Part I: The Request You work in Corrections long enough, and you stop seeing men. You start seeing files. You see sentencing dates, parole hearings, commissary balances, and disciplinary write-ups. You learn to turn off the part of your brain that wonders why they did it, because if you stare too long into that particular abyss, you’ll never sleep without a bottle of bourbon on the nightstand again. My name is Sergeant Ellis, and I’ve been wearing the gray uniform for the Louisiana Department of Corrections for seven years. I work the “Old & Infirm” block—officially the Special Needs Unit—at a facility that sits smack in the middle of a swamp, about an hour outside of Baton Rouge. The humidity here is a physical weight. It hangs on you like a wet wool blanket, smelling of mud, diesel, and industrial cleaner. The inmates in my block are usually the ones the world has forgotten. The wheelchair-bound, the senile, the ones whose bodies have been ravaged by decades of hard living and harder drugs. They are “The Recovering,” in prison parlance. Most are harmless. Burnt out. But some… some are just waiting. Ray Kincaid was one of those ghosts. Ray was doing a seven-year stretch for distribution—methamphetamine, mostly, with a side of possession with intent. He was forty-two but looked sixty. He had that hollowed-out look of a man whose bones had been brittle-fied by chemicals. His teeth were a wreck, his skin like old parchment. In the unit, he was a non-entity. He never fought, never joined a gang, never raised his voice. He was invisible. That invisibility ended in the summer of 2021. It started on a Tuesday, visitation day. The air conditioning in the visitation room was broken, rattling uselessly against the ninety-degree heat. I was posted by the door, watching the families. You get to know the regulars. Mothers crying, girlfriends looking defiant, kids looking confused. Ray didn’t get many visitors. But that day, his sister, Jenny, had come down from their hometown in the northern part of the parish. I watched them. Jenny looked like a woman holding on by a thread—tired eyes, nervous hands. She and Ray didn’t have a good relationship; you could see it in the way she sat, arms crossed, defensive. She was there to talk business. Their parents’ old farmhouse, a decrepit structure rotting away on family land, was finally up for demolition and redevelopment. The parents were kicking and screaming about it, but the money was necessary. I couldn’t hear everything, but I saw Ray’s demeanor shift. He leaned in, his forehead pressing against the plexiglass. He wasn’t talking about the house or the money. He looked desperate. A kind of frantic, pathetic pleading that I’d seen a hundred times when a junkie needs a favor. “The attic,” he whispered. I caught that much. “The south room. Under the bed.” Jenny looked annoyed. She shook her head. Ray kept pushing. “Just get rid of it, Jen. Please. It’s just junk. Don’t open it. Just take it to the river and sink it. For me. Please.”. I saw Jenny sigh. It was the sigh of a big sister who had spent her entire life cleaning up her little brother’s messes. She nodded, stood up, and left. Ray watched her go, and for a second, I saw something in his eyes that I couldn’t place. I thought it was relief. I was wrong. It was terror. Part II: The Attic Jenny didn’t go straight home to her own place. She drove out to the old Kincaid property. It was a failing structure, choked by kudzu and weeping willow trees, the kind of place that looked like it was bruising under the purple twilight sky. She told us later that she was angry. She felt used. Here she was, trying to save their parents’ retirement fund, and Ray was worried about some box of trash he’d left behind three years ago. But the conditioning of childhood is strong. When Ray begged, she acted. She climbed the narrow, creaking stairs to the attic. The air up there was stifling, trapped for years, smelling of sawdust and rat droppings. She went to the south room, just like he said. She got on her hands and knees and swept her flashlight beam under the rusted iron bedframe. There it was. A large, black, hard-shell suitcase. She dragged it out. It was heavy. Absurdly heavy. The wheels squeaked in protest, cutting tracks through the thick layer of dust. Ray’s instructions had been clear: Don’t open it. Throw it in the river. She dragged it to the top of the stairs. She stopped. The weight of the thing bothered her. What kind of “junk” weighed this much? Old tools? Stolen copper wire? Drugs? If she was going to risk a felony by dumping it in the river, she deserved to know what she was carrying. She sat on the top step, sweating in the heat, and stared at the zipper. She decided to take a peek. Just