The engagement party was well underway, but Rhys was nowhere in sight. I called him countless times. Nothing. Not a single text back. Not until I saw the post on Sloane’s Instagram story. “Someone has been flying back-to-back for work, but because I wanted to, he dropped everything to come swimming with me.” The picture was a selfie of her and Rhys in an indoor pool. In the background, tossed carelessly aside, was the familiar crimson fabric of my vintage family heirloom gown. Facing a ballroom full of guests, I announced I was calling the whole thing off. Six years. Six years I had loved him. I was simply—tired. 1 The guests had long dispersed when Rhys finally called. A spike of irritation shot through me, yet I answered anyway, a perverse reflex. Rhys’s voice was laced with an impatient indifference. “Gemma, come to The Meridian Club and pick up Sloane and me.” I looked down, my voice dangerously calm. “I’m nearby.” The club was less than two blocks from the hotel. “How could you possibly be nearby?” Then, a beat of realization, and a casual, dismissive “Ah.” “Oh, right, I forgot about today. Look, we’ll do the engagement next time. Just come pick us up first.” I didn’t respond. He continued, his tone hardening with authority. “It’s just an engagement, Gemma. Don’t start throwing a tantrum. Just come get me.” It’s just an engagement. That was it, wasn’t it? To him, my sincerity, my commitment, my grandfather’s final gift—that gown—none of it meant anything. Before the party, he swore he had to fly out for a last-minute deal, promising to be back the day before. He did come back, only to run straight to Sloane. I hung up, my chest aching with a dull, heavy pressure. A moment later, Rhys updated his own feed: “My little one loves to stay active.” The photo was a full-body shot of Sloane in a flattering swimsuit, proudly showing off her figure by the pool. A strange, acrid taste of nausea rose in my throat. I let out a sharp, empty laugh. In that moment, I finally saw how completely superfluous I was in this six-year relationship. The obsession, the fierce loyalty I’d maintained for so long, vanished into thin air. 2 Rhys finally stumbled in around two in the morning. His luggage—a couple of overstuffed weekend bags—was dumped unceremoniously in the living room. I glanced at his messy collar, catching a faint, dark smudge of lipstick and the unmistakable look of a hasty cleanup. He scowled, his tone instantly aggressive. “Gemma. What the hell is this? What’s with all the drama?” I stopped packing my own small box of essentials. My voice was ice. “We’re done. You need to move out.” “Seriously? Over this?” He scoffed. “I just forgot the date. You know how slammed I’ve been with work.” I let out a cold laugh. “Slammed enough to forget your own engagement, but not too busy to go swimming with someone else?” I paused, the air suddenly thin. “Where is the dress?” A flicker of guilt—fast, but visible—crossed his face. He pressed his lips together. “That old thing? I don’t know where I tossed it. I’ll pay you for it.” He pulled out his phone, ready to transfer money. “Twenty thousand? That should cover it.” The anger I’d suppressed all night finally erupted, scalding and pure. “No! You know exactly how much that gown meant to me!” My voice cracked. “It was my grandfather’s final gift. It’s not something you can just slap a price tag on!” He rolled his eyes, a sound of supreme impatience. “So what? Fine, I’ll add another ten thousand. Does that finally shut you up?” Ding-dong. My phone vibrated: three thousand dollars deposited. He looked utterly unbothered. “Look, I’m exhausted. Let’s just cool off tonight, okay?” He strode into the guest room and slammed the door shut. I stared at the closed door, and the last, microscopic flicker of warmth I held for him—the hope that he was still the man I fell for—was extinguished. I picked up my phone and dialed a number. “Hey, Lou. I need a reliable moving company… first thing in the morning.” 3 Perhaps it was the prick of a guilty conscience, but he was up ridiculously early, making breakfast. He held up a bacon and cheese croissant. “Your favorite. See?” This was his usual pathetic routine: a cheap, flimsy gesture of placation meant to paper over a massive betrayal. Before, I would have melted. Today, I was granite. “I’m not hungry,” I said, coolly. “I’m heading to work.” I was halfway to the garage when he rushed after me, breathless. “Let’s ride together?” I stopped, one eyebrow arched in genuine surprise. “Weren’t you worried about discretion?” He was a shareholder; I was a project manager at Crestwood Global. For years, he’d strictly forbidden me from publicizing our relationship, maintaining a glacial distance in the office, acting like we were barely acquainted. He flushed, realizing his contradiction. “The garage is usually empty this early. No one will see.” I didn’t argue. I pulled open the passenger door. The seat was covered in a ridiculous mound of plush toys, and tucked into the seat back was a little customized plaque that read: “Sloanie’s Spot!” Rhys stammered, scrambling to throw the toys into the back seat. “Sloane, you know. She just hitches a ride sometimes. She’s being ridiculous.” A sour, metallic taste flooded my mouth. I used to have to meticulously check his car for stray hairs or crumbs before I rode with him. Once, I’d accidentally left my ID on the floor, and he’d lost his mind, throwing it at me and warning he’d toss it in the garbage if I ever left a trace again. Now, he tolerated a whole zoo of a grown woman’s tacky toys. Watching him struggle to clear the mess, I felt only annoyance. “Don’t bother. I’ll take my own car.” I turned, but he grabbed my arm. “Let me drive. We haven’t spent time together.” I glanced at the panic in his eyes, but I was running late. I didn’t have the energy to fight him. I got in. 4 The entire drive, he kept up a stream of meaningless small talk, which I met with monosyllabic replies. As we merged onto the freeway ramp, his phone rang. Sloane’s voice immediately chirped through the car’s Bluetooth speakers. “Rhys… I feel so terrible…” My stomach clenched. I knew that tone. Rhys’s voice instantly went tight with frantic concern. “Sloane? What is it? Where does it hurt? Wait, don’t move, I’m coming right now!” He whipped his head toward me, his voice sharp and commanding. “Get out. Now! I have to turn around.” We were in heavy traffic, practically stopped on the overpass. Get out? I looked at him, genuinely aghast. “Are you out of your mind? We’re on the…” The flash of cold steel in his eyes made me immediately bite back the rest of my sentence. This wasn’t the first time. Every time we had a moment together, a single phone call from Sloane and he would abandon me without a thought. Arguing was useless. He seemed to realize how harsh he sounded and offered a flimsy excuse. “It’s only a short walk to the office from here. I don’t know how sick Sloane is, and she doesn’t have family nearby. I’m all she’s got, Gemma. Just try to understand!” I said nothing. I just got out. His car swerved immediately, leaving a trace of exhaust fumes, accelerating away without a second’s hesitation. The cold November air seeped into my coat, and I shivered. I pulled out my phone to call a ride-share, but as I stepped toward the shoulder, a car cutting through traffic clipped me. I stumbled, scraping my elbow and knee hard on the asphalt. 