, the menu listed dishes like Truffled Mushroom Risotto for eight hundred dollars and Seared Scallops with Saffron for over a thousand—astronomical prices. But the pre-packaged meals she had shown on the online post likely cost less than ten dollars per serving to heat up! Did she think the daughter of a farmers’ market vendor wouldn’t know market prices? I forced the anger down and asked, “Tatum, aren’t these prices a little… inflated?” “Inflated? Are you serious? This is for Senator Harrison’s family’s first visit! This has to have status! I know your family is struggling, but that’s exactly why you can’t be cheap now!” She immediately raised her voice, her eyes flickering to Devon. “I remember Professor Henderson always complimented you on how well you dressed, how you always made him look good when you went out… You need to project that confidence now!” My face went cold. “What are you trying to say?” Tatum hurriedly pulled me aside, dropping her voice. “Ugh, I’m just trying to help you! You need to make your background seem a little more solid so they don’t disrespect you!” She feigned deep concern. “When you meet his parents, absolutely do not mention that your mom and dad sell produce… Think about the Harrisons. What will they think? It sounds so trashy!” She sighed dramatically. “I know a few actors from the local drama school. We could hire two of them to play your parents? They have class, excellent conversation skills, and they absolutely won’t embarrass you.” I couldn’t believe my ears. This wasn’t just advice; this was blatant manipulation, trying to shame me into withdrawing from the engagement. But she acted as if she hadn’t noticed my icy demeanor, continuing: “I’m doing this for you! Also, you need to be a little less rigid with Devon. Men, especially men from his background, are going to stray. Just let the small things go and focus on the big picture, okay?” I let out a harsh, cold laugh. “Tatum, if I were to follow your advice, that is when they would truly look down on me! My parents work hard, with honest hands. Why would that be embarrassing? I want to get married with my head held high, not by groveling and trying to sneak my way into a family.” My words choked her. Her face cycled through shades of green and white. She opened her mouth to argue, but not a single word came out.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387310”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I am a Professional Estate Clearer, specializing in tidying up the lives the recently deceased left behind. I had just finished my most intimate and difficult assignment: sorting the belongings of my own deceased husband. That’s when I found it. His phone gallery. Hundreds of photos of his “perfect mythology”—the woman he idealized—Vivian. And not a single one of me. Tears streaming, I went to delete the only photo we had together—a forced, blurry shot from a charity gala where I was looking at him with desperate adoration and he was looking everywhere else. Just as my thumb hovered over the ‘confirm delete’ prompt, a notification flashed. A VIP alert for Devon Stonebrook’s StreamPulse channel. He was live. He tilted his head toward the camera, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “What are you crying for?” The live chat exploded: DEVON IS BACK! But all I could see was the familiar, chilling background behind him: His own wake. He blinked slowly. “I hear you deleted that awful photo of me from my phone?” My hand trembling, I slammed the ‘Send Gift’ button, spending a thousand dollars on a Titan Drop virtual gift. His spectral image seemed to solidify. “Send ten more,” he whispered, the sound crackling through the cheap phone speaker. “And I’ll tell you who killed me.” But just as the killer’s name was finally spoken, his stream suddenly cut to black. A cold hand seized my throat from behind. “Who told you to be a busybody?” 1 I, Sloane Stonebrook, Professional Estate Clearer, stood paralyzed in the empty, echoey center of Devon’s Austin apartment. Around me were several open cardboard boxes, labeled with clinical precision: “Wardrobe,” “Media,” “Electronics.” Three days ago, my husband-by-contract, Devon Stonebrook, had died in what the police officially categorized as a bizarre, high-speed accident. But I knew the car. It was a custom-modified Aston Martin, a monster of engineering built to handle any curve, any sudden shock. Would it really lose control? I picked up the black phone from the coffee table. The lock screen demanded a passcode. His birthday? No. His favorite number sequence? Incorrect. My breath hitched. My heart hammered a sudden, frantic rhythm against my ribs. Could it be? I closed my eyes, took a shallow gulp of air, and keyed in my birthday. Click. The screen unlocked. I felt like a thief breaking into a vault that belonged to my own life. Driven by an impulse I couldn’t control, I tapped the Photos icon. My finger slid across the screen, and the images began to stream past like a cruel, cinematic reel. It was all her. Vivian Alistair. The Vivian, the unreachable standard, Devon’s perfect mythology. She was laughing into the sun, her long hair catching the light; she was pouting artfully, a soft crease of calculated petulance between her brows; she was leaning languidly in a café in Florence, the baroque architecture a blurred backdrop to her flawless poise. Every angle, every light, every precious moment—collected, curated, and cherished. Then the gallery hit the end. The final photo. The gala. Me, staring at him with undisguised need. Him, looking impatient, annoyed by my proximity. I was the footnote. The pathetic punchline to a seven-year joke. I squeezed my eyes shut, but the warm, stinging liquid found its way down my cheeks anyway. Seven years. Over two thousand days of cautious proximity, tentative steps, and silent hopes—all of it reduced to this single, miserable photo, eclipsed by the hundreds of dazzling portraits of the woman he truly wanted. I took a shuddering breath, my finger hovering over our picture. Long press. Delete. A cold confirmation box popped up: DELETE PHOTO? Just as my thumb descended, a sharp, metallic “Ding-dong!” cut through the silence. My eyes flew open. The notification bar at the top of the screen screamed: VIP ALERT: Devon Stonebrook is LIVE! Tap to view! Devon Stonebrook? Live? A virus? A sick hacker? Or was the grief finally making me hallucinate? My fingers moved on their own, driven by a panicked, out-of-control momentum. I hammered the push notification. The screen switched instantly, and the image that filled it brought the air to a screeching halt in my lungs. The background… It was his wake. The official photo—Devon’s handsome face with that familiar, slightly detached smile—stared out from the mantelpiece. And right beneath it, in the center of the somber, flower-laden room, sat Devon. He was wearing the same black dress shirt from the night of the crash, legs casually crossed, an air of complete, unnerving ease about him. Then, he slowly turned his head. The camera focused on his face. I could see the slight shadow cast by his eyelashes. Devon Stonebrook. He tilted his head just slightly, his eyes, across the screen, across the veil of death, piercing directly into mine. He spoke, his voice transmitted through the phone’s speaker, strangely flat. “What are you crying for?” WWHHRR! The tight, strained cord of my sanity snapped. The comments section below the stream, previously dormant, exploded into a torrential flood of text: NO WAY! Devon’s ghost?! IM CALLING A PRIEST Is this Deepfake AI? The quality is insane! Look at the background! It’s the f***ing FUNERAL HOME! Devon, that’s YOUR PICTURE behind you! WTF is this? HACKER! Has to be a hacker with a sick sense of humor! Nah, that’s him. The smirk, the *vibe*… Live Viewer Count: One million… two million… three million… it’s going parabolic! WHERE IS HE LOOKING? The torrent of text swallowed the screen, a chaotic mix of disbelief and panic that fractured Devon’s face into a mosaic of shocked typefaces. His own wake. His own coffin perhaps just off-camera. And him, sitting there, tilting his head, asking me “what are you crying for?” A crushing, icy terror, heavy with the scent of death, clamped around my windpipe. My entire body began to tremble uncontrollably. A cold sweat instantly soaked the back of my dress, clinging to my skin. “Ding-dong!” Another notification! System Alert: Devon Stonebrook has sent you a Private Message! He… he was messaging me? My heart slammed against my ribs. With a spasm of morbid curiosity, I tapped the alert. The chat box popped up. Devon Stonebrook: I hear you deleted that awful photo of me from my phone? “Ah!” I flung the phone across the room. It hit the cold hardwood floor with a sharp thwack. But the figure in the black shirt, framed by the rigid backdrop of his own death, stayed frozen on the shattered screen, tilting his head, waiting for my answer. The comments continued to scroll. The fear was a tide, washing over my already battered nerves. Delete the photo? How could he possibly know? How could he know what I did just now, alone, in this room? The realization was a spike of ice driven into my skull: It wasn’t a hacker. It wasn’t a sick joke. It was him. Devon Stonebrook was back. In a way that defied every law of physics, every piece of human understanding. And he knew exactly what I had done. He was watching me. Even in death, even as a ghost, he had to torment me. An overwhelming nausea mixed with a white-hot resentment surged up my throat. Seven years of quiet devotion, and my reward was a phone full of Vivian Alistair. Now, even my last shred of pathetic dignity was to be trampled by his specter? Why? A desperate, reckless rage, the kind that only comes when you have nothing left to lose, finally smashed through the dam of my fear. I lunged for the phone. Devon’s spectral smile, viewed through the hairline crack in the screen, seemed to deepen. I bit down hard on my lower lip, tasting blood. With a final, desperate resolve, I stabbed the ‘Gift’ icon. The list popped up. My eyes locked onto the most expensive, most ridiculous icon—the virtual rocket, a digital bonfire of golden flames, the Titan Drop, priced at ten thousand dollars. To hell with the money. To hell with sanity. To hell with life and death. With all the force of my shattered world, my finger came down hard. User “Sloane S.” sends a ‘Titan Drop’ to Devon Stonebrook! The manic scroll of the live chat seemed to pause for a fraction of a second. Then, the explosion was a million times louder: HOLY SHIT! Who is Sloane S? Is that his wife/assistant? A Titan Drop on a GHOST STREAM?! This is peak internet! Sloane, tell us what’s going on! In the center of the frame, the man in the black shirt, Devon, slowly straightened. The playful arc of his mouth grew sharper, colder. Then he spoke. The sound was low, commanding, impossible to ignore. “Sloane.” He used my name, the one he rarely spoke