a quick look. She unzipped the main compartment. The zipper was stiff, corroded by time and humidity. It gave way with a tearing sound. The smell didn’t drift out; it punched her. It was a physical wall of stench—a thick, sweet, cloying rot that instantly coated the back of her throat with the taste of grease and copper. It was the smell of bad meat, magnified a thousand times. Jenny gagged, covering her nose with her shirt, but she didn’t look away. Not yet. She pushed the lid back. Inside, the contents were wrapped in layer after layer of industrial cling film. But the plastic was transparent enough. And time had done its work. What lay inside was a soup of organic decay. A slurry of dark, greenish-black fluid pooled at the bottom. In the center of the mess was a shape that was undeniably human. A skull, grinning through the slime. A ribcage, collapsed in on itself. The flesh had mostly liquefied or turned to a wax-like substance, but the bones remained, curled in a fetal position. Jenny screamed. She scrambled backward, crab-walking away from the open case, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. But in that split second of horror, her brain registered something else. Something that made no sense. The adult skeleton was curled up, yes. But tucked underneath the pelvic bone… sitting in the sludge near the thigh… was another set of bones. Tiny bones. A skull the size of an orange. Ribs like toothpicks. There were two bodies in the box. Part III: The Transport The call came into the prison the next morning. The local Sheriff’s department had secured the scene, but given that the primary suspect was already in state custody, the investigation required coordination. Detective Miller, a homicide veteran from the parish seat, was running the show. He needed Ray Kincaid brought to the county holding facility for interrogation. As a Sergeant in Ray’s unit and a former intake officer, I was assigned to the transport detail and to act as a liaison. I walked Ray out of his cell in cuffs and leg irons. He looked smaller than usual. He didn’t ask where we were going. He knew. The drive was quiet. Ray stared out the window at the passing cypress trees and the endless green monotony of the cane fields. “You talk to your sister lately, Ray?” I asked, watching him in the rearview mirror. He didn’t blink. “She opened it, didn’t she?” “Yeah, Ray. She opened it.” He just closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cage. When we arrived at the county station, the atmosphere was frantic. Detective Miller met us at the sally port. Miller was a big man, balding, with a permanent coffee stain on his tie and the exhausted demeanor of a man who had seen too much evil to be surprised by it anymore. “Sergeant Ellis,” he grunted, shaking my hand. “Welcome to the freak show.” “How bad is it?” I asked. “Bad,” Miller said, lighting a cigarette despite the ‘No Smoking’ sign. “We got the preliminary look from the coroner. The bodies have been in that box for over a decade. The heat in that attic… it basically pressure-cooked them. We’re dealing with soup and bones. DNA is going to be a nightmare. We tried to get a sample from the rib cartilage, but it was too degraded. We’re sending a femur to the state lab, but it’s gonna take time.” “Two bodies?” I confirmed. “Yep. One adult female. One infant. The baby was tucked right up under her.” Miller took a long drag. “We need him to talk, Ellis. Without a name for the victim, we’re just guessing. We can pin abuse of a corpse on him, maybe, but we want a murder charge. And for that, we need to know who she was.” “He’s a ghost,” I warned him. “In the prison, he doesn’t say a word to anyone. He might just clam up.” Miller smirked. “Everyone talks eventually. Especially when they think they’re smarter than you.” Part IV: The Hoodoo Man The interrogation room was cold, a sharp contrast to the sweltering heat outside. Ray sat handcuffed to the table, shivering slightly in his orange jumpsuit. Miller didn’t waste time. He threw photos of the suitcase on the table. Glossy 8x10s of the horror show Jenny had found. “You want to tell me about your roommates, Ray?” Miller asked. Ray looked at the photos. He didn’t flinch. “I didn’t kill ’em,” he said. His voice was like grinding gravel. “Is that right?” Miller sat down. “Hard to argue with the fact that they were under your bed.” “I know they were there,” Ray said. “I put ’em there. But I didn’t kill ’em. I bought ’em.” I stood in the corner, arms crossed, listening. This was a new one. “You bought them?” Miller raised an eyebrow. “Yeah. Look, you know I used. Back then… 2007, 2008… I was using heavy,” Ray began. He started spinning a story that was so bizarre, so specifically Southern, that it almost sounded plausible. Ray claimed he had gone down to the bayou to score off some drifters—two locals, heavy into the occult. He said they were “Root Doctors” or something similar. They got high together, and these dealers told Ray he had a black cloud over him. Said he was leaking luck, that death was stalking him. “They told me I needed a ‘sink’,” Ray explained, his hands shaking. “Something to catch the bad spirits. A vessel. They said the best vessel is a ‘Gris-Gris Girl.’ A fresh corpse.”. Ray claimed he was terrified. He was a superstitious man—a lot of these rural guys are. They grow up hearing stories about hants and curses. He told the dealers he couldn’t kill anyone. “They laughed at me,” Ray said. “Said they had plenty. Said their product was the best because it was grown on ‘human fertilizer.’ They offered to sell me one.” . According to Ray, a week later, they delivered the suitcase. They told him it contained a “charmed” female corpse. “They gave me rules,” Ray whispered, leaning forward, eyes wide. “They said, ‘Don’t open it.’ They said if I opened it, the worms inside would crawl out and eat my eyes. They said I had to sleep on top of it. Said if I dreamt of a woman talking to me, the luck was changing.” . “You paid for a dead body?” Miller asked, incredulous. “Two thousand dollars,” Ray said. “Half-price, they said. A favor.”. “And the baby?” Miller pressed. “Did you buy a two-for-one special?” Ray paused. He looked genuinely confused. “I don’t know about no baby. They just sold me the girl. I never opened the box. I just did what they said. I put it under the bed and I slept on it.” Miller stared at him for a long time. Then he stood up and walked out. I followed. In the hallway, Miller rubbed his temples. “You believe that horse manure?” “The part about the occult dealers? No,” I said. “But the superstition? Ray believes it. Or he’s convinced himself he believes it. He’s playing the insanity card without saying the word insanity.” “It’s a stall,” Miller spat. “He thinks if he claims he bought the body, we can’t prove he murdered her. Without a name, without a cause of death… he might skate on the homicide charge.” We needed to identify the victim. And we needed to know whose baby that was. Part V: The Bloodline The investigation split into two tracks. Miller’s team started digging into Ray’s past, looking for missing women. I went back to the prison records, pulling every file from Ray’s previous incarcerations—1998 for burglary, 2003 for assault. We were looking for a gap. A time when Ray wasn’t locked up, but someone else was missing. A week passed. The heat wave broke, replaced by torrential rain that hammered the metal roof of the station. Then, the lab called. They still couldn’t get a clear profile on the woman. The DNA was too degraded. But the infant? The infant’s bones were more protected, encased deeper in the biological matter. They got a profile. Miller called me into his office. He looked pale. “We got a hit on the baby,” he said. “It’s a familial match.” “To who?” “To Ray.” I felt the blood drain from my face. “The baby in the box is Ray’s?”. “His biological son,” Miller confirmed. “Which means the woman in the box isn’t just some random body he bought. It was someone he was sleeping with.” The horror of it settled over the room. Ray Kincaid had been sleeping on a mattress for years, supported by a suitcase containing the rotting corpse of his girlfriend and his own son. My mind immediately went to the dark places. The “Hoodoo” story. Was it possible? Did he sacrifice them? “How?” I asked. “Ray swore he bought the body. He swore he didn’t know about the baby.” “There’s something else,” Miller said, pulling out a file. “We found a witness. A landlord.” Miller had tracked down the owner of a run-down apartment complex in the next parish over. The landlord remembered Ray from back in 2001 and 2002. He remembered Ray wasn’t alone. He had a girlfriend. A girl who ran away from home to be with him. The landlord couldn’t remember her name, just that she was young and looked tired. We needed a name. Miller went back to Ray’s family. The parents were useless—screaming that their son was a saint, that the police were framing him. But Jenny, the sister… she was the weak link. Miller brought Jenny in again. He played “Good Cop.” He sat her down, gave her a coffee, and told her, “Jenny, we know the baby was Ray’s. We know the woman was someone he loved. You have to tell us who she was.” Jenny broke down. She admitted she knew Ray had a girlfriend back before his second stint in prison. A girl named Sarah. Sarah King. “I thought they broke up,” Jenny sobbed. “Ray never talked about her after he got out in ’06. I just assumed she left him.”