5 I was sitting on a hard plastic chair in the hospital waiting area, waiting for my name to be called for an X-ray. Rhys called. “What is your problem? Still pouting and skipping work?” His voice was furious. “It’s your project presentation today, and they said you’re a no-show. How old are you? Stop letting personal drama bleed into professional life! If this happens again, you might as well resign!” I opened my mouth to explain—to tell him I’d been hit by a car, that I was in the hospital. But he didn’t give me a second to speak. He slammed the phone down. I sat there, dumbfounded, the phone still hot in my hand. I felt like I’d been doused in a bucket of ice water. I looked up just as Rhys, his face etched with worry, carefully helped Sloane walk past me. He was murmuring reassurances to her, a constant stream of tender concern. It was the type of gentle care I had spent six years craving, but never once received. I closed my eyes and drew a long, shaky breath. Enough. That was it. I was exhausted, truly, finally exhausted. 6 I felt like my body was coming apart at the seams when I left the hospital. I called the moving crew and had the last of Rhys’s belongings delivered directly to Sloane’s apartment. I sat in my now-empty living room, just letting myself be blank. The front door suddenly burst open. Rhys stood there, eyes blazing with fury. “Gemma! What the hell is this stunt you’re pulling?” “You ditch work, and then you send all my things to Sloane’s place? Are you completely insane?!” I lifted my gaze, noticing the bandages wrapped around my elbow and knee. “You… you’re hurt?” “Yes. Small accident on the way to work this morning.” He flinched, unwilling to probe further. But he remained defiant. “It’s not my fault you got into a wreck! That doesn’t give you the right to throw my things out!” My voice was flat. “Rhys, we’re breaking up.” He frowned. “Don’t say things you don’t mean!” I sighed. “I’m serious. It’s over. I’m setting you and Sloane free.” His face twisted with the irritation of a manipulator caught red-handed. “You are so jealous! I can’t stand your insecurity!” He spat the next words out. “If you leave, don’t come crawling back and begging me to take you back!” For three years, we’d fought countless times over Sloane. It was always him who threatened to leave, and me who would swallow my pride, apologize, and beg him to stay. Not this time. I would not be humble anymore. “Go. I won’t regret this. We’re finished.” My gaze was steady, unwavering. His face turned a sickly, dark color. He glared at me one last time, then slammed the door on his way out. I looked at the closed door and reminded myself to call a locksmith tomorrow. 7 The moment I walked into Crestwood Global, the CEO’s assistant summoned me. “Gemma, your position… there’s going to be a slight shift.” The leader explained that my project manager role was being revoked. The major account I was finalizing would be handed over to Sloane. He patted my shoulder, feigning regret. “Your work ethic is stellar, and the company values you. It’s just… have you perhaps offended someone recently?” Who else but Rhys? He’d always subtly discouraged my success, worried I would overshadow Sloane. He’d previously suggested I quit, saying our corporate overlap “looked bad.” Now, he’d just yanked the rug out from under me. I kept my expression neutral, forcing a slight smile. “No problem. I understand.” Inside, my stomach churned, a humiliated fury burning in my chest. When I got back to my area, Sloane was directing a few colleagues to empty the office. She turned, her smile sickeningly smug. “Gemma, sweetheart. So sorry. This space is mine now.” She pointed to a messy pile of cardboard boxes in the corner. “I packed up your things for you. You can take them now.” I looked at the haphazardly dumped personal items and clenched my fists. I gave her a freezing look, walked to the corner, and picked up the boxes. They were light. Inside were a few textbooks, and a small, gaudy ‘Cornerstone’ statuette Rhys had given me years ago, engraved with a meaningless corporate motto. As I carried the boxes out, I passed Sloane. She chirped, dripping with false concern, “Bye, Gemma. Don’t trip on your way out.” I stopped. I turned back, a cold smile curving my lips. “Sloane. You better pray you never fall into my lap.” The major client, The Prescott Group, had partnered with Crestwood because of my expertise. If I was out, that project was going to tank. 8 I was already planning to quit. A headhunter had been pursuing me for months with an offer far superior to my current one, but because of Rhys, I kept putting them off. Looking back, I felt like an utter fool, sacrificing career opportunities for a man who didn’t love me. As I walked down the hallway, my foot snagged on something. I pitched forward. My boxes flew, scattering my belongings. The cheap ‘Cornerstone’ award shattered on the marble floor. The unhealed wounds on my knee immediately burst open with a sharp, blinding pain. “Oh my god, Gemma, are you okay?” Sloane’s voice was laced with unconcealed triumph. “Why are you so clumsy? Next time, you really should watch where you’re going.” I knew, with absolute certainty, she had tripped me. A few colleagues gathered, whispering, but no one offered a hand to help me up. I laughed, a humorless, empty sound. I looked straight at Sloane’s faux-innocent face. “Don’t celebrate too soon, Sloane. The smell of low-grade ambition is really repulsive on you.” Her expression immediately darkened. “What did you say?” Rhys appeared from around the corner, saw my bloodied state, and immediately launched into a rage, not concern. “Gemma! Why aren’t you at your desk? What is this spectacle? You’re always causing drama!” I pushed myself up, my knee throbbing. Rhys saw the blood and instinctively reached for me. I slapped his hand away. “Don’t bother with the fake compassion! Get lost, you despicable pair!” Rhys’s face went white with shock, but he couldn’t find a single word to say. I staggered away, letting the blood drip down my leg. I walked straight to HR and handed in my resignation. Outside the building, I pulled out my phone and called the headhunter. “Hello, is this Mr. Prescott’s office? It’s Gemma. About that position we discussed? I’m ready to talk now.” The manager’s voice on the other end was a surge of surprised delight.