even in life. “Send ten more.” He tilted his head again, his eyes locking onto my terrified face beyond the lens. “Ten more Titan Drops,” he dictated, his voice dropping to a seductive, chilling whisper. “And I’ll tell you—” He paused, letting the silence stretch, letting the panic build. “—who killed me.” Boom! The room tilted. The chat went completely insane. TEN? That’s $100K! Murder? Devon’s death wasn’t an accident?! SLOANE, DO IT! We need the truth! A ghost promising to solve his own murder… I’m buying popcorn! Ten drops? One hundred thousand dollars. My entire, carefully hoarded savings. He was using me. Using the sad, desperate remnants of my attachment to him. The absurdity, the blinding rage of being played, mixed with the sickening lure of those four words: Who killed me? Logic screamed: He’s a ghost! A trick! Get out! But a deeper, more primal obsession: Seven years of waiting for him to notice me, and this is the only answer I get? For the price of my entire life savings? I stared into the screen. I saw the calculation, the exploitation, the mockery of my quiet devotion. Then my phone vibrated, a sharp, physical jolt. A new message alert. Devon Stonebrook: NOW. Hurry. Hurry. He was rushing me. There was no time to think. Blood rushed to my head, burning away the last of my hesitation. To hell with logic. To hell with my savings. To hell with a hundred thousand dollars. I needed to know. With a kind of suicidal desperation, my finger slammed the golden rocket icon again and again. Two! Three! Four! … The stream count soared past five million viewers. The chat was a blur of my name, the gift icon, and accusations against Devon. Five! Six! Seven! My finger was numb. Devon’s eyes remained fixed on my face, cold but now holding a flicker of something else… Focused attention? Waiting? Eight! Nine! One left. My finger hovered, confirming the zeros in my bank account. The final drop. I’d be starting over from scratch. I closed my eyes and slammed down with all my strength. User “Sloane S.” sends a ‘Titan Drop’ to Devon Stonebrook! x10!!! A million people seemed to hold their breath. Devon slowly rose to his feet. He took a step forward, his image growing larger on the screen, as if he were trying to escape the frame. He leaned in, his lips parted. His voice, low and clear, filled the room: “It was—”

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The fever had me in a haze, a heavy, suffocating sleep, when a sudden, violent yank sent me tumbling to the floor. My bones felt like shattered porcelain, but the pain was secondary to the sight of Sutton, her eyes bloodshot, reeking of alcohol and rage, staring down at me. “Owen! Is there seriously nothing you can do all day but try to kill yourself?” My throat felt shredded, raw from the fever, and I couldn’t speak, but she suddenly threw herself onto me, clinging to me, her body shaking as she choked out the words. “I chose you!” “What more do you want from me? Do you want me to die too? Is that what you want—for me to die?” Sutton was weeping, broken, but a strange, deep fatigue washed over me. It was her betrayal. She was the one who cheated. Yet somehow, I was still the villain of the story. “Sutton,” I pushed down the sharp, familiar ache in my chest and told her: “I’m letting you go.” 1 I felt Sutton’s body instantly stiffen. As she looked at me with stunned disbelief, I almost managed a calm, even a slightly relieved smile—the smile of a man who’d finally come to terms with things. But then Sutton laughed, a brittle, cynical sound. “Owen!” “What new game are you playing now?” Her eyes turned cold, her voice razor-sharp. “Don’t tell me you didn’t call my mother and tell her you were dying just to force her to bring me home!” “You go to my mom, play the victim, beg for my return, and then you stand here and talk about ‘letting me go’!” “If you truly wanted to let me go!” “Why didn’t you agree to the divorce all those times I brought it up? Why did you refuse? Who are you performing for now, Owen?” Sutton’s words felt like a cloud of fine needles piercing me from every direction. The pain made my whole body tremble. I wanted to tell her I hadn’t contacted her mother—that it was one of her mother’s students at the hospital who had mentioned my illness. But clearly. She wouldn’t have believed me. I wanted to tell her we could end everything peacefully. I thought and re-thought my response, finally just pushing Sutton away. Ignoring the deep, fresh cuts on my wrist where her fingers had dug in, I walked to the nightstand, pulled out the drawer, and took out the divorce papers I’d prepared. “Sutton.” I placed the agreement in her hand. “Just sign it.” “As soon as you sign,” I struggled to keep my voice even, though my heart still clenched, “you’ll be free.” “You and Rhys.” “You’ll have nothing to do with me anymore.” The air felt frozen. Time stopped in that second. I watched all the color drain from Sutton’s face as her eyes searched mine. I felt only exhaustion, a weariness so profound it cracked my voice. “Sutton.” “We met when we were sixteen.” “My entire youth, the better half of my life, was spent with you.” I tried to sound calm, not brittle, hoping for a dignified end. “You were the one crying during our wedding vows, promising to love me forever.” 2 “You said, ‘Owen, if I ever betray you, or do anything to hurt you, you have to snap me out of it! You have to show me how wrong I am, no matter what it takes!’” “The eighteen-year-old Sutton wanted a chance at forgiveness.” “So,” I looked at the flicker of impatience in her eyes but continued, “I made a scene, Sutton. I tried my best.” Rhys had tracked me down and told me that he and Sutton went back to our old high school, and that under the Old Oak—the one where she first confessed her love to me—she had scratched out my name and carved, ‘Sutton loves Rhys forever.’ I had certainly made a scene. I had screamed and demanded she take me back to the school, carve my name back in, and choose me. I had collapsed, practically hysterical, questioning her. “Sutton!” “How could you betray us?!” “How could you fall in love with someone else?!” I was screaming, a madman, frantic and out of control. Sutton just looked at me with cold indifference and said: “Owen, you’ve changed.” She told me. “You’re not yourself anymore.” “The old Owen wouldn’t act like a psychopath!” Sutton shoved me away violently. In my desperation to keep her, I acted like a lunatic, attempting suicide, slashing my wrists with a knife. When I was rushed to the hospital, she did come back. Sutton cried, leaning over my hospital bed. “Husband, I was wrong.” “I’m so sorry.” “Please, Owen, don’t die! Please don’t leave me!” Her tears felt like warm sunlight on ice, melting something in my heart. I desperately wanted to hold onto that fleeting warmth. I cried with her, until my throat was raw, pulling her close, telling her: “Sutton!” “If we die, we die together!” Sutton became compliant. She came home on time every day, walked with me in the park, attended my therapy sessions, took me traveling, went to the movies, watched stand-up, and helped me redecorate our house. She told me: “It’s a brand-new start.” And I was foolish enough to think I’d found happiness. I thought that love, even shattered, could be glued back together. Despite the cracks in our foundation, I tried not to look, not to think. I wanted to safeguard my little piece of happiness. Until. I was hospitalized for acute appendicitis. Barely recovered from surgery, I saw Sutton—who was supposedly away on a business trip—emerging from the internal medicine wing with Rhys. Her eyes were full of a soft, proprietary tenderness as she looked at him. “You’re the best little baby.” “Just take your medicine and be a good boy, heal up fast.” “And I’ll give you anything you want.” Happiness popped like a soap bubble. What was exposed was the ugly, brutal truth. My blood ran cold, and I stood there, face-to-face with them, struck by lightning. The hospital forms in my hand felt like a ridiculous joke, mocking my naïveté. Sutton instinctively pulled Rhys behind her. I snapped. I lunged at Rhys like a madman, grabbed a handful of his hair, and slammed his head against the wall, screaming. “You’re a homewrecker!” “You pathetic little slut!” “Why don’t you just die! Go die! Go to hell!” 3 Rhys’s screams echoed down the hospital corridor. The onlookers gawked at us, pointing and whispering, watching our pathetic spectacle. I was insane enough to want to drag Rhys down with me, but he just wailed. “Sutton, save me!” “Sutton, I’m scared!” And Sutton, without hesitation, stepped completely to his side, wrenching my attacking hand away and delivering a stinging slap across my face. Her eyes were so cold my breath hitched. “Owen.” “Apologize!” Sutton looked down at me. “Apologize to Rhys now! Immediately! Don’t make me say it again!” Staring at the woman I had loved for so many years, something inside me finally, irrevocably shattered. Tears streamed down my face, and I roared back. “No!” “I won’t!” “Why should I apologize to a homewrecker? Why?!” I was shaking uncontrollably, pointing at Rhys in a complete breakdown. “Did this bastard drug you?” “Sutton!” “He lied to you, didn’t he?!” “Sutton, you told me you loved me!” “You did!” I desperately searched her face for any trace of the woman who still loved me, for any reflection of myself in her eyes. Instead, I heard Rhys, still sobbing, chime in: “Sutton doesn’t love you!” “If you hadn’t tried to kill yourself! If you hadn’t gone crazy and cut yourself, Sutton would have divorced you ages ago!” I cursed Rhys, calling him trash and demanding he shut up. I lunged again, ready to fight him to the death, when a heavy force slammed into my lower back. My body pitched forward, and I tumbled down the staircase landing in the hallway. I screamed in terror, but I saw Sutton, holding Rhys, turn and walk away without a second thought. And before she left. I distinctly saw the look of smug triumph in Rhys’s eyes. My surgical wound split open. I almost died. I looked at Sutton—the woman I decided to spend my life with before I even understood what love was—and she was suddenly a stranger. “Sutton.” “I have kept the promise the eighteen-year-old Sutton asked me to keep. I tried my best.” I placed the fountain pen I’d prepared in her hand and told her. “Go find your true love.” “This time, I won’t stand in your way.” I watched Sutton stand rigid a step away, a sudden flicker of concern crossing her face. “Owen.” She hadn’t expressed care for me in a long time, and even this felt hard and remote. “Are you…?” I saw a struggle in her eyes. “Is your condition getting worse?” She placed the divorce agreement on the bed. “I’ll have some time at the end of the month,” she put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll come with you for a check-up, okay?” “Owen, I promised I wouldn’t leave you to die.” She seemed to finally notice the blood seeping from my wrist. She lifted my