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Chapter 1: The Merger, Not the Marriage “You were always supposed to be mine,” he said, his voice cracking, eyes red-rimmed with a desperation I had never seen in him before. “I married you first. I taught you how to love. You were supposed to stand by me for a lifetime. You were supposed to love me.” I looked at him, the man who had been the center of my universe for fifteen years. He looked like a king who had finally won his crown, only to realize his castle was empty. I stood in the silence of the winter garden, the snow muffling the distant sounds of the city. After a long, heavy silence, I finally opened my mouth. It sounded like a sigh, but it felt like a shackle breaking. “It’s too late, Will.” Let’s go back to the beginning. Everyone in D.C. knew that William Vance, the golden boy of the Republican party, had married Charlotte Sterling—me—in the wedding of the decade. That day, the ceremony at the National Cathedral was a spectacle. The “Love of the Century,” the press called it. But it wasn’t love. It was infrastructure. It was Will building a foundation for his career using the Sterling family name. The socialites and the senator’s daughters envied me. They saw the handsome face, the Ivy League pedigree, the fast track to the White House. They turned green with jealousy, twisting their silk handkerchiefs in their manicured hands. But nobody whispered about us being a mismatch. Everyone knew the Sterlings held the real power. My father, the General, and my brothers were decorated war heroes. They had the military industrial complex in their pockets. My father had once saved the President’s life in Desert Storm, trading his left eye for the Commander-in-Chief’s safety. When the President needed a successor, he didn’t look far. He pointed at the Vance family, but he looked at the Sterlings to secure the throne. If I had been ugly, or stupid, maybe the other women wouldn’t have been so bitter. But I was Charlotte Sterling. I was the Valedictorian, the debutante, the perfect “First Lady” prototype. I was raised to be this. And Will? We grew up together. We were childhood friends. “A match made in heaven,” the tabloids said. “Old money meets new ambition.” But I knew the truth. Strip away the gala dinners and the flashbulbs, and all I had was my wedding night. I sat on the edge of the king-sized bed in our penthouse suite, still wearing that suffocating Vera Wang gown. Will walked in, loosened his tie, and let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Alright, Charlotte,” he said, tossing his jacket onto the chair. “You can stop acting now. Isn’t it exhausting?” His words hit me like a physical blow. But years of training in etiquette kept my face smooth. I looked up at my new husband, forcing a gentle smile. “It’s late, Will. We should toast… to us.” He frowned, looking at me with undisguised disgust. “Haven’t you performed enough for the cameras? This marriage wasn’t my choice, and you know it. Do we really have to play house behind closed doors? Don’t push your luck, Charlotte.” Don’t push your luck. The words echoed in the empty room. Marrying him, loving him—was that pushing my luck? “I don’t want to be cruel,” he continued, pouring himself a scotch and ignoring the champagne I had prepared. “We grew up together. I respect you as a sister. We should have stayed that way. But you… you couldn’t help yourself, could you? You used your father’s leverage to force this marriage, even knowing about Serena.” He spoke with such conviction, such self-righteous venom. I lowered my eyes, my lips trembling. I stayed silent. My silence only fueled his contempt. To him, it was an admission of guilt. He