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The dating profile claimed she was a teacher, but she showed up to the restaurant with ten friends, immediately ordered eight bottles of vintage Bordeaux, and enough Wagyu and Australian lobster to feed a small army, announcing it was a test of my financial viability. I simply smiled. I walked calmly up to the front desk and deposited a thousand dollars onto my account. Then, I left a message for the waiter: “The remaining balance will be settled by the beautiful lady in the restroom touching up her makeup. If she refuses, call the police.” 1 Twilight had settled over the city, the neon slicing through the thin haze like countless prying eyes. I was seated in the plush leather booth of The Gilded Coterie, my fingertip tracing the chilled glass of an unused wine goblet. The air hung thick with a peculiar, heady mixture: expensive perfume, seafood, and the aggressive scent of money. It was nauseating. The woman across from me was Sierra Wells, introduced via a distant contact of my mother’s—one of those well-meaning, meddling suburban matchmakers. Her profile had promised an elementary school English teacher, a product of a “refined background,” gentle and intellectual. Yet, here she was, giggling conspiratorially with her ten so-called “best friends.” Their laughter was a high, grating sound, sharp enough to cut through the opulent silence of the private dining room. Their gazes swept over me like floodlights, missing no detail: the brand of my watch, the subtle weave of my custom-tailored shirt, the keys to my German sedan resting casually on the tablecloth. “Rhys, I hear from the matchmaker that you run your own firm. A big success, isn’t it?” A woman with aggressive scarlet nails leaned forward, her décolletage a deliberate distraction. I adjusted my classic-frame glasses. My expression, framed by the lens, was perfectly neutral. “A small operation,” I answered, my tone mild. “Just enough to keep the lights on.” Sierra took a slow sip of the ruby-red liquid—vintage Bordeaux, which they’d ordered the moment they arrived, eight bottles deep, without consulting a single person. She looked at me with the assessing gaze of a buyer inspecting a commodity, a small, calculating smile playing on her lips. “Oh, Rhys Harrington, don’t be modest. Brenda Moyer told my friend that you’ve done quite well for yourself. A few properties downtown, I hear?” Her voice was just loud enough to carry across the long table. The ten women inhaled in an exaggerated, collective gasp. Their eyes, already hot with curiosity, now burned with renewed interest. Brenda Moyer. My mother’s Zumba buddy. I mentally rolled my eyes. It seemed my financial history was her favorite piece of gossip. “Just rumors, Sierra. Nothing worth repeating,” I maintained, my composure undisturbed. “Oh, but a man should show his strength!” another heavily made-up friend interjected. “Sierra is the prettiest of our group; the men lining up for her stretch down the block. Her agreeing to see you is a real privilege.” “Exactly,” a third chimed in, their voices a well-rehearsed chorus. “Our Sierra has impeccable taste. She doesn’t waste time on men who lack the necessary economic viability.” The message was singular, direct, and delivered with the force of a battering ram: Prove your sincerity with cash if you want to court our princess. I lowered my eyes to the wreckage on the table. The skeletal remains of the huge Australian lobsters, the bone fragments from the high-grade Wagyu, and the untouched sides of expensive, gourmet fare. This wasn’t a date. This was a sophisticated, high-end ambush. And I was the prey, surrounded by predators. Sierra kept her cool, demure smile, acting the part of a princess above the fray. But the flicker of greed and sharp calculation in her eyes stripped away the fragile veneer of her innocence. The room grew warmer, the conversation bolder. “Is that the latest model sedan you drive, Rhys? Over a hundred thousand, I bet?” “And that watch of yours… enough to buy each of us a new designer bag, right?” I continued to offer nothing but polite smiles and noncommittal phrases, maintaining an air of detached ease. In their eyes, my silence was not a sign of restraint, but an admission of weakness and consent. Finally, Sierra rose, swaying her hips slightly in the tightly-fitted dress. “I’m going to the restroom to touch up my makeup,” she announced, offering me a saccharine smile—a victorious look that suggested the hunt was already over. Her friends followed, some claiming they needed a smoke break, others saying they’d accompany her. Within seconds, the cavernous private room held only me and the evidence of their plunder. I sat for three full minutes, listening to their muffled, excited whispers fade down the hallway. Perfect. The charade was over. I stood up slowly, smoothing the jacket of my suit, ensuring there wasn’t a single wrinkle. Then, with deliberate, unhurried steps, I walked out of the room. I didn’t head toward the restrooms. I went straight to the restaurant’s opulent front desk. The hostess, dressed in a sleek uniform, gave me a professional smile. “Good evening, sir. How may I help you?” “The check,” I said simply. Her smile broadened. “Of course, sir. The total consumption for your table comes to thirty-one thousand, six hundred, and eighty dollars. We’ll round it down to thirty-one thousand six hundred.” I nodded and pulled my bank card from my wallet. “Here’s the thing,” I said. “I currently have exactly one thousand dollars in liquid cash available on this card. Please deduct that amount first.” The hostess’s professional smile shattered, replaced by an expression of baffled disbelief. She looked at me as if I’d spoken an alien language. “Sir… Are you serious?” “Do I look like I’m joking?” I countered calmly. I handed her the card. “Swipe the thousand.” She hesitated, then, under a discreet signal from the manager nearby, took the card and ran the transaction. The receipt printed out. I tucked the card and the slip away, then leaned in, lowering my voice so only she could hear. “The remaining balance will be settled by the beautiful lady in the restroom touching up her makeup.” I gestured toward the far hallway with a slight tilt of my head. “Her name is Sierra Wells. She was the host. If she refuses to pay, you are authorized to call the police immediately. She is skipping out on the check.” Without waiting for her spectacular expression to change, I turned, my stride steady and long, and walked out of The Gilded Coterie without a backward glance. The cool night air hit my face, dissipating the oppressive heat of the dining room. I took a deep breath. I felt lighter than I had in months. My phone screen glowed with an incoming call—my mother, no doubt checking on the progress of the date. I silenced the ringer and dropped the phone into my pocket. Tonight, I wasn’t speaking to anyone. Let that thirty-thousand-dollar bill be my little housewarming gift to Ms. Wells and her cadre of excellent friends. 2 Back at my condo, I took a long, hot shower, washing away the stench of expensive perfume, stale air, and social maneuvering. Dressed in comfortable loungewear, I sat in my study, the faint light of the computer screen illuminating my face. I didn’t spare a single thought for Sierra Wells’s current state of panic, or how she was managing the spectacle. An adult is responsible for her own actions. The moment they stepped into that restaurant with a plan to fleece me, the ending was inevitable. My phone vibrated a dozen times on silent mode. Sierra’s name flashed repeatedly, followed by a series of unknown numbers. I picked up the device and, without a shred of emotion, dragged her contact into the blocked list. The world went quiet again. The next morning, I went to work as usual. Life seemed to have snapped back into place, the absurd dinner feeling like a bad dream. But I knew better. A woman as high on her own ambition and as prone to vengeance as Sierra Wells wouldn’t simply swallow this insult. Trouble arrived that afternoon. My friend, Nolan Scott, pinged me a link with a simple message: “You’ve gone viral, Rhys.” I clicked on the link. It led to a major local social media group, something dedicated to neighborhood gossip and local politics. The title was shocking, visceral: “Heart-Wrenching Accusation! The Soulless Scammer Who Played an Innocent Teacher, Where Is the Justice?!” The ID of the poster was “Humble_Heart_Sierra,” and the profile picture was a soft, filtered side-profile, the background intentionally blurred to suggest a classroom chalkboard. It was Sierra. Of course. The post was a masterpiece of contrived victimhood, a moving, tear-soaked tale. She described herself as a humble, hardworking public school teacher from a modest background, seeking only a reliable man for a stable life. She claimed she’d been introduced to me—a man who looked successful. She wrote that I pursued her aggressively and insisted on taking her out. To avoid letting me overspend, she’d brought a few friends for company, thinking a larger group would make the atmosphere lighter. Instead, she claimed, I ostentatiously ordered an entire table of unimaginably expensive dishes to flaunt my wealth. Then, under the pretense of going to the restroom, I had run away. I had abandoned her, a vulnerable woman, to face a monstrous thirty-thousand-dollar bill alone, leaving her hysterical and distraught. “I was frozen,” she wrote. “My hands and feet were ice-cold. My friends were terrified; they’re regular working women, they’d never seen anything like this. I had to bite the bullet, max out every credit card I had, call my elderly parents, and borrow from every single relative just to cover the bill. When I finally stumbled out of the restaurant, it was the middle of the night. Walking alone on the empty street, I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. All I wanted was a simple, honest relationship. Why did I have to meet a monster?” She included a photo of the blurred restaurant bill, the final, enormous number clearly visible. The entire post was polished, tear-jerking, and calculated to incite immediate, furious sympathy. I almost believed her ghost-written plight myself. The comment section was already a dumpster fire. “HOLY COW! This guy is utter trash! A sociopath!” “Poor Sierra. Sending a huge hug. Don’t let this get to you.” “Someone needs to Dox this scum and run him out of the city!” “Justice for Ms. Wells! Society is so unfair to women!” Sierra was smart; she hadn’t named me directly, but the details—“runs his own firm,” “wears gold-rimmed glasses”—were specific enough to leave little doubt. Worse, she’d anonymously shared the post into a local “Moms and Tots” group, where people claiming to be her co-workers or friends jumped in to “confirm” the story. “It’s true, Sierra cried all night. Her eyes are so swollen.” “I think I know the guy, the one who owns the tech company. I knew he had a bad reputation.” “She’s a respected educator, to be abused like this is just heartbreaking.” The teacher title granted her an instant moral halo, a free pass to the public’s sympathy. Sierra was exploiting this perfectly. She had crafted herself into the perfect victim, and me into the unforgivable villain: the arrogant, heartless scammer who flaunted his wealth and dodged the check. I stared at the screen, a cold, sharp fire igniting in my chest. I had underestimated her ruthlessness, and the terrifying power of a manipulated crowd. This game, it seemed, was only just beginning. I picked up my phone and called Nolan Scott. “Nolan? You free? I need a favor.” 3 “My mother just called. She ripped me to shreds.” My voice was flat, devoid of emotion, as if discussing a character in a book. Nolan was silent for a few seconds, then I heard the familiar flick of a lighter. “Your mom knows? That spread fast.” “Brenda Moyer—the matchmaker—saw the post in some community feed, added her own spin, and called my mother. Now she’s convinced I tormented a ‘sweet, hardworking girl’ and wants me to apologize immediately and pay the tab.” I leaned back in my chair, the agitation creeping up my spine. More painful than the venom of strangers was the lack of understanding from family. My mother could never grasp the nuance; in her world, a teacher could not be a bad person. She would only see me as the cold, unforgiving son. “So what’s the move? Argue with the internet? I’m telling you, it’s useless. Emotions are running too high. You explain, they see deflection. You clarify, they see guilt,” Nolan’s voice was coolly analytical. “I’m not that stupid,” I replied. “We’ve already lost the opening skirmish on the battlefield of public opinion. Charging in now is guaranteed social suicide.” “Then what’s the strategy?” “I want her to swallow every lie she spat out, one agonizing bite at a time.” My words were soft, but Nolan knew I wasn’t joking. “Consider it done. Tell me what you need.” His loyalty was a given, an unspoken foundation of our friendship. “I need everything on Sierra Wells. Her social accounts, her actual consumption habits, her inner circle. The more detail, the better. She wants to play the role of the innocent sweetheart? I’m going to peel back every layer and show the world exactly what color she really is.” “A piece of cake,” Nolan replied instantly. “I’ll get started. But you also need to make a move. The surveillance footage from that restaurant is your primary evidence.” “I know.” I hung up and looked out the window at the dull, overcast sky. The outline of the city seemed vague, uncertain. Public opinion was like this weather: seemingly overwhelming, but a strong enough wind will scatter it. My job was to generate that wind. I called The Gilded Coterie and asked for the manager. He sounded instantly cautious when I introduced myself. “Mr. Harrington? Is this about Ms. Wells’s bill? She settled the account.” “I know,” I interrupted. “I’m not calling about the money. I’m calling about my reputation.” I briefly explained the social media campaign. The manager was silent. “Mr. Harrington, we’re a luxury establishment. We can’t just release customer private information.” “I’m not asking you to leak anything,” I countered, my voice gaining an edge. “I need you to preserve the raw security footage and the original order slip from that night. Ms. Wells is publicly claiming I skipped out on a bill—that damages your establishment’s reputation as much as mine. If this escalates, I won’t hesitate to involve my legal team, and then simply providing the evidence won’t be enough.” Pressure and leverage: the most effective tools in the adult world. The manager weighed his options, his tone finally softening. “…I understand, Mr. Harrington. We will archive all relevant evidence. Should the authorities or a legal representative request it, we will fully cooperate.” “Excellent.” I had the promise I needed. Now, I just had to wait for Nolan. Throughout the afternoon, my phone buzzed with screenshots and links from friends—all variations of the same accusatory post. Some were shocked, some were doubtful, and many urged me to post a rebuttal. I ignored them all. Making any move without absolute certainty would be foolish. My mother called again that evening, her voice sterner than before. “Rhys! What is wrong with you? The family group chat is ablaze! You’re making me look ridiculous! Brenda Moyer called me to tell me that poor Sierra was so upset she checked herself into the hospital! You march over there, apologize, and pay back that money! Do you hear me?” “I have not shirked my responsibility,” I said calmly. “You haven’t? She’s a young woman, thirty thousand dollars! How could you let her bear that alone? How did I raise such a heartless son?” My mother’s voice was wet with tears. I closed my eyes, a deep sense of powerlessness washing over me. “Mom, it’s not what you think. Give me time. I will fix this.” “I won’t wait! I’m going to the hospital tomorrow to see Ms. Wells and apologize for your behavior myself!” She hung up with a sharp click. I gripped the phone, my knuckles white. A suffocating knot tightened in my chest. This was Sierra’s true aim. Not just to damage my reputation and finances, but to inject poison into my family life. A cruel and calculated psychological attack. Vicious. And ultimately, stupid. She thought this would force me to surrender? She was wrong. She had stoked not my guilt, but my absolute, cold-blooded resolve to crush her. Nolan’s efficiency was remarkable. By nine that night, a clean, organized dossier landed in my secure email inbox. “The fish is on the hook. Check your mail,” his text read.