hand and asked, “Does it hurt?” “A-Che.” “I’ll get the first-aid kit and re-bandage it for you.” Sutton started to turn, but I stopped her. “Sutton.” I watched her back stiffen. “Stop lying to yourself.” “Just sign it.” “Set me free, and set yourself free.” 4 The day I was rushed to the ER, Sutton’s mother finally erupted in anger, determined to teach her daughter a lesson. She sat by my bedside, shaking with fury, promising to hold Sutton accountable. But as soon as she called Sutton and heard her daughter was pregnant with Rhys’s child. She suddenly softened. “The baby comes first.” “Nothing is more important than the child.” I couldn’t hear what Sutton said, but her mother chuckled and replied, “I’ll handle the house. I’ll talk to Owen myself.” Sutton’s mother hung up. She sat by my bed and took my hand. “A-Che.” “You’ll be sensible, won’t you?” I stared blankly at the mother-in-law who had always doted on me. Before I could nod. My phone chimed. A friend request notification. Rhys added me on social media and immediately sent a video. In the video, Sutton signed a purchase agreement for a house. Rhys asked her: “Are you sure it’s okay to put the house only in my name?” “What if Owen throws another tantrum?” Sutton smiled, her expression tender and devoted. “He won’t.” “I’m here. He wouldn’t dare.” Sutton laughed and squeezed his hand. “I just want to give you security, to make sure you feel completely safe. It’s the least I can do to stop him from hurting you anymore.” Rhys sent me a text. “Owen, you will never be better than me.” “So what if she loved you when you were young? What good is young love now? I have Sutton’s present and her future. I have all of her.” “Just wait.” “Sutton will dump you eventually!” Rhys sent me daily snippets of his life with Sutton—photos of their meals, dates, trips, even intimate moments in bed. He described everything in excruciating detail. He said: “Sutton told me you were like a dead fish in bed, that you stopped satisfying her a long time ago.” “Owen, didn’t you get a huge scar on your inner thigh from saving Sutton in that fire when you were in high school?” “Sutton said she thinks it’s disgusting every time she sees it. Ha ha ha.” I looked at the barrage of voice messages, videos, and photos Rhys sent. In a state of total mental collapse, I violently smashed my phone, grabbed a paring knife from the kitchen, and, shaking uncontrollably, carved out the entire piece of flesh from my inner thigh where the scar was. The pain was agonizing, but a strange, liberating clarity washed over me. I laughed hysterically, taking a picture of the bloody wound, and sent it to Sutton. “Sutton.” “I don’t want you anymore.” Sutton didn’t reply. Rhys did, with a taunt. “Sutton said you’re disgusting!” I completely broke down. By this point, I hadn’t seen Sutton in a long time, and I hadn’t lashed out at her in weeks. But she truly seemed to have forgotten about me, forgotten how long it had been since she was last home. Sutton stood there. Motionless, like a statue, like she was about to crumble. I didn’t understand why she was hesitating. When she wanted the divorce, I was the one screaming and fighting. Now. That I was ready to let her go. She was the one in doubt. I picked up the pen and the agreement, walking toward Sutton. “Sutton.” The ringing of a phone shattered the silence. The screen flashed, illuminating Rhys’s smiling face. I saw the happy image of Rhys and felt a dull throb in my chest. Sutton nervously hung up, clearly intending to explain, but Rhys’s call was relentless, ringing again and again. As the screen kept lighting up, I walked up to Sutton, put the phone in her hand, but before I could speak. A thunderous pounding erupted at the front door. Rhys’s voice screamed from the hallway. “Sutton!” “Open the door, Sutton!” Rhys was frantically screaming her name. I watched the indecision flicker in Sutton’s eyes. Finally, she just told me: “I didn’t know he was coming.” “Owen…” Sutton started to say something else, but I cut her off. “Sutton, we are finished.” I told her simply. “When Rhys’s child is born, you will be a mother.” I gestured toward the door. “Go find your happiness.” Sutton’s image of me was that of a lunatic, a man who would lose his mind the minute Rhys was mentioned. When she heard I was seriously ill, she assumed I was just manipulating her to come home. She was ready to handle my drama and leave, never expecting. I would be so calm. So peaceful. It was a silence that made her realize just how far apart we had drifted. The pounding on the door was constant, making her anxious. “Owen, let’s make it a fake divorce.” She said. “Once the baby’s legal documents are sorted out, I’ll marry you again.”

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It was the third year I’d been bound to the Maxwell name, serving out my debt. The third year I belonged to Sloan Maxwell. That’s when I decided to leave. I managed to acquire a slow-acting poison, injected it, and walked alone to the edge of the city’s oldest bridge. I thought I would finally die in peace, a quiet exit from the endless storm. But a Rolls-Royce Ghost cut through the sheet of rain and screeched to a stop beside me. The tinted window lowered, revealing the exquisite, cold face that had captivated countless men. “Get the client in the car.” I was practically thrown into the back seat, my sodden clothes soaking the expensive leather in a flash. Sloan didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she gripped my jaw, her thumb rubbing away the rain streaking my forehead. “If you were truly determined to die, you should have chosen a more private way,” she murmured, her voice silk over steel. “Otherwise, I will always find you before death does.” “Will you? I think this time, you’re too late.” Watching the blood bubble from my mouth, a flicker of genuine panic—a rare and startling thing—crossed Sloan’s eyes. “Asher Reed, you have not finished paying for the sin you inflicted on Owen. I forbid you to die!” She summoned the best doctors money could buy, but it was useless. My consciousness was already sinking. In the haze, my mind flashed back to the night that changed everything. Sloan had been standing beneath the fireworks, smiling at me, her phone vibrating in her hand, unseen. Later, she would say it was my selfish insistence that made her miss the final desperate plea from Owen, trapped in the fire. My sin was needing her. My life was supposed to be the payment. I thought, I have paid the full price. But then I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the very first day I met her. She was standing there, a girl in a white sundress, like a dew-kissed gardenia in the summer, smiling and waving. I fled like a man possessed. This time, I would not let our lives become entangled. Never again. 1 I ran until my lungs burned, finally leaning, trembling, against an old maple tree on the roadside. I scanned my surroundings frantically. On this exact day in the previous life, I had dropped a prized steel fountain pen. Sloan had picked it up. “Excuse me, classmate, you dropped this.” Just that one look, and I was irretrievably lost. I followed her like a shadow, chasing the faint hope of a fleeting smile. But she remained aloof, a beautiful, perfect statue. I was naive enough to think my relentless passion could eventually melt her cold composure. I poured all my teenage longing into my best friend, Owen Bell. I dragged him to watch Sloan play tennis, pointing to the most radiant girl on the court. “See that? That’s the one I love.” I was full of innocent joy, introducing the two most important people in my life to each other. I was too blind to see the lightning-fast spark of tenderness in Sloan’s cold eyes when she looked at Owen. I missed the complex, unspoken things in Owen’s gaze whenever I brought her up. There was already a current, an undertow of feeling between them that I knew nothing about. I was the clueless fool standing on the shore. On my twentieth birthday, I mustered every ounce of courage and asked her out. “Sloan, could you… could you spend the evening with me for my birthday?” I expected the usual excuses, the polite refusal. But she said yes. She arranged for a spectacular firework display, igniting the night sky in bursts of blinding, dazzling light. I stood there, mesmerized by her elegant profile, illuminated by the flashes of fire. I felt like the luckiest man alive, and I even asked, foolishly: “Sloan, how did you know I love fireworks?” She didn’t answer. All the fireworks that night were shaped like forget-me-nots. Owen’s favorite flower. She just drank with me, glass after glass. Fueled by the alcohol and the stunning light show, I finally lunged, kissing her. “Sloan, I love you. I’ve loved you for so long. Please, be my girlfriend.” Only later did I learn her true plan: she intended to use my birthday party as the setting to confess her feelings to Owen. But Owen never showed up. She stayed silent for a long time before finally agreeing to be with me. The fragile bubble of happiness lasted less than half the night. The moment she picked up her phone, she saw the emergency text from Owen. He’d been trapped in a sudden fire right before the party and had been begging her for help. “Sloan, save me.” “Sloan… I’m so scared.” She was with me, celebrating my birthday, and she missed the chance to save him forever. It became my unforgivable sin. She believed that if I hadn’t selfishly demanded she attend that damn party, if I hadn’t monopolized all her time and attention, she would have seen the message. She would have saved him. So, when Sloan graduated and took over the Maxwell family empire, the first thing she did was systematically dismantle and crush my family’s company. I fell from wealth into the deepest mire. My parents, unable to cope, both ended up in intensive care. I knelt before her, begging her to spare my parents. The cold, elegant girl of my memories stood over me, looking down. “Asher Reed, sell yourself to me. Use your life to pay the debt.” Facing the exorbitant hospital bills, I had no choice. I signed a devastating contract and became her captive husband. I thought it would buy my parents safety, but they died anyway. The day after Sloan and I formally signed the marriage certificate. I never knew if Sloan arranged it, but I never got to see them one last time. From then on, she kept me isolated in the Maxwell Estate, escalating her cruelty. I watched her kiss countless men who bore a passing resemblance to Owen, and I was thrown into the basement innumerable times for being “disobedient.” She used every extreme method to punish me, slowly driving me toward a breakdown. She demanded I spend my entire life repaying a mistake I didn’t know I’d made. It wasn’t until my first failed attempt at self-harm that she, as if bestowing a terrible gift, choked me and told me the truth: “Asher Reed, if it hadn’t been for you that night, I would have saved Owen. I have only ever loved him. You are only here to pay the debt for your sin.” The memory seized my chest, a fresh, sharp pain. I doubled over, clutching my heart, sinking to the ground beneath the maple tree. Since our meeting was a mistake from the very start, I prayed it would never start again. 