believed I had manipulated the political landscape to trap him. He knew I loved him. Since we were kids, my eyes had followed him. My love was loud and clumsy back then, before I learned to hide it. But to him, I was just the neighbor’s kid. Because Will Vance had already given his heart away. He gave it to a girl in a red sundress, laughing under the summer sun, a girl who wasn’t bound by rules or expectations. Serena Joyner. Chapter 2: The Perfect Wife I took over the running of Will’s life immediately. I managed his schedule, his household, and his image. I charmed the donors, I smoothed over the PR disasters, and I sat having tea with the First Lady, discussing charity galas for three hours without cracking a smile. “You’re a good girl, Charlotte,” the First Lady told me, patting my hand. “If Will decides to have… distractions… you just look the other way. You’re the wife. You’re the institution. Don’t let them see you bleed.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. I wanted to tell her we haven’t even slept together. But I just nodded. Will hated me, but his approval ratings soared. The press loved the narrative of the devoted wife. I spun the story that Will was working late on the new Infrastructure Bill, while I sat at home copying donor lists by hand to calm my nerves. Then, a month later, Serena Joyner got married. She married a safe, boring hedge fund manager named Duke. That night, Will disappeared. My assistant, Alan, found me in the garden. “The Senator isn’t in his office, ma’am. He’s… gone.” I nodded. “Close the perimeter. No press.” I sat in the garden until the sun came up. I knew where he was. He was mourning. He was mourning the death of his love life because the President had forced his hand, and now Serena was gone, too. I remembered my own birthday was today. I wasn’t born lucky. A psychic told my mother I had a “cursed star.” My father wanted to shoot the psychic; my mother just cried. They changed my official birthday to a “luckier” date and raised me with strict discipline, hoping to break the curse. But I remembered the one time I broke the rules. I was seven. I snuck out to a street fair. I was almost kidnapped by a woman claiming to be my aunt. A boy saved me. A nine-year-old boy in a prep school blazer. He kicked the woman in the shins and yelled for the police. “She’s too pretty to be yours, you old hag!” he had shouted. That was Will. He walked me home, wiped my tears, and told me, “The world is dangerous, Charlie. Stay close to me.” That was the boy I fell in love with. Not this cold, ambitious stranger who came home drunk the morning after Serena’s wedding. He found me in the garden. He smelled of whiskey and cheap perfume. “What do you want from me?” he slurred, grabbing my shoulders. “You have the ring. You have the title. What else do you want?” “I want to help you, Will. You’re the future of this country.” He slapped me. It wasn’t hard, but it stunned me. The silence in the garden was deafening. “Stop giving me those prepared speeches!” he shouted, his eyes wild. “We aren’t on CNN! Do you have a heart? Do you know what it feels like to watch the woman you love marry someone else because you were forced to marry a political asset?” He tore my dress. That night, for the first time, he touched me. But it wasn’t making love. It was punishment. I stared at the ceiling, tears sliding into my hair. I remembered the hairpin he gave me for my real birthday when we were kids. A cheap wooden thing with a peach blossom. “Screw the psychic,” he had said. “You make your own luck, Charlie.” Where did that boy go? Chapter 3: The Gala and the Shark After that night, we avoided each other. We were efficient partners during the day—he