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It was our third wedding anniversary, and I was planning to deliver the news of my pregnancy to Alexander “Alex” Maxwell as a surprise. But a sudden, reckless impulse led me to check his phone first. That’s when I saw the photograph. The woman in the picture bore an unsettling resemblance to me, but the child in her arms—a toddler—had a shadow of Alex’s features. I heard the click of the bathroom lock turning. I looked up, meeting Alex’s eyes as he stepped out. His gaze dropped to the phone in my hand. His face darkened instantly. The shift was chilling. “Why were you going through my phone?” he demanded, his voice low and cold. 1 I almost laughed. The lock screen password was my birthday. Was he genuinely so arrogant, so trusting, that he believed I’d never look? I remained silent. He strode forward and snatched the phone away. When he saw the photograph himself, he froze. A wave of complicated, churning emotion flashed in his eyes before he masked it. It took him a moment. He finally lifted his head to look at me, his expression hardened with displeasure. “You shouldn’t have looked.” In all the years I’d known Alex, this was the first time he’d turned that dark look on me. It was the frantic fury of a secret exposed. I lowered my eyes, clenching my fists, fighting to keep the tremor from my voice. “Who are they?” His silence was the only answer, a suffocating blanket in the air. I risked a glance at him. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of rare, genuine frustration. A sliver of guilt finally seemed to penetrate his annoyance. “The child is mine. And she…” He trailed off, his hesitant gaze lingering on my face for a long time. “She’s my ex-girlfriend.” My eyes stung with a sudden, hot burn. Alex watched, completely lost. He fumbled, gently wiping a tear from my cheek. “Mia, it’s not what you think. I broke up with her right after you came back from overseas. She was pregnant but didn’t tell me. She had the baby and only contacted me about a year ago.” The explanation was paper-thin, transparent. He had successfully hidden the existence of this “ex” from the beginning. During the three years I was away for school, we’d lost touch. When I returned, I was met with Alex, the devoted, patiently waiting fiancé. It was all a facade. While I was gone, someone else had been by his side. I stared straight into his eyes, demanding the truth. “If she had told you about the pregnancy back then, what would you have chosen?” His gaze flickered. He frowned, his impatience returning. “Don’t make useless hypotheticals.” Faced with a devastating choice, Alex chose to dodge. But I had already seen the hesitation, the quiet conflict, in his eyes. I took a shaky breath, forcing a small, brittle smile onto my face. “Alex, do you want a divorce?” 2 Alex rejected the suggestion immediately. He scrambled into his clothes and slammed the door behind him, leaving without a second glance. The third night, he came back smelling strongly of liquor. He grabbed me roughly, pinning me beneath him on the bed. His kiss was scalding, a desperate, suffocating pressure that gave me no chance to breathe. The heavy scent of alcohol filled my nostrils, but beneath it, I caught a faint, sweet, and distinctly feminine perfume. Finally, just as I felt myself starting to panic, he released me. His eyes were bloodshot, shimmering with unshed tears. “Amelia,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a strange, wounded fury. “You have no right to ask me for a divorce.” The tremor in his voice carried a hint of self-pity, as if I were the one who had committed the unforgivable act. I pushed him away and sat up, my gaze cold and flat. “Did you change cologne?” The lingering scent on his skin was definitely a woman’s sweet fragrance. Where he’d spent the last two days was painfully clear. He offered no explanation. Instead, he grinned, a flash of undeniable mockery in his eyes. “Do you think I’m too much, Mia? Because you’re worse. You settled for me, but your heart was still hung up on Spencer Elliott, wasn’t it?” It took me a full three seconds to process the name. Spencer Elliott. I saw the look on Alex’s face—a sick satisfaction, the triumph of achieved revenge. It hit me. He still resented me for chasing Spencer overseas years ago. His next words were calculated, stabbing right at my deepest vulnerability. “If you truly want a divorce, why don’t you go ask the Owens what they think first?” Immediately, the stern, judging faces of my adoptive parents flashed in my mind, followed by the familiar, cutting stream of blame and admonishment. I squeezed my hands into fists. My fingertips felt ice cold. Alex’s smile widened, becoming outright cruel. In that instant, everything clicked into place. “Alex, this is about revenge, isn’t it?” He didn’t flinch. He admitted it brazenly, even promising that this was only the beginning. “You don’t love me, so I’ll make you miserable.” With that, he got up and walked out of the room. I reached for my stomach, then pulled out the sonogram I’d planned to give him as a surprise. Slowly, I tore the paper into small, jagged pieces.