2 I thought by avoiding the beginning of the entanglement, everything would change. But a month later, Owen burst into my studio. His face was lit up with the flush and shyness of a boy in love. He grabbed my hand. “Ash, I’m in a relationship!” A cold, heavy dread settled in my stomach. I managed a strained smile. “Oh… right? Congratulations.” “Guess who it is!” He winked playfully, not waiting for my answer, and announced the news with pure bliss: “It’s Sloan Maxwell! She asked me out. We’re officially together.” I didn’t hear a word Owen said after that. My head was ringing. I almost laughed at the pathetic fool I’d been in the last life. I thought I had brought him into her life. It turned out they were destined. Whether I was there or not, they would find each other. They were the perfect pair. I was the inconvenient, extra obstacle. “Ash? Ash, what’s wrong?” Owen’s voice jolted me back. I realized my face was wet, tears streaming down my cheeks. I quickly wiped them away, forcing a smile that felt worse than a grimace. “Nothing. I… I’m just so happy for you.” My purpose this time was to let them have their happiness and keep myself out of the vortex. This was enough. They had nothing to do with me. From that day on, they were inseparable. They walked the campus hand-in-hand. But Owen, still clinging to the habit of our old friendship, always wanted to bring me along. I had to invent excuse after excuse to refuse. Then, he found me one night. “Ash, Sloan’s friends are throwing a party tonight at The Gilded Room. You have to come with me. It’s my first time meeting so many of her people, and I’m a little nervous.” I instinctively shook my head. “Owen, I can’t…” “Please, Ash, my best friend.” He tugged my arm, looking at me with soft, dependent eyes. “You’re my anchor. If you don’t go, who will I talk to? Just come and keep me company, okay?” “…Okay.” The word was a struggle to breathe out, but I couldn’t resist his earnest plea. I arrived with Owen at The Gilded Room right on time. The private lounge was opulent, filled with laughter, expensive clothes, and the clinking of glasses. Sloan and her friends were already there. The moment Owen saw her, he became a happy magnet, rushing to sit in the seat next to her. “Sloan, this is my friend, Ash Reed.” Sloan gave me a brief, dismissive nod, looking through me as if I were a complete stranger. I finally relaxed a fraction, choosing a seat as far away from them as possible, trying to disappear. The dinner was a refined Western affair. A plate of seared foie gras with black truffle was served. Owen reached for his cutlery, but Sloan stopped him with a slight frown. Without a word, she subtly signaled the waiter. “He doesn’t eat organ meat. Replace that with the filet mignon.” Owen looked up at her, delighted. “Sloan, you remembered that?” Sloan simply reached out and gently ran her fingers through his hair. She accepted the steak, meticulously cut it into bite-sized pieces, and placed the plate back in front of Owen. Not skilled with a knife and fork, he smiled gratefully and began to eat. I silently sliced my own foie gras, a bitter taste rising in my throat. I was severely allergic to shellfish, but in the previous life, Sloan had only watched the red welts rise on my neck after I’d accidentally eaten shrimp and mocked me: “Asher Reed, you truly are precious.” Love and indifference were always so clear. Only the previous me was blind enough to miss it, becoming a sacrificial lamb to their romance. The dinner was half over, and I needed to escape. I stood up and leaned over to Owen. “I think I’ve had a little too much to drink. I have a headache. I’m going to get some air.” Owen stood up, immediately trying to steady me. “Ash, I’ll come with you.” I quickly waved him off, telling him to stay and enjoy himself, planning to slip out and head back to campus. But as I turned, I noticed Sloan’s right thumb. She was unconsciously stroking her ring finger. That was a nervous habit she’d developed after she put on her wedding ring in the last life. Did she remember? Did she come back, too? A cold wave of terror hit me. If she was back, would she let me go this time? I didn’t dare think about it, sprinting out of the lounge and into the elevator. Just as the doors began to slide shut, a slender, pale hand shot out, blocking the mechanism. Sloan stood in the doorway, her gaze fixed on me. Gone was the cool, gentle demeanor she showed Owen. This was the dark, predatory look of my contract wife from the last life. I backed up until I slammed against the cold steel of the elevator car. “Ms. Maxwell… I truly don’t feel well. I… I need to go home.” She grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip, locking me in place. The raw, desperate memory of her breaking my arm in a moment of grief-fueled rage—and then having it reset—sent a tidal wave of fear through me. I struggled wildly. “Let me go! Sloan, let me go!” She didn’t release me. Her bottomless black eyes swirled with an emotion I couldn’t decipher. “Asher Reed. You came back too, didn’t you?” 3 I panicked, trapped as she cornered me against the elevator wall. “Don’t pretend. Since we’ve been given a second chance, I only expect you to play your current role well. Don’t make Owen unhappy. Remember. This is what you owe him.” She cut me off, leaning in so her shadow completely enveloped me. “He’s nervous because you’re not there. Clean yourself up and go back to him.” With that, the swirling, complex emotion in her dark eyes snapped back to icy coldness. She turned abruptly, hit the lobby button, and stepped out. I couldn’t hold myself up any longer, sliding down the cold wall to the floor. A second chance. I hadn’t gone near her. I hadn’t even spoken to her beyond a few words. Why did she still believe I owed Owen? Why was I still the sinner? My phone vibrated. A text from Owen: “Ash, are you okay? Why are you taking so long?” Seeing his name, I quickly wiped my tears, scrambling back to my feet. At least for now, I couldn’t afford to cross this madwoman. I pushed the lounge door open. The atmosphere inside was at a fever pitch. Everyone was gathered, cheering for Sloan and Owen in the center of the room. “Owen, I love you. Will you be my boyfriend? And when we graduate, let’s get married.” Owen nodded hard, his voice thick with tears. “Yes, I will!” A deafening cheer and whistle erupted from the crowd. Owen hugged Sloan ecstatically, and as he looked up, he saw me standing outside the circle. He immediately grabbed Sloan’s hand and ran toward me. “Ash! Did you see that! Sloan, she… she proposed to me!” He was incoherent with excitement, pulling me into a massive, exuberant hug. “Ash, I’m so happy!” “You too, you absolutely have to find your own happiness. Find someone who loves you.” I silently hugged him back and nodded. “I will. We all will be happy.” But when Sloan heard that last line, her expression suddenly darkened. Owen, who was still holding my arm, tightened his grip. But when I looked at him, his smile was as sweet and joyful as ever, as if nothing had happened. The air between the three of us became heavy, awkward. After the party, Sloan drove us both back to campus in her Rolls-Royce. At the dorm entrance, Owen unbuckled his seatbelt and kissed her cheek. “Sloan, I’m heading up now. Drive safe.” Her expression softened for a fleeting moment, and she nodded. I yanked my door open and jumped out, desperate to escape her presence. Owen stood on the curb, smiling as he waved to Sloan’s car. Only when the taillights of the Rolls-Royce Ghost disappeared into the night did he suddenly call my name. Under the cold glow of the streetlamp, he looked at me, the sweetness gone from his voice. “Asher Reed. You love Sloan too, don’t you?” 4 Owen’s question was a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. “No, I don’t.” I frantically shook my head. He didn’t press the issue. He just patted my shoulder. “Asher Reed, I only want you to remember that you’re my best friend, and Sloan is my fiancé. I don’t want you to do anything that will make us both regret it.” After that night, Owen stopped seeking me out, and I actively avoided both of them. For days, I didn’t see either of them. Soon, my birthday arrived. Terrified of repeating the worst night of my past life, I took a leave of absence from the university and hid at my parents’ home. They were thrilled to have me back and wanted to throw a big party. I immediately refused. I barricaded myself in my room. But as dusk fell, my mother called up the stairs. “Ash, a Miss Maxwell is here to see you.” I bolted downstairs. Sloan was standing right at our front door. She wore a tailored black trench coat, radiating cold. When I reached her, the heavy, embossed invitation card in her hand was flung directly at my face. “Asher Reed. Why, in this life, are you still trying to take Owen from me?” My cheek stung. Confused, I picked up the card. It was clearly a formal invitation for “Mr. Asher Reed’s Twentieth Birthday Gala.” I had no idea what she was talking about. I instantly denied it. “I didn’t do this! I haven’t planned a party!” “Do you still think you can lie?” Sloan scoffed, then tossed a handful of photographs at me. The photos showed a strange man and a stack of gasoline cans. “My people caught a man trying to set a fire outside Owen’s dorm building this afternoon.” “He claims you ordered him to do it.” “Asher Reed, how can you be so wicked! Wasn’t ruining Owen’s life once not enough for you?!” Before I could speak, her cold, furious hands clamped around my throat. “Cough… cough…” The suffocating panic of the previous life’s torture returned instantly. Sloan’s face was contorted with hatred; she genuinely wanted to kill me. Tears streamed down my face, drowned by a mix of despair and absurdity. “Sloan… even if I were still obsessed with you…” “Why would I… try the same… trick you already know?” The hands gripping my neck went rigid. The pure murderous rage in her eyes receded slightly, replaced by confusion and sharp scrutiny. Slowly, she released me. I collapsed to the floor, desperately sucking in air. “I will investigate this.” She looked down at me, her voice still an icy warning. “Asher Reed, you had better hope to God this has nothing to do with you.” “And you’re lucky. Owen is safe this time. If he weren’t, I would make sure you never saw the light of day again.” At that moment, the phone in her coat pocket began to vibrate, a frantic, insistent sound. Sloan’s expression changed instantly. She snatched the phone out. A text message from Owen was clearly displayed on the screen: “Sloan, save me.” Her face went pale, then iron-hard. She grabbed my wrist, her eyes bloodshot, glaring at me.