handled the Senate, I handled the philanthropy. He became the “People’s Senator,” thanks to the PR strategy I designed. Then came the Spring Gala. It was a diplomatic event, critical for international relations. And Serena was there. She walked in like she owned the place, wearing a dress that was too loud and laughing too hard. She saw me and tried to link arms. “Charlie! It’s been forever!” I sidestepped her. “Mrs. Duke. Please, remember where we are.” Her smile faltered. The other wives snickered. Serena wasn’t cut out for this world. She was messy, emotional, and raw. Everything Will loved. Everything I wasn’t. Will spent the entire evening staring at her. When she went to the balcony for air, he followed. I stayed seated, watching the train wreck in slow motion. “The Senator seems distracted,” a voice said beside me. I turned. Standing there was Julian Thorne. He was the “Special Envoy” from Europe, but everyone knew he was more than that. He was royalty, old money, and industrial power wrapped in a bespoke tuxedo. He had pale, icy eyes—unusual, predatory, and amused. “Mr. Thorne,” I said, perfecting my smile. “The Senator is just… passionate about diplomacy.” “Is that what they call it?” Julian took a sip of his drink, his eyes not leaving my face. “You’re younger than I expected, Mrs. Vance. And smarter.” “Flattery won’t get you the trade deal, Mr. Thorne.” “I don’t need flattery to get what I want.” He smiled, and it felt like a wolf baring its teeth. “I’m Julian. Your husband knows me. We’re in the middle of a… negotiation.” I felt a chill. Julian Thorne was dangerous. He wasn’t a politician; he was a kingmaker. Later that night, I found Will and Serena in the hallway. They were embracing. Serena was crying about how unhappy she was. “Will, you’re drunk,” I said, stepping out of the shadows. My voice was ice. Will pushed Serena away, looking like a guilty teenager, then his face hardened. “Stop managing me, Charlotte.” “I’m protecting you. If a reporter saw this…” “I don’t care!” he snapped. “God, you’re cold. Do you even feel anything? Look at her, she’s hurting! But you… you’re just a statue.” “I am your wife.” “You’re a political calculation,” he sneered. I turned and walked away. I didn’t cry. I was done crying. Chapter 4: The Trade Months passed. The President’s health was failing. The power struggle in D.C. was heating up. The Vice President was making moves, and Will needed a massive injection of capital and influence to secure his bid for the nomination. He needed Julian Thorne. One night, Will came to my room. He looked haggard. He sat on the edge of the chaise lounge, head in his hands. “I need help, Charlotte. The VP is going to bury me. I need the European coalition. I need Thorne.” “So ask him,” I said, sipping my tea. “He… he has conditions.” Will wouldn’t look at me. “He wants a guarantee. A gesture of good faith. A hostage, basically.” I put my cup down. “He wants you to go to his estate in the Alps. To ‘oversee the foundation’s merger.’ It’s a cover. He wants… he wants you there as collateral.” The silence stretched. “For how long?” “Until I secure the nomination. A few months. Charlotte, please. It’s the only way. Once I win, I’ll have the power to bring you back. I swear.” “And if I say no?” “Then we lose everything. The Sterlings lose their influence. I lose my career.” He finally looked at me, begging. “You owe me this. You forced this marriage. You wanted to be part of my life? This is it. This is the price.” I looked at him. I saw the fear, the ambition, and the absolute lack of love. “Okay,” I said softly. “You’ll do it?” “I’m your wife, Will. I’ll do what’s required.” He breathed a sigh of relief. He tried to hug me, but I stood up.