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Owen Davis was cheating. The day I caught him, Owen was cheating. To stop me from walking out, he staggered into the kitchen, snatched a steak knife, and drew the blade savagely across his own wrist, sobbing so hard the sound choked in his throat. “Liz, if you won’t forgive me, I swear, I’ll kill myself.” Blood sprayed, flecking my face, blurring my vision. A sharp, sick ache tightened my chest, and my eyes burned. Looking at Owen, I felt utterly cold. “Owen, if you truly want to die,” I said, my voice flat. “Don’t do it in front of me.” I walked over, took the knife from his slackened grip, and gave him the final word. “Owen, we’re calling off the wedding.” 1 “No! I won’t call it off!” Ignoring the deep gash on his wrist, Owen lunged, clutching me in a hug so tight I could barely breathe. All I could hear was his ragged, crumbling voice. “I am not breaking up with you!” “Eliza Reed!” Owen grabbed my hand, his fingers slick with his own blood, and slapped it hard against his face. “Hit me, then!” “Slap me, scream at me, do whatever you want!” “Just don’t call off the wedding, please! Don’t leave me!” I watched the scarlet seep steadily from his wrist. The warm, sticky blood smeared my hand and his face, coiling around my heart like a vicious vine, tightening until I was suffocating. As my eyes met his, for a flashing moment, I remembered. I remembered Owen using that same face, those same desperate eyes, driven by pure, raw need, while he was buried in another woman. The image hit me, and I shoved him away with all my strength, stumbling to the bathroom. I vomited until my entire body ached and I felt hollowed out, but through the roar in my ears, I could still hear Owen’s voice. “Wife, we’re getting married right away!” “Wife!” “You’re going to be my wife! My life depends on you!” The truth was, I never thought I would leave Owen. I never imagined there would be a hole in my life where Owen used to be. Just like I never imagined I’d find him naked, intimately tangled with someone else, shattering the illusion of our love. “Get out!” I backed away frantically until I hit the wall, cornered. I saw the look of wounded, complete devastation on his face as he screamed. “Get out!” Owen’s complexion turned stark white. He dropped to his knees in front of me, pleading, saying sorry, saying he’d made a mistake, that it was only a moment of madness, that he’d been drunk, that he couldn’t help himself. “Liz.” “You are the only one I have ever loved!” “I love you!” Owen lost too much blood. At the hospital, I sat in the silent hallway, watching the red light above the Emergency Room door. I was chilled to the bone, feeling trapped in a dead end. That’s when his phone, which I still held, rang. It was the other woman. She called his name. Receiving no answer, she asked me, “Where is Owen?” “Who are you?” My throat was raw, like I’d swallowed glass. Before I could speak, I heard her voice, silky, yet confident. “You must be Eliza Reed.” “Owen’s fiancée.” “But so what?” she purred. “As long as you haven’t made it official, who’s to say Owen will actually marry you?” “Eliza Reed.” “I hear you were holding out on him, saving yourself for the wedding night, thinking that’s what a good woman does. Well, you shouldn’t blame Owen for straying and finding love elsewhere. Eliza, this is your own damn fault.” 2 A loud buzzing filled my ears. My body felt as if it had been run over by a steamroller. It wasn’t that Owen and I hadn’t been close to that step. But every time, at the last moment, Owen would stop, gently cup my face, and tell me. “Liz.” “You’re different to me.” “I cherish you,” he’d say. “I want our first time to happen at the most perfect moment.” And I believed it. I felt so incredibly lucky to have found such a good man in Owen, that he was a blessing, the best luck I’d ever had. Now, I listened to her mockery. “Owen told me that every time he tried to take things further, he’d look at your face and just… stop. Eliza Reed, have you honestly never wondered why?” Tears poured down my face. I swallowed the sourness rising in my throat, gazing at the still-lit red emergency light. Before she could say another word, I cut her off. “If you truly believe Owen loves you,” I said. “Fine.” My chest ached with a burning acid, almost unbearable, but I continued, “Then you tell him to call off the engagement.” “If you’re so capable, then stop hiding in the shadows! Make Owen choose you!” My emotions were spiraling out of control. Before I could say more, a hand grabbed my hair, yanking my head back. Veronica Davis, Owen’s mother, slapped me hard across the face. Before I could even register the pain, she hauled me up and slammed me onto the floor, screaming at me. “You tramp!” “If anything happens to my son, you will never pay enough, even if you die a thousand times!” Mrs. Davis’s voice thundered. Standing meekly behind the Davis family were my own parents. My mother caught my eye, shaking her head, silently begging me to keep quiet, to endure the abuse. I knew they wanted me to submit. But when Mrs. Davis took off her high-heeled shoe and hurled it at my face, the impact made my nose bleed. I couldn’t stop myself. “Then let’s cancel it.” Tears mixed with the blood streaming down my face, but I was defiant. “I won’t marry him.” I looked at my mother. “I am breaking the engagement with Owen!” “Oh, you worthless little bitch! You’ve got attitude now, do you?” Mrs. Davis raised her hand again, but my mother was faster. She slapped the other side of my face. “You apologize to Mrs. Davis right now!” “You tell them that you will never leave Owen as long as he wants you! Never!” My tears fell thick and fast as I looked at my mother’s face. The heartbreak was suffocating. I wanted to tell her why, but she roared at me instead. “Say it now!” My mother’s fists rained down on me, each blow a sharp sting that drove me toward a breakdown. “Say it!” “Say you’ll never leave him unless he throws you out! Say it, you hear me!” “Mom!” I cried out, my eyes red and swollen. Just then, the emergency room light went dark. Everyone rushed forward to ask about Owen. But Owen, despite his exhaustion and injuries, pushed past them all, rushing toward me. He tried to pull me into a hug, crying out again. “I won’t let us break up!” “Liz, please, don’t leave me…” 3 I realized my life couldn’t possibly get any worse. I sat by Owen’s hospital bed, listening as he explained everything—how his injury had nothing to do with me, how he took full responsibility for his cheating, and how my anger was completely justified. His eyes red-rimmed, Owen promised my parents. “Just this one time.” “I will never betray Liz again.” “I love Liz. I plan to marry her and spend my life with her.” Then I heard Owen tell his family. “If you keep giving Liz a hard time, you will genuinely drive me to suicide.” The Davis family adored Owen, their only son. Veronica Davis cried until she was broken, but she softened for her child’s sake. She shot me a venomous glare before changing her tone, saying only, “You had better cherish my son.” Owen squeezed my cold hand and whispered to me. “Liz, don’t worry about your brother’s tuition. I will fully support him. His future wedding, his car, his house—it’s all covered. I’m his brother-in-law. We’re family.” Everyone smiled then. The widest, most relieved smiles belonged to my parents. All their anxieties seemed to have evaporated, and they looked at Owen with an added measure of warmth and adoration. The day I accompanied Owen home from the hospital, I saw Skye Foster, the woman who had called me and slept with Owen. Her eyes were red as she looked at him. As Owen and I walked past, she grabbed the corner of his jacket, crying softly. “Owen.” “I just need to talk to you.” Skye was no longer arrogant and aggressive toward me; her tone was humble and pleading. “Owen.” “Just one conversation.” I felt Owen’s body stiffen. Meeting his conflicted gaze, I realized I had very little emotion left to give. I slipped my hand out of his, forcing a composed smile. “I’ll wait for you at home.” I got into the car. Owen’s text came immediately: [Wife, I