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Everyone knew that Sloan Caldwell had two personalities. My dominant self—the real me—loved the composed and steady Rhys Caldwell. My alternate self, however, loved the wild, reckless Jax Donovan. Two years ago, Jax was in a motorcycle accident at the track, and my usually compliant alternate personality violently seized control of my body. For two long years, I became Jax’s willing doormat. Until the day I overheard him talking to his friends in the VIP lounge. “You bet the guys you could lure out the alternate Sloan, even crashing your bike to do it.” “Now she’s chased you for two years, and you’re going to marry Willow Hart.” “Jax… are you telling me you feel nothing for Sloan?” From inside the private room, I heard Jax’s dismissive, almost amused voice. “I was just curious, trying to mess with her head. How was I supposed to know she’d suffocate the real Sloan for me?” 1 Hearing the noise, Jax immediately stood up and opened the rest area door. Seeing me, he looked momentarily flustered. “You… you heard something?” I suppressed the immediate, sharp anguish inside me, pointing to the helmet on the floor with a strained, fake smile. “Heard what? Didn’t you ask me to bring you your helmet? I ran so fast I tripped and dropped it.” Jax’s tension visibly eased, but in the very next second, his relaxed brow twisted into a deep, angry frown. He picked up the helmet and shouted at me, his eyes red with fury. “Sloan, was that on purpose?! You know that’s the one Willow gave me. Why couldn’t you be more careful!” My gaze dropped to where he was pointing. On the cheap, forty-dollar helmet—the kind you’d buy at a roadside stop—was a scratch thinner than a strand of hair. My heart went ice cold. I managed a soft, hollow, “I’m sorry.” Jax was obsessed with racing, and I knew a quality helmet could save your life. I had custom-ordered over a dozen different, cutting-edge helmets from Germany for him. Totaling over twenty thousand dollars, he never even glanced at them. But the forty-dollar helmet Willow picked up from a flea market? He treated it like a priceless relic. He even insisted on wearing that cheap piece of plastic every single time he competed. “An apology means nothing now, does it? Forget it. Get out of my way.” Jax shoved me aside and strode out the door. On the track, Jax was geared up, his red and white leathers making him look every bit the dashing, arrogant racer. Before the race started, he pushed up the dark visor of his helmet and scanned the spectator stands. The track camera followed his line of sight, sweeping across the audience. One of his buddies in front of me turned back and winked teasingly. “Hey, Sloan, Jax is looking at you!” Sure enough, Jax’s gaze was fixed on my section. I instinctively stood up, waving tentatively toward him. The camera paused on my face for a single second before quickly shifting. Then, cheers erupted from the front row seats, led by Willow Hart. “Go, Jax! You have to take first place, Honey!” She flashed a huge, beaming smile and a heart-sign for the camera. Only then did Jax pull his visor down, focusing on the pre-race routine. The front row was reserved for contestants’ families. Jax had allocated his two spots to Willow and his closest friend. The seat I was in? I’d waited five agonizing hours in line, only to have the tickets sell out just before my turn. I’d then paid a scalper five hundred dollars for a ticket in the back. But he was always like this, wasn’t he? I thought I could wear him down, convince him. Until I heard his words today. Jax, predictably, took first place again. The camera zoomed in as Willow excitedly ran onto the track and kissed him. I felt utterly hollow, standing up and stumbling out of the speedway. Late that night, Jax called me again. “Sloan, Booth 1 at The Apex Club. You have ten minutes to get here.” I heard other voices in the background. “You better hurry, or Jax might belong to someone else!” He hung up without waiting for a response. I hesitated for a few seconds, but the deeply ingrained habit of the alternate self won out, and I put on my coat. Due to the time crunch, I only threw on a simple black trench coat over my pajamas. My home was at least thirty minutes from the club. I arrived with literally one second to spare on his ten-minute ultimatum. I threw open the door to the booth. Jax was locked in a passionate, deep kiss with Willow Hart. The sound of hooting and cheering erupted around them. The moment he saw me, the hazy look in Jax’s eyes vanished. He quickly released Willow. “You came so fast? Don’t get the wrong idea, I just… I lost a round of Truth or Dare, and they dared me to…” 2 “Don’t be mad, Sloan. Come sit and play with us!” one of his buddies, a big guy named ‘Tank,’ coaxed. An expression of displeasure crossed Jax’s face. He glared at Tank. “Stop calling her that!” Tank quickly shut his mouth. “Jax… let’s just go home.” I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat, stepping forward to gently pull at the hem of his jacket. A wicked, cocky smile spread across Jax’s face. He was all rogue charm. “You came all this way. You’re not going to drink a toast to my win?” Caught in his intense, seductive gaze, I completely forgot I was severely allergic to alcohol. The straight liquor burned its way down my throat, and I doubled over, coughing violently. “That’s not fair, Jax,” another friend chimed in. “Willow didn’t even have to drink!” Jax dropped the playful act. “She’s a girl, why would she drink hard liquor? Juice is fine for her. I’d drink it for her if I had to.” “Ooh-la-la, protective much!” Willow stood up, holding her juice glass, and came over to pat my back. She asked, gently and with false concern, “Sister, are you okay? Would you like some of the juice Jax got me?” “No, thank you.” I weakly pushed the glass away from my face. “Ah! Sister, how could you!” I felt a sudden, cold dampness spread over me. The next thing I knew, a teary, victimized Willow was nestled securely in Jax’s arms. Jax looked at me with open disgust. “If you didn’t want the juice, fine! Why did you have to shove her?” My eyes stung with tears, and I bit my lip hard. “I didn’t shove her!” Hiding in Jax’s embrace, Willow suddenly gasped. “Jax, look what Sister is wearing under her coat! It’s so… gross.” All eyes in the room turned to me. I looked down, confused, only to realize my black coat had fallen open. The orange juice had soaked my silk slip dress. The fabric clung to my skin, clearly outlining the shape of my chest. Jax’s eyes momentarily darkened. Mortified, I clutched the neck of my gown. Several of the men swallowed hard. “Sloan rushing here so fast… does she want to take Jax home and, you know… heh heh heh.” “I can’t believe it, Sloan. You always seemed so reserved, but who knew you were such a tease?” My face burned. I lowered my head, desperate to escape this public execution. Perhaps it was the alcohol, or the allergy kicking in, but I felt intensely hot, with an unbearable itching across my arms and thighs. Jax seized my wrist tight. His gaze held a mix of mockery and a hidden, raw lust. “Why leave? You wore this because you wanted me, didn’t you? You wanted me to take you right here?” “Jax!” Willow’s face was a mask of sheer offense. Jax glanced at her, then back at me. “I’ll give you a chance. Go lie down on the sofa.” My body trembled. A tidal wave of shame washed over me. “Jax, I do love you, but that doesn’t mean I’ll sacrifice my dignity for you!” I violently wrenched my wrist free and scrambled out of the club. I drove straight to the pharmacy for allergy medication. When I got home, I saw Willow had posted an update. She was wearing a short, black mini-skirt, straddling Jax’s hundred-thousand-dollar Ducati, and wearing the cat-ear helmet he bought her. “My boyfriend brought me up the mountain road to feel the speed and the wind! Congrats on the first place again!” I remembered Jax had never let me touch his bike. The one time I insisted on riding, he cranked the speed past 120 mph and refused to let me hold his waist. Without a helmet, I nearly flew off the back, clutching the passenger rail for dear life. My mind felt faint, detached. I gripped my chest hard and whispered, “Hold on… just hold on.” The storm of emotions slowly subsided. I scrolled through Willow’s profile. Soon after, she posted again. 3 “Jax says that if you kiss the one you love at sunrise, you’ll be together forever. He just proposed to me!” I instantly recognized the diamond ring on her hand. It was the one Jax had taken me to the boutique to pick out just a few days ago. The salesperson had even congratulated me then, saying how lucky I was to have such a generous future husband. My phone rang again. It was Jax. Wasn’t he supposed to be on the mountain? I wanted to ignore it, but my hand, acting against my will, hit Answer. “I’m outside your building. Get down here.” Jax’s voice was, as always, cold and demanding. Seeing him, a bitter smile pulled at my lips. “Shouldn’t you be on the mountain with Willow? What do you want with me?” Jax’s eyes narrowed, a trace of invisible annoyance flickering within. “So you see me with her, and you’re completely unfazed?” I screamed out in frustration. “What else am I supposed to do?! Follow you around like before, watching the two of you making out?!” Jax’s face froze, and he fell silent. He opened his mouth to say something, but his eyes suddenly fixated on my neck. “What’s on your neck?” I gave a harsh, humorless laugh. “Thanks to you, it’s an allergic rash from the liquor.” Jax looked stunned, his lips slightly parted, a flicker of confusion and regret crossing his eyes. I noticed two motorbikes parked near the curb, and a knot of dread tightened in my stomach. I looked up, my voice trembling slightly as I asked, “Jax, what exactly do you want from me?” He suddenly moved closer, leaning down slightly, his voice low and mesmerizing. A key was pressed into my palm. “Sloan, ride this bike. Take one lap around Coastal Bay, and I’ll agree to be your boyfriend.” My breath caught. All the color drained from my face. Since that one terrifying high-speed ride with him, I had developed a deep, paralyzing phobia of motorcycles. Just watching him race made me sick with anxiety. Ride a bike? Impossible! But Jax grabbed my hand, electrifying me with his seductive gaze. “Sloan, didn’t you say you’d do anything for me?” Seeing my silence, Jax cupped my face. “Just ride it for a stretch, and I promise, I’ll settle down and dedicate myself to only you.” I involuntarily curled my fingers, and my tightly pressed lips parted. “Okay!” Jax gave a delighted chuckle, his eyes full of wicked triumph. I straddled the motorcycle, my hands shaking as I turned the key. The roar of the engine vibrated through my chest. I dropped the clutch, twisted the throttle, and shot forward like an arrow. Behind me, I faintly heard loud, roaring laughter. The sheer terror made me scream again and again until I finally crashed into a roadside barrier. My face was pale and slick with cold sweat. By the time Jax, Willow, and the others found me, I couldn’t speak a single word. Jax stopped his bike and moved to help me up. I fiercely shoved him away. I ground my teeth, tears streaming down my face. Jax’s throat bobbed. He slowly clenched his fists, and a flash of regret appeared in his eyes. “I’m sorry, I thought…” Willow rushed over, playfully punching Jax’s arm. “Sister, don’t be mad! I tried to stop Jax, but he just had to prove to me that he doesn’t love you!” In that moment, all hope shattered. I used every ounce of my remaining strength to slap Jax across the face. “Get lost!” The apology in Jax’s eyes instantly vanished. He laughed, a cold, hard sound. His voice dropped to a freezing point. “You said it. Don’t ever come crawling back to me.” The roar of his engine faded into the distance. My vision blurred, and something deep inside me rushed to the surface. Drained of all strength, I collapsed into the grass behind me. Jax didn’t know it, but from that moment on, he was no longer worthy of my love. 4 Ten minutes later, I opened my eyes. I looked at the motorcycle beside me and sighed. Then, I got up effortlessly, uprighted the bike, and fired the ignition. There was no hesitation, no wasted motion. A short while later, a high-performance BMW S1000RR tore through the street, carving corners with knee-dragging precision that was astonishingly skillful. I rode home and immediately dialed a number in the States. After hanging up, I lay in the bathtub until the water covered my mouth and nose. It was then I truly realized the other me was back. The alternate self, having lost all will to live, chose to fuse. She didn’t disappear; she became a part of my soul. But from now on, I was in control. Three days later, for the championship final, a new name appeared on the roster: Sloan Caldwell. On the track, Jax was exchanging smiles with Willow in the stands. When the announcer called my name, he nearly stalled his bike. Through my reflective visor, I saw his expression—a mixture of confusion and shock—and a flicker of disdain crossed my eyes. Jax scanned the line of racers, his eyes lingering on me for a moment. He finally left, looking disappointed. I was fully encased in my race suit, with chest and back protectors, and thick padding on my knees. My signature long hair was tucked under my helmet, making me look indistinguishable from any of the male racers. It would be impossible for him to recognize me as Sloan Caldwell. With half an hour left before the race, Willow walked onto the track to bring Jax a water bottle. Jax took off his cheap, forty-dollar helmet. Willow looked concerned. “Jax, I heard Sister’s name on the broadcast. Do you think she actually…” Jax tilted his head back, taking a long drink of water, his eyes full of scoffing disbelief. “You saw her ride. Sloan nearly killed herself the other day trying to ride that thing!” “There’s no way she’d race!” “Besides, I scanned the track, there are no women out here. It has to be someone with the same name.” Willow breathed a sigh of relief. Then, she gave him a coy, hopeful look. “You have to do great, Jax. My friends are huge fans, and they all bought tickets just to watch you!” “Don’t forget… what you promised me.” Jax’s eyes darted away. He muttered a deep, “I know.” Willow had been pressuring him to make their relationship public for a long time. He’d always held off because of me. But after that night, he’d finally agreed to her request. Still, why was he so desperately hoping I would show up? If I had just come back to him, just tried to hold onto him, maybe he would have tried to be with me. Jax’s eyes involuntarily drifted toward the spectator stands. But he never saw the familiar figure. He lowered his gaze, his hand instinctively going to his heart. It felt like a piece was missing, an empty void… The race officially began. At the referee’s signal, dozens of bikes took off, moving too fast to be anything but streaks of color. I twisted the throttle and rode with reckless abandon and sublime control, instantly breaking away from the pack. Jax tried to catch up, but through turn after turn, I pulled farther and farther away. My knee was grazing the tarmac on every corner. I could feel a single, anxious gaze fixed on me from the stands. I won first place with a time of 1 minute 25 seconds. Three minutes and three seconds faster than the second-place finisher, Jax Donovan. On the winners’ platform, I removed my helmet. A reporter gasped into his microphone. “It’s her! It really is her!” “The legend of Coastal Bay, the racer Sloan Caldwell, who disappeared for two years! She’s finally returned!!!”