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The Manuscript in Folder X It was a Tuesday afternoon, the kind of gray, drizzly Boston day that makes you want to do absolutely nothing but curl up in a blanket burrito and dissociate. I was sitting on the floor of the apartment I shared with Josh, surrounded by a fortress of empty Red Bull cans and textbooks that cost more than my first car. “Mia, do you have the notes for the Psych 101 midterms?” I yelled toward the kitchen, where Josh was currently doing something that smelled suspiciously like burning toast. “Check my laptop,” Josh called back, his voice calm, deep, the kind of voice that usually grounded me. “Password is your birthday. Obviously.” “Obviously,” I muttered, rolling my eyes but smiling. Josh and I had been inseparable since the sandbox days. Our mothers were best friends, our houses shared a fence, and our lives were so intertwined that I couldn’t tell where my memories ended and his began. He was the golden boy—Starbucks barista looks, Dean’s List grades, and a patience that bordered on saintly. I pulled his MacBook onto my lap. It was warm, humming slightly. I typed in my birthday—0422. Unlocked. His desktop was organized chaos. Folders for “Architecture,” “Receipts,” “Gaming,” and a folder simply labeled “Docs.” I clicked on “Docs,” assuming the psychology notes would be nestled in there. They weren’t. Instead, I saw a sub-folder labeled “Classified.” Now, let’s be real. If you label a folder “Classified” on a computer you explicitly told your nosy best friend to use, you are either an idiot or you want to be caught. Or, maybe, you just assume that after twenty years of friendship, there are no boundaries left to cross. Curiosity isn’t just a cat killer; it’s a friendship killer. I knew I should close it. I knew I should search for “Psych” in the search bar like a normal person. But I didn’t. I clicked. Inside was a single PDF file. The title made my blood run cold, then hot, then cold again. “The Cage: A Study in Possession.” I frowned. Josh wasn’t a writer. He was an architecture major who thought haikus were “inefficient.” I double-clicked the file. It opened. Chapter One. The chains were cold against Mia’s wrists, but not as cold as the look in Josh’s eyes. I stopped breathing. My eyes darted across the screen, devouring the text with a morbid, sickening fascination. It wasn’t a psychology paper. It wasn’t a creative writing assignment. It was a novel. A full-length, detailed, graphic novel. And the protagonists? Me. And him. But not the us that existed in this living room with the smell of burnt toast. In this story, the “Josh” character wasn’t the guy who held my hair back when I puked after frat parties. He was a monster. A calm, calculating, obsessive monster who had locked “Mia” in a basement that he had soundproofed himself. I scrolled down, my finger trembling on the trackpad. “You don’t need the outside world, Mia,” Josh whispered, stroking her hair as she wept. “They don’t understand you like I do. Out there, you get hurt. In here, you are worshipped.” I felt bile rise in my throat. The writing was… good. Disturbingly good. It described the layout of the basement—a room that looked suspiciously like the dream apartment we had always joked about buying. It described my favorite foods, which he brought to her on a silver tray. It described the way I slept, the specific way I bit my lip when I was anxious. It described, in vivid detail, “Mia’s” failed attempts to escape. How “Josh” would catch her, not with anger, but with a terrifying, disappointed patience. He would punish her. I won’t go into the details of the punishment. Let’s just say it walked a fine line between horror and a twisted, dark romance that you’d find in the deep, unmoderated corners of the internet. “Found them?” Josh’s voice came from right behind me. I slammed the laptop shut so hard it sounded like a gunshot. I jumped, spinning around. Josh was standing there, holding a plate of slightly charred toast and two mugs of coffee. He was wearing his gray sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt. He looked normal. He looked like Josh. But suddenly, all I could see was the character on page 45 who broke “Mia’s” ankle so she couldn’t run. “Yeah,” I choked out. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “Yeah, I… uh… I just remembered I have them on my iPad. My bad.” Josh tilted his head. It was a gesture I used to find endearing. Now, it looked predatory. He looked at the closed laptop, then at my pale face. “You okay?” he asked, stepping closer. “You look like you saw a ghost.” “Just a headache,” I lied. I stood up, scrambling to put distance between us. “Migraine. Sudden onset. I need to lie down.” “Do you want some Tylenol?” He took another step. “I can get the ice pack.” “No!” I shouted. It was too loud. Too sharp. Josh stopped. His eyes—those dark, brown eyes that I had stared into a thousand times—narrowed slightly. A shadow passed over his face, something unreadable. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Go rest. I’ll be here if you need me.” I’ll be here. In the story, he said that to her every night. I’ll always be here, Mia. You never have to be alone again. I fled to my bedroom and locked the door. Then I dragged my desk chair under the handle. I didn’t sleep that night. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like footsteps. Every gust of wind sounded like a key turning in a lock.

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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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