promise I’ll make things clear with her. She won’t ever show her face again. Don’t be upset.] I exited the chat and opened the new text from Skye. “But what can I say?” “All I have to do is shed a few tears, and Owen still fetches like a dog.” The video the woman sent showed Owen following her into a hotel room, desperate to jump into bed. His hospital bandage had fallen to the floor. Her panting, intimate moans were like a toxic substance stealing my breath. I barely managed to keep the renewed wave of nausea down, rushing to the bathroom to dry-heave until my stomach felt completely empty. Then, my mother’s voice message played. “Liz, what man doesn’t fool around? Even your father looks at other women sometimes. I made it through it, and you will too.” “A woman should prioritize her husband. You need to think about your brother, Liz.” “Don’t be so selfish.” I sat in the empty house, surrounded by the new, brightly colored decorations for our wedding. It felt like even crying was no longer an option. I texted Owen. [Are you done?] 4 Owen returned the next day. Even with Skye’s perfume clinging to his clothes, he was no longer avoiding me like he had at first. Instead, he constantly tried to test my boundaries. He had started out terrified of losing me, but now he understood that even if I wanted to leave, my parents would always be my obstacle. He seemed to finally realize that our break-up wasn’t imminent. He became increasingly nonchalant in front of me, even taking to pinching my chin and saying, “Liz.” “As long as you’re a good girl.” “We’ll be happy forever.” “I promise,” Owen’s skin reeked of the other woman’s scent—so heavily I felt physically repulsed and wanted to throw up, but I forced myself to listen. “You will never have to go back to your family, to be sold off like a piece of property again.” I listened to the contempt in his tone, and watched the scrutinizing way he looked at me. He told me, “My momentary lapse of judgment was because I respected you, Liz. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.” “I just want you to understand.” I understood. I knew I was supposed to agree with Owen, nod sweetly, say I understood and forgave him, and that I would love him forever. The words gathered in my throat. But I kept seeing the videos Skye sent me: from the hotel to the beach, to car rides, to forest escapades and camping trips. Every position, every intimate sound. Skye would always ask him. “Owen.” “Whose body—mine or Eliza Reed’s—attracts you more?” And Owen would answer without hesitation. “Yours.” He would drive himself into a frenzy on her body, his face contorted with lust, and he’d tell her, “If she’s my spiritual need, you’re my primal, physiological desire.” Skye had messaged me: “Eliza Reed. You’ll always lose if you try to compete with me.” Now, looking at Owen, the compliant words I was meant to say jammed in my throat. I tried to speak, but just as I was about to tell Owen that I would love him for life, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I threw up. I threw up all over Owen. He no longer had the initial look of heartbreaking remorse. He simply grimaced with distaste and snapped one line. “Eliza Reed.” “You need to be grateful for what you have.” When Owen left, the house fell silent again. I looked at the white wedding dress hanging in the room, the fine crystals flashing—a dream I had once held for my entire life. Now, as I watched the soft moans on the projector screen, and heard the sounds of celebration rising from downstairs, I put on the wedding dress. I called Owen.

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Six years ago, I was the head of Research and Development—a Chief Research Scientist—until I was busted for falsifying drug trial data, a scandal that killed countless patients. The entire internet crucified me, calling me the Butcher of the Lab. Before I was even sentenced, a group of victims’ families found me and carved their rage onto my skin—eighteen cuts, right on the street. When I got out, I vanished. I changed my name and hid, becoming a fishmonger at a downtown market, the stench of brine and blood clinging to me like cheap perfume. I was scrubbing down a fillet board when my billionaire ex-husband showed up. Harrison Shaw. He looked at me, his perfect face a mask of shock. “Sloane? What happened to you? Why didn’t you come find me after you were released?” I didn’t get a chance to answer. His assistant, sleek and terrified, leaned in from behind him. “Mr. Shaw, Ms. Wells is still waiting for the fish you promised to personally select for her broth. It won’t be fresh if we’re late.” I yanked off my surgical mask, exposing the jagged, half-scarred face I wore now, and let out a cold laugh. “That cut of salmon is twenty dollars. Pay up or get lost. You’re messing with my business.” He threw me to the wolves—Tatum Wells’ wolves—and let me take the fall, all so she could climb the corporate ladder. Now that Tatum was the replacement fiancée, he had the nerve to stand here? 1 I slammed my gutting knife down on the cutting board, splattering fish blood onto Harrison’s Italian leather shoes. He recoiled half a step, a flicker of pure disgust crossing his features. “Sloane, what are you doing to yourself? You know these hands weren’t meant for cleaning fish.” My body swayed, and my hands started to tremble uncontrollably. My fingers were chapped and swollen, the nail beds permanently stained with black dirt and fish guts. Six years ago, these hands handled million-dollar lab equipment. Now, they only gutted fish. “Mr. Shaw, don’t sully your pristine gaze. Are you buying this fish or not?” I reached into the tank, expertly snatched a thrashing trout, and brought the blunt back of the knife down hard on its head. Thunk. The fish went still. Harrison hadn’t spoken, but the old man behind him in line lost his patience. “Are you selling fish or holding a board meeting? I’m going to the stall down the row if you don’t hurry up!” “Selling, of course.” I pulled my gaze away, done with looking at Harrison, and prepared to weigh the trout for the customer. A large, controlling hand pressed down on my arm. Harrison placed a stack of cash on my counter. “Don’t sell anything else today.” “I’ll take the rest of your stock. Pack up and go home to rest.” I didn’t touch the money. I picked up my scaling tool and went back to work. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Shaw.” “But I run a small business. We don’t do exclusive buyouts. Now, if you’re not buying, please move. You’re blocking the line.” Just then, a saccharine voice chimed in. “Harrison, why are you still here? Miles and I have been waiting for you to come home to make the soup.” My hand, scaling a bass, paused. Tatum Wells stepped forward, linking her arm affectionately through Harrison’s, and then feigned shock when she saw me. “Oh, is that… Sloane? Sis, what are you doing here selling fish?” “Did you just get out and have nowhere to go? You should have told me! I’ll ask Harrison to find you a place to stay, or maybe a job!” She was immediately followed by a man who looked utterly ashamed to be there. It was Miles Harrington, my own brother. Six years ago, when I was sentenced, he not only cut ties and disowned me from the Harrington family, but he also triumphantly brought Tatum—my father’s illegitimate daughter from an outside affair—home to take my place. Our parents had made Miles and me swear on their deathbeds that we would never let Tatum Wells set foot in the Harrington home. They had warned us that Tatum’s mother had nearly destroyed our family years ago, and her daughter was no better. My own brother had forgotten our parents’ dying wish completely. Miles now spoke softly to Tatum. “Sweetheart, why talk to someone like this? Let’s go home. Harrison and I are making you a big dinner tonight.” He then glared at me. “Sloane is a disgrace who hasn’t learned her lesson. Six years in prison and she’s still covered in bad luck!” His loud voice drew the attention of everyone around. An older woman who frequently bought fish from me suddenly pointed a trembling finger. “Wait! I remember now! The news six years ago! The