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Five years after I married Grant Ashworth in my sister’s place, Bianca finally decided to come home and claim what she felt was hers. “I’m back now, Gen,” she said, not bothering to lower her voice. “The Ashworth Group CEO’s wife title? You can hand it over.” My parents, the Fosters, were quick to chime in. “If your sister hadn’t been so kind, how would you ever have gotten to live this good life?” My husband, the man I’d built a life with, frowned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “To be fair, Gen,” Grant said, “you have been occupying Bianca’s place all along.” I simply nodded, picking up the pen to sign the divorce papers that lay on the mahogany coffee table. Day One: I deactivated the Amex Black Card I’d given my parents, shutting down their fifty-thousand-dollar daily spending limit. Day Two: I announced my immediate withdrawal from the corporate project team, bringing multiple multi-billion-dollar deals to a screeching halt. Day Three: I blocked all their numbers, packed a single carry-on, and boarded a flight bound for Palm Beach. Five years. I played the dutiful daughter and the faultless corporate wife, but I was never enough to overcome their preference for her. Let them see how long that preferential treatment could sustain them without me. 1 I walked back into the house and found Bianca in the great room, personally hanging the framed wedding portrait she and Grant had taken years ago. My parents and Grant were sitting nearby, and not a single person had offered a word of protest. In the photo, Grant and Bianca were pressed close, radiating a blinding, genuine joy. Seeing it made my eyes sting, a visceral, burning pain. I suddenly realized—in five years of marriage, aside from the stiff, formal picture on our marriage certificate, Grant and I didn’t have a single photograph together. “Well, hello, little sister.” Bianca raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her eyes alight with smug triumph. “Stolen things always have to be returned.” She took a slow, deliberate sip of her expensive champagne. “Do yourself a favor and stop clinging to your sister’s man. It’s tacky.” “My sister’s man?” I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. I looked pointedly at Grant, who had been staring at Bianca in silence since I walked in. “Don’t you have anything to say? Or does this proposition sound appealing to you?” I pressed. “Don’t forget, when your company was on the verge of bankruptcy, she decided she didn’t want to be poor with you. How quickly she fled the country to escape the wedding.” My mother’s face instantly twisted in anger. “What nonsense are you spouting?” My father slammed his hand on the armrest of the sofa, trying to assert his authority. “We are not dredging up the past, Gen!” I ignored them both, my gaze locked on Grant, desperate for him to give me an answer, a shred of defense. Grant’s throat worked, and when he finally looked at me, his eyes were full of a weary, profound impatience. “Genevieve Foster,” he said, his voice low but weighted with an undeniable bias. “What’s the point in dragging up old scores?” “Bianca was… young. She made a mistake.” He took his sister-in-law’s side without hesitation. “Now she’s back. Our family is finally together. Just stop causing drama, alright?” My heart felt instantly seized by a cold, invisible hand. The pain was so intense it stole the air from my lungs. “You forced me to marry you in her place, and now you’re helping her steal my husband. How can you call yourselves family?” I choked out. “What was I for these past five years? Was I just a tool to save your reputation? A temp to fill the void until the real bride decided to return?” Grant flinched, avoiding my stare. He exploded with a sudden roar. “Enough! Can you just stop being so dramatic?” Bianca smirked, a cruel, mocking curve to her lips. “Tell me, Gen. Sleeping in my marital bed, wearing my ring, with my man… didn’t it make you feel a little dirty?” “You’re so wicked. You just love stealing your sister’s things, don’t you?” she purred. Her words were poison, delivered with the arrogant confidence of the favored child, twisting the narrative with effortless ease. I was shaking with pure rage. “Bianca Foster, you have no shame!” “Genevieve!” Grant immediately pulled Bianca behind him, his voice a sharp, cutting reprimand. “She is your sister! You can’t speak to her like that.” Bianca nestled into Grant’s embrace, whispering, “Grant, I’m sorry. This is my fault.” “I shouldn’t have brought any of this up. Gen took care of you for five years. She deserves a thank you, even if it was just out of pity…” She finished, her gaze flicking up to mine with a triumphant challenge. Grant only grew angrier. “Genevieve, look at you! Sharp-tongued and petty. You have zero class. You’re no wife for the CEO of the Ashworth Group.” He grabbed Bianca’s hand. “Let’s go. I’m taking you to the charity auction tonight. We’ll buy something you love. Consider it my apology.” He pulled her out the door, the heavy oak slamming shut behind them. My parents immediately produced a crisply folded divorce agreement from a handbag. “You were reluctant before, but signing this now is best for everyone,” my mother insisted. “Grant’s assets have grown substantially, and Bianca is willing to split the equity evenly. She’s being remarkably generous, considering you’re sisters.” Bianca was never “generous.” My parents’ nervous expressions told the real story: Grant knew nothing about this monetary compensation. They were offering me hush money, terrified I would disrupt their precious reunion. I didn’t let them persuade me further. I signed with one swift, decisive motion. “Fine. I agree to the divorce.” The instant the final stroke was complete, their faces relaxed into wide, eager smiles. I couldn’t help the cold, derisive sneer that escaped me. “Forcing your own daughter to sign divorce papers. Does that make you that happy?” My mother’s smile froze. “We thought you were finally showing some maturity, but then you say something like that?” My father frowned, jumping to her defense. “See? This is why you’re not as pleasing as your sister. We can’t be blamed for preferring her.” They snatched the papers from the table, not even sparing a single word of comfort. They turned and hurried out, leaving me alone in the oppressive silence. The front door clicked shut. I sat there, the quiet pressing down on me, completely abandoned. A moment later, my phone vibrated. Amex Notification: Charge of $30,000.00 to Saks Fifth Avenue. Simultaneously, Bianca’s feed updated: a new, limited-edition designer clutch, with the caption: “Thank you, Mom, for the welcome home gift. Heart.” A glacial coldness spread from my chest, freezing me solid. All these years, anything they offered me was either Bianca’s leftovers or what she couldn’t be bothered to want. Any time I showed a hint of unhappiness, they’d immediately snap: “Who are you making faces at? Do we owe you something?” “You are so immature. You’re nothing like your sister!” I spent five years desperately trying to disprove that verdict, exhausting myself to win their affection. But at that moment, I finally understood—some favor, I was never going to be part of. Face expressionless, I picked up my phone. “I need to shut down the two authorized user cards on my family account. Immediately.” That evening, my mother burst through the door, throwing the credit card onto the floor in front of me. “We say two things you don’t like, and you cut off our money? Did we raise you for nothing all these years?” My father followed, pointing a finger at my face, his voice booming with fury. “You knew we were at the counter paying! You did that to deliberately embarrass us!” Then, Bianca strolled in, casually linked arm-in-arm with Grant. “Sister, you are truly going too far. Why couldn’t you wait until you got home? Why did you make Mom and Dad suffer that humiliation in public?” This scenario had played out countless times in my memory. Now, Grant was a part of it. His face was a mask of thunderous anger. He grabbed my arm, yanking me to my feet. “Genevieve Foster! Are you ever going to let this go? Apologize to your parents, now!” He leaned closer, his voice a low, hard warning in my ear. “Stop pushing it. Are you trying to tear this family apart?” When I stayed silent, he made the decision for me. “Mom, Dad, Gen was just upset. I’ll make sure her spending limit is raised to one hundred thousand. Just charge whatever you want.” “If you said it,” I interrupted him calmly, “you’ll be the one footing the bill.” “Genevieve Foster!” Grant’s patience snapped. He roared my name. “I’m asking you one last time—apologize or not?” He gripped my wrist, his strength so great I thought my bones would shatter. “Do you even want to be in this family?” “No.” I snatched my hand back. Inside, I was calmer than I had ever been. Grant’s angry expression went blank for a split second, as if he hadn’t heard me correctly. “What did you say?” I didn’t bother to repeat myself. I turned to walk away. My five years of obedience and devotion had only served as a reason for them to exploit me. As I brushed past Bianca, she suddenly dropped to the floor. “Sister… I know you’re angry, but why would you push me?” she whimpered, clutching her ankle. “What if I broke something? Is that what you want?” Before I could react, a massive force hit me from behind. Grant shoved me out the front door, slamming me hard onto the cold flagstones. A blinding sting of pain shot through my palms and knees. “Get out!” His eyes were icy. “You get out of here right now!” “This house has no room for your drama queen routine!” Through the glass door, I saw Grant spin around and scoop up Bianca, who was still cradling her ankle. His tender, careful movement was in stark contrast to the brutal shove he’d just given me. Bianca settled into his arms, and over his shoulder, she flashed me a look of pure, victorious satisfaction. I smiled back, a small, genuine curve of my mouth. I mouthed two silent words: “You win.” Grant Ashworth, I didn’t want him anymore. My parents—I didn’t want them either. The next morning, I called a project team meeting. Since I’d decided to leave, I owed them a professional transition. Before I could even speak, Grant burst in, Bianca trailing behind him. “Effective immediately, all projects currently managed by Genevieve Foster will be transferred to Bianca,” he announced to the stunned room. He turned to me, his gaze cold. “You injured Bianca yesterday and caused her distress. Letting her take over your projects will be your compensation to her.” I shot to my feet. “I won’t allow this!” “Bianca studied art history. She can’t read a single line of project code, and she has zero experience in finance! You can’t just parachute her in and hand her hundreds of millions in core projects! You’re treating the company like a playground!” I had planned for an amicable departure, ensuring the projects were handed over responsibly. Not for Grant, but for the team members who had poured their blood and sweat into the Ashworth Group alongside me. “Is this just because you’re jealous?” Grant raged. “You’re trying to humiliate Bianca in front of everyone!” “Genevieve,” he hissed, “when did you become so malicious?” He raised his voice for the room to hear. “I run the Ashworth Group now. Accept the new structure, or you can walk out of this project team.” He accused me of tarnishing Bianca’s reputation, yet he was systematically stomping my dignity into the dirt. “Fine,” I said, nodding slowly. “I’m out.” I swept my gaze across the faces of my colleagues—some shocked, some pitying. “Take care, everyone.” I didn’t need to say another word. They knew what a manager relying solely on family connection, and a decision-maker confusing business with personal life, meant for their careers. The news of my departure from Ashworth spread like wildfire. Less than two hours later, my phone rang. “Ms. Foster, if you are confirmed to be resigning, we will have to terminate our corporate partnership with Ashworth as per our contract.” Moments after that, the head of my core technology team texted me: “All key members have collectively tendered their resignation. We’re waiting for your next move.” Near noon, Grant stormed into the luxury boutique hotel suite where I was temporarily staying. “Genevieve Foster!” He ground out my name. “Where have you been? Are you doing this on purpose?” “The entire financial district is talking about Bianca and me! They’re saying you left because of her!” He grabbed my wrist again. “You have to go back and clear her name. Now!” I sharply pulled my hand free. “Even now, all you care about is her reputation?” Grant sneered. “You think losing a few contracts and some employees resigning is going to hurt me? You just want to prove how important you are.” “The important thing right now is Bianca! She’s an unmarried woman with a clean slate. Her reputation matters more than anything, and you are trying to ruin her with these false rumors.” “Are any of those rumors untrue?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet. Smack! The sharp, fiery sting of a slap erupted across my cheek. My ears were ringing. In five years of marriage, it was the first time he had ever laid a hand on me. “Bianca is your sister!” Grant gasped, his chest heaving with fury. “How could you say that?” I slowly lifted my hand to my stinging cheek, my eyes holding only a dead calm. Grant looked momentarily unsettled, but he quickly reasserted himself. “Go apologize to Bianca. We can forget this ever happened.” “And if I refuse?” I suddenly remembered Bianca’s first visit, demanding I “give Grant back.” I had thought she was comically naive. Now, I saw that the person who was naive was me—the one who thought Grant would never leave. “Then I’ll divorce you!” Grant roared. “Genevieve Foster! You’re just not as likeable as your sister! You’re cold and stiff. What other man would want a woman like you besides me?” His phone chimed. Caller ID: Bianca. He quickly hit the power button, the screen going dark. “I’m holding a press conference tomorrow morning. You will be there to support Bianca and clarify everything. If you don’t, our marriage is over.” He left with the threat hanging in the air. The hurried way he spun around to return Bianca’s call spoke volumes about his priorities. Standing there, I slowly raised my phone to my ear. “Mr. Devlin, I have an 18% stake in the Ashworth Group. Are you interested?” I met Rhys Devlin in a private booth that evening. “Eighteen percent, added to my current holdings, is enough for a hostile takeover of Ashworth,” he said, tapping a manicured finger on the table. He looked at me with sharp, dissecting eyes. “Are you sure you want to go this far?” After five years of marriage, Grant and I had shared tender moments. I remembered the night I got rushed to the ER for a bleeding ulcer from endless company dinners. Grant had pulled this same stock transfer agreement from his safe, his hands trembling. “This is the only assurance I can give you,” he’d promised. “Everything I have is yours. I will never fail you.” Now, the promise was hollow, and the man was unrecognizable. I still hesitated. Pathetic, I know. I took a deep breath and stood abruptly. “Excuse me. I need to use the restroom.” On the way, I heard a familiar voice. “Mr. Ashworth, are you sure you want us to run the press release this way?” A strange man asked. “It says your wife, Genevieve, has always been jealous of her sister, Bianca, and that she orchestrated a plot to force her sister out of the country because Bianca was your original fiancée. And now she’s spreading false rumors because she’s afraid of losing you…” The man paused, a hint of doubt in his voice. “That will completely destroy your wife’s reputation.” After a brief, horrifying silence, I heard the voice I knew better than my own, cold and utterly devoid of compassion. “Her reputation doesn’t matter. Bianca’s does.” “But sir, won’t this make her divorce you?” “Divorce? Impossible.” Grant’s tone was full of chilling certainty, a cruel psychological dissection. “Her parents always favored her sister, so she’s desperately needy for affection. If I occasionally toss her a little warmth, she’ll cling to it like a life raft. She’d never dare let go.” The wound that had finally begun to scab over was ripped wide open. I squeezed my fists until my nails dug into my palms. I turned and walked back into the booth. The last vestige of my hesitation evaporated. “Mr. Devlin,” I said, my voice steady. “I’ll sell you the shares. We can sign now.” “Congratulations on your upcoming acquisition of the Ashworth Group.” The next morning, I stood alone at the airport in Palm Beach. I was ready to replace everything. At 9:58 AM, I received Grant’s first call. “Genevieve Foster! Where are you?” His voice was a choke of suppressed rage. “Don’t play games with me. The press conference is about to start. Get over here and clarify things for Bianca!” I hung up without a word. Less than three minutes later, the second call. “Why is Rhys Devlin calling a shareholder meeting? What have you been doing behind my back? Did you think you could flirt your way into his favor to pull this stunt?” “I am warning you, if you don’t fix this immediately, I will divorce you!” I heard his self-serving threat and finally spoke, my tone distant and cool. “Grant Ashworth, if you go home right now, you should find the signed divorce agreement I left for you.”

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I was eating the subsidized meal—the $1.99 ‘Financial Aid’ special—in the cafeteria when I scrolled past the livestream. On the screen, my ID tag was clipped to the collar of a golden retriever. Atherton University’s elite “It Girls” were playing a ring toss game. Whoever managed to loop a ring over the dog was declared my “master.” The golden retriever’s neck already had four brightly colored rings stacked on it. Savannah “Savvy” Shaw, the Student Council President, let out a light, dismissive laugh. “How delightful. It looks like we’ll all be playing with the same little puppy, then.” Phoebe Alcott, the financial department’s resident new queen, raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “A new transfer on an aid package? He’ll be completely obsessed. We’ll have him wrapped around our fingers before the month is out.” Willow Bellweather, the campus’s reigning drama star, leaned forward excitedly. “Why don’t we make a bet? A full month. Let’s see which one of us the puppy becomes most devoted to?” Anya Wells, the medical genius known for her cold precision, didn’t speak, but the look in her eyes was all high-stakes certainty. I closed the app and let a slow, cold smirk crawl across my face. What a coincidence. My father sent me to Atherton precisely to select a fiancée from among these four families. How unfortunate for them. You all just failed the test. 1 In the livestream, the girl on camera laughed and called the dog by my alias. “Lincoln Asher, heel! Come here.” “Good boy!” “A poor transfer student running into four evil villains right at the start of his college life? How unlucky for him!” The surrounding crowd erupted in a roar of laughter. “Isn’t that why poor students come to Atherton? To climb the social ladder? He must be thrilled right now!” “I recall the last few victims you girls had were either physically scarred or forced to drop out. Maybe try something new this time?” “I can’t wait to see the pathetic, lovesick look on his face!” Savannah leaned against a guy—the host, I assumed—with a playful, seductive smile. “It was your idea, Chad. We’re just playing along, and now you’re calling us mean?” Phoebe stood on the guy’s other side, stroking his sculpted bicep with a look of mock helplessness. “Exactly. Last time, we were too easy on him. The guy just cried a little, and you were bored again.” “What exactly do we have to do to satisfy you, Princess?” Willow twirled a strand of her perfectly highlighted hair, confidence radiating off her. “Just weave a beautiful, ‘rags-to-riches’ fantasy for the poor boy. I know that script inside and out.” “Come on, place your bets! I’m putting down a million dollars on myself!” Anya remained impassive, calmly taking a seat. “Fifteen million.” They could shame me all they wanted; I didn’t care. After all, I wasn’t Lincoln Asher. My real name was Asher Lincoln. I had taken on a fake identity as a “poor student” to quietly vet the candidates for my future wife, as per my father’s instructions. But what did anger me was the casual cruelty—the absolute lack of remorse as they humiliated and hurt innocent people. I shook my head in utter disappointment. The four little tagalongs who used to follow me around as children had morphed into this. Zero out of a hundred. They were fundamentally flawed. These people were not fit to be the future mistress of the Lincoln empire. Just as I was about to lock my phone, a few new comments popped up on the stream. [Why are four women revolving around just one guy?! Is he planning to marry them all?] [Duh, that’s Chadwick Riley! The Chad Riley! The future of the Riley Group!] [They’re his childhood friends! They swore even if they didn’t marry Chad, they’d dedicate their lives to him!] Chadwick Riley? The Riley Group? Since when did my parents decide to give me a younger brother I didn’t know about? I was still puzzling over this when a shadow fell over my table. I looked up. Savannah and Phoebe had flanked me, sitting on either side, while Willow and Anya took the opposing seats. The noisy cafeteria instantly fell silent. Every single eye in the room was fixed on my table. Savannah, ever the gracious hostess, reached out naturally to brush a non-existent piece of lint from my shirt. “Why are you eating this garbage, sweetie?” I forced myself to take a few miserable bites of rice. “I’m poor. No money.” A flicker of contempt—quickly masked—passed through all four pairs of eyes. Willow slipped into character instantly, taking my hand. “Someone as handsome as you shouldn’t be eating scraps.” She pulled me straight out of the dining hall, shoved me into a luxury SUV, and we were whisked toward the city’s most famous Michelin five-star restaurant. I had to suppress a tiny moment of confusion. Isn’t this place just my dining room? The head chef at this restaurant was one my parents had personally hired to cook for me whenever I was in town, and they had conveniently opened a restaurant around him. The moment we walked in, the manager spotted me, hurried over, and was about to greet me as “Sir” or “Owner.” I gave him a subtle shake of the head. He immediately understood, his respectful expression flawless. Phoebe pulled out my chair for me. “Order anything you want. It’s just some basic home-style cooking.” In my house, yes, it is, I thought with a silent laugh. They began showing off, describing every exclusive dish in exaggerated detail. But I was already tired of all of it, my appetite nonexistent. I poked listlessly at the food. In their eyes, my lack of enthusiasm was interpreted quite differently. They must have assumed I didn’t even know how to eat such fine cuisine. Anya reached across the table, took a deep-sea blue crab claw, expertly cracked it, and brought the meat right to my mouth. I caught the glint of the small pinhole camera on her chest and was suddenly intrigued. I feigned bashfulness. “Anya, I heard your hands are only used for scalpel work.” A muscle twitched in Anya’s cheek. It took her a long moment to reply. “You’re… special.” So you can be disgusted, but I can’t play along? I leaned in, acting shy and awkward, my face flushed as I took the bite. For the rest of the meal, the four of them took turns doting on me: clipping off greens, peeling shrimp, wiping the corner of my mouth. They didn’t stop for a minute. I played my role dutifully, a convincing, smitten pauper with each of them. I was exhausted and ready to roll my eyes by the time I collapsed back into my dorm room. My roommates’ expressions were… complex. I opened my phone. Sure enough, Chad Riley was streaming again. The footage of Anya feeding me the crab leg was on a loop. The comments were hysterical. Willow slapped her thigh, doubled over in laughter. “I almost lost it! His expression was so genuine! He truly thinks he’s the male lead in a romance drama!” Anya’s face was dark with annoyance. “Funny? I washed my hands three times with medical-grade sanitizer afterward. I still feel contaminated.” Phoebe patted Anya’s shoulder, trying to hold back her own laughter. “The poor student is probably head-over-heels now! Congrats, Anya! Hahaha!” After that event, the four of them only became more attentive. Flowers, gifts, elaborate invitations. I played my role day in and day out, acting as their entertainment for the stream. Even when my classmates snickered as I walked past, I pretended to be blissfully unaware. Until one evening. I was suddenly pulled into a shadowed corner. The person who grabbed me swallowed hard, then spoke in a rush. “Lincoln, you’re being played! Those girls are not good people!” Nearly everyone in the school was aware of my predicament. For a month, most had either watched for entertainment or been too afraid to intervene. She was the only one who had dared to warn me. Before I could say anything, she was roughly shoved away, stumbling and falling to the floor. The Quad Squad stood in front of me. Savannah flashed her Student Council badge like a shield. “Stay away from Asher!” “You’re on an aid package—I suggest you don’t get any ideas about Lincoln, or I’ll make sure you never graduate from Atherton!” She turned to me, her tone instantly softening and testing. “Lincoln, she didn’t say anything weird to you, did she?” I shook my head, my face blank and confused. They finally relaxed. “It’s your birthday at the end of the month, right? We’re taking you to a gala auction to buy you a gift.” I quickly caught up—I had filled in a random date for my fake profile—and slipped into character. “You… you remember my birthday? I’m so touched!” “But I’ve never been to an auction. I’ll embarrass you…” They told me not to worry. Before the event, a bespoke custom suit was delivered to my dorm. I frowned. Wait. My own custom, limited-edition formalwear is currently hanging in my closet. Why is a duplicate in their possession? I had a flash of realization, opened my phone, and searched for Chad Riley’s stream. He was live. “Bringing the poor boy out to see the real world again.” “His suit? I lent it to him. I never wear my formalwear twice.” He covered his mouth to stifle a laugh, showing off the three-hundred-million-dollar timepiece on his wrist. “I bet he doesn’t even know how to tie a bow tie. Think he’ll make a complete fool of himself?” My face went cold. Chad’s suit, his watch, his ring—every single piece of “luxury” he wore—was mine. I walked out as if nothing had happened. The Quad Squad was waiting for me at the venue entrance. Chad was there too, phone held high, ready to live-stream my anticipated disaster. The moment I stepped out, everyone in the ballroom—not just the four women—turned to stare. “Who is that?” “Is he from one of the Singaporean families?” Chad’s face twisted with jealousy as he watched the girls’ eyes practically glue themselves to me. I tossed my hair back nonchalantly. They’re only staring because they know the name of the man who owns this suit. The jewelry auction began. I was bored. Under the four girls’ urging, I casually pointed to a watch. Willow immediately called out a price. “Three hundred thousand!” To my surprise, Anya countered. “Five hundred thousand!” “Sorry, Willow. I’m not letting up this time.” Savannah laughed and joined the fray. “Eight hundred thousand!” Chad watched from the side, practically spitting fire as the four women flung money at me. He tried to interrupt but couldn’t get a word in edgewise. They escalated into a frenzy, driving the price up to three million dollars. Willow and Anya were forced to bow out. Savannah was about to gloat when Phoebe, who had been silent, suddenly spoke. “I’ll raise the stakes.” She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs lazily, and then leaned her head against my shoulder. “I promised I’d personally win Lincoln’s birthday gift. And I always keep my promises.” The auction ended, and I held the watch—a decent but uninteresting piece—in my hand. I told them I didn’t want it because, ironically, the few items that were actually nice were pieces I had already eliminated from my own collection. Chad timidly shuffled over. “Phoebe, I really like this watch. Can you give it to me?” He then pulled a few hundred dollars out of his pocket and threw it at me. “The watch matches the man. You should go find something on a street corner, little brother.” I turned to Phoebe, my eyes welling up with fake tears, ready to hand the watch back. “I really don’t deserve it. Maybe you should take it back…” I was dressed immaculately, and the look of pathetic devastation on my face broke Phoebe’s resolve instantly. “Who says you don’t deserve it?!” She spun around, her expression hardening, and shot a furious glare at Chad. “You’re trying to steal his birthday gift? Do you think that’s appropriate?” “Lincoln was happy, and you just had to make him cry! Apologize to Lincoln!” She gave Chad no quarter. The eyes of everyone in the room converged on him. Chad’s face went scarlet with shame, and he turned and ran out of the room. The evening livestream was scheduled to start on time. Chad sat between the four girls, his face a picture of tearful self-pity. “You guys actually yelled at me today!” Savannah was quick to wipe his tears. “We had to, baby. It was all for show. To make the poor boy believe we were seriously pursuing him.” Phoebe chimed in with a laugh. “Look how devoted he is now. When we finally dump him, it’s going to be epic!” Willow added, “Don’t be sad, Chad. I’ll buy you the most expensive watch next time, with my next paycheck.” Anya, with a dark look behind her glasses, offered the most brutal suggestion. “Why buy? We’ll make the poor boy pay back everything he’s gotten from us, tenfold, to compensate Chad.” The live chat viewers, watching the footage of me looking utterly besotted with the four girls, filled the screen with mockery. [A few cheap gifts, and look how touched he is!] [He’s going to try to kill himself when he finds out it’s all a lie, LOL!] [You HAVE to live stream the breakup! I can’t wait!] The others finally managed to cheer Chad up. He smiled sweetly at the camera. “Next Monday is the final day.” “Eight p.m. sharp. We’ll be live from the outdoor amphitheater for the ‘Puppy Dump’ stream!” I smiled to myself, a faint, cold expression. Next Monday. That was also the day I had to report my final selection results to my father. During these last few days, the Quad Squad was desperate to confirm my affection. I made sure to look utterly, profoundly in love with each of them. I wouldn’t want their confidence to flag. Sure enough, a few days later, my dorm door was buried under an avalanche of roses. Four bouquets, four personalized cards. Just as the stream promised, they had all set up a meeting with me for Monday at 8 p.m. That night, I made sure to be “dressed for the occasion.” I wore the suit I hadn’t “returned” and the “expensive” watch they had bought me. I gave them all the room they needed for their grand performance. I arrived at the meeting spot. Before I could see the four girls, someone pulled me aside. “Lincoln!” I focused. It was the same girl who had warned me before. “You can’t go! You’ll regret it!” When I didn’t respond, she anxiously yanked out her phone and opened Chad Riley’s stream. “They’ve been playing you this whole time! It’s a joke!” I tilted my head, an amused look on my face. “I know.” “But who’s playing whom? That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Without waiting for her reaction, I brushed past her and continued toward the amphitheater. Waiting for me were the Quad Squad, Chad Riley, and a small mob of students holding up their phones to watch the entertainment. The four girls finally dropped the act. Savannah was the first to speak, her tone dripping with condescension. “You didn’t actually think we were going to confess to you, did you?” Phoebe chuckled softly. “We were just messing with you, babe. Did you actually fall for it?” The laughter from the crowd swelled. Someone in the back yelled, “Did he really think he was good enough for them?” “He was probably already picking out his wedding suit, haha!” My “inner actor” took over. My eyes instantly welled up. “So… you were all lying to me? The flowers, the dates, the auction—all of it was fake?” Willow raised her phone and opened the stream. “Not only were we lying to you, but everyone was in on the joke. The whole school watched.” “You were a funny little dancing monkey.” Anya reached out and snatched the watch from my wrist. “Chad likes this. You don’t deserve to wear it.” Chad slowly walked up to me, looking me up and down. “They say clothes make the man. You’re wearing my suit and my watch—I’ll admit, you almost looked the part.” “But the dream is over.” He moved closer, attempting to yank the blazer off my shoulders. “Take it off. Give it back.” A few crass whistles sounded from the crowd. I didn’t react in anger. I just smiled, a thin, cold smile, and then backhanded Chadwick Riley across the face. The sound was a sharp crack. Chad stared at me, eyes wide with disbelief. The four girls erupted in fury. “You bastard! How dare you hit Chad!” “We played with you for a month, and now you’ve forgotten your place? Did you actually think you were worthy of us?!” “I’m going to strip you naked right here and make you walk back to your dorm!” The words were barely out of their mouths when a figure appeared silently behind me. A heavy, custom-made jacket was draped over my shoulders. In the next instant, the figure—my lead security detail—moved, and all four girls were instantly slammed to the ground. I looked down at them, my expression one of profound disappointment. “The observation is over.” “Unfortunately.” “You are not worthy of me. You are not fit to be my fiancée candidates. And you will never be the future mistress of the Lincoln empire.”

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