Butcher of the Lab! The one who killed all those people—that’s Sloane Harrington!” “Oh my God! I’ve been buying fish from a murderer!” Harrison immediately stepped forward to try and calm the enraged crowd. “Sloane, you can’t work here. Your hands belong in a lab, not a fish market.” “Tell me what you need. I can help you.” But the shouts and insults were growing louder. Rotten vegetables and eggs began to fly. Harrison spoke about helping me, but his body immediately shielded Tatum. He was terrified that the expensive designer dress she was wearing would be stained. I stood there, covered in the stench of fish and now the slimy mess of raw egg. Tatum peered out from Harrison’s protective embrace. “Sloane, you should apologize to everyone.” “Even though those patients died because of your fake data, if you just show genuine remorse, people will forgive you.” That single phrase, genuine remorse, sent the crowd over the edge. Someone shoved my entire fish stand over. The water tank burst. Over a dozen live fish flopped desperately in the dirty puddle on the ground, struggling for a final breath. Just like I did six years ago. I quietly gathered the remaining supplies and walked home. The next day, the market manager dismantled my stall. “We received complaints about unsanitary conditions and illegal operation. Your lease is terminated.” I looked at the empty space and gave a hollow laugh. They truly were determined to eliminate anything that reminded Tatum of me. They stopped at nothing. When I arrived back at my dilapidated basement apartment, all my luggage had been tossed out onto the street. The landlord had even refunded me three months’ rent—triple the deposit—just to ensure I left immediately. I sat on my pile of belongings, staring into space, when a pair of perfectly shined leather shoes stopped in front of me. “Sloane, Tatum’s research project has hit a crucial bottleneck. She’s only missing the final piece of data.” “You’re a genius in this field. If you agree to help her, I’ll give you enough money to disappear. You can start a new life somewhere no one knows your name.” Hearing those words made me sick. “Harrison, are you insane? You framed me for data fraud and put me in prison for years. Now you have the audacity to ask me to clean up the mess for that illegitimate daughter who killed those people?” Harrison’s face darkened. “Sloane, watch your tone. You’ve already paid for the mistakes of six years ago. Don’t try to throw dirt on Tatum.” “Tatum is highly gifted. She took over your disaster of a project and has practically ruined her health trying to perfect this drug. She’s the one who asked me to come to you, despite everything. Don’t be ungrateful!” I laughed again, a sound devoid of humor. “And what if I refuse?” Harrison spoke with his usual arrogance. “Then you’ll have to deal with the consequences yourself.” Harrison left, and I initially dismissed his threat. I found a new underground apartment and started looking for another job. Then, the caretaker of my parents’ memorial park called me. “Ms. Harrington, the Shaw family has acquired the land where your parents are buried. They plan to flatten the area and build a new sewage treatment facility.” “The Shaw representative said if you don’t accept their terms, they will scatter your parents’ ashes on the street.” My hand holding the phone trembled violently. Was this the man I had loved? He was using my dead parents as leverage, all for the sake of Tatum Wells? I looked at my half-ruined face in the mirror. For six years, for the sake of a misguided love and my family’s reputation, I had silently accepted the blame. I thought my sacrifice would protect Miles and the Harrington family, and that Harrison would remain untouched. What was the result? My brother elevated the illegitimate daughter to a princess, and Harrison cherished the murderer. Only I rotted in hell for six years. Harrison’s call came in. I answered on the first ring. “Have you thought it through? Sloane, stop being difficult. The past is over.” “If you just focus on helping Tatum, you still have a chance to restore your reputation. I’ll help you, alright?” I answered calmly. “I’ll do it.” “But first, I need the title to my parents’ burial plot transferred solely into my name, with a signed contract guaranteeing it will never be moved.” Harrison agreed.

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A month before the Miss America pageant, Rhys Calloway—the boy I’d loved since high school—made a woman out of me. I thought our secret trysts were the culmination of years of quiet devotion, a promise of forever. Then came the final night. He watched me throw up backstage, his face a mask of utter contempt. “Anya Hollis, Miss Front Runner,” he spat, looking down at my barely showing bump. “Let’s see how beautiful you look now. With a baby weighing down your sash, how will you ever win?” He didn’t stop there. “Oh, and about the father? There were so many men that night, I honestly can’t tell you who got the lucky draw. There were just too many.” He left without another word, dropping a fat envelope on the dressing table—severance pay disguised as a generous tip. When we met again, he was an untouchable A-list celebrity, and I was merely the kept woman of his studio head. But now, Rhys Calloway was suddenly, desperately, trying to be the father. 1 Victor Shaw was pinning me to the mattress, and I was trying to whisper “good night” into the phone to my seven-year-old son, Leo. Victor snatched the phone mid-sentence, his breathing ragged against my neck, and thrust harder into my body. “Scream for me, Anya!” he growled, his breath hot in my ear. “Scream for your son to hear!” My body trembled, responding to his punishing rhythm while my hand clamped tight over my mouth. It wasn’t until Victor was entirely sated that he tossed the phone back to me like a stray bone. I scrambled to retrieve it, seeing the screen was already dark—the call had been disconnected long ago. “Just messing with you,” he chuckled, reaching for his belt. “Hey, you like all that celebrity gossip, right? I’m meeting a big star tonight. I’ll take you along, you know, for a little show-and-tell.” I nodded and helped him buckle his designer belt before quickly changing into the kind of dress that left nothing to the imagination. I knew exactly what his “show-and-tell” meant. Victor wanted to use me as a conversational prop. In all the years I’d been his mistress, he’d constantly leveraged me to assert his repulsive masculine confidence. Sleazy fox. Dirty whore. Take her out for a spin. These were the proud pronouncements I heard most often coming from Victor’s mouth. So, I followed him to the commercial event with professional apathy. That’s why I was able to hear the voice—the one that still lived deep in the coldest chamber of my memory—with unsettling clarity. “Thank you, thank you for the media attention. Our new movie is scheduled for release next month.” The next second, a camera swung around, pointing its lens directly at me. “Wow, what a beautiful woman! You look exactly like the former Miss America contestant who vanished years ago!” the reporter yelled. A crowd turned its head. My eyes met his. Rhys Calloway’s lengthy speech instantly dissolved into a stutter, the hand gripping the microphone freezing mid-air. Rhys had dominated the headlines since he debuted. But I’d never imagined we would cross paths like this. Eight years had carved him into something flawless, effortlessly projecting an aura of sophistication and cool celebrity power. Beside him stood his beautiful co-star from the new film. I fought to keep my expression neutral, forcing out the practiced denial I’d internalized over the years. “I’m sorry, you’ve got the wrong person.” Victor Shaw, seeing the attention, swelled with pride. He grabbed a handful of my hair, a possessive tug, and steered me into the main hall. After the brief ceremony, Victor called me to the standard dinner party. Unlike most producers, Victor secured his investments by trading me. When we arrived at the venue, the host spotted me and immediately started joking. “This mistress of yours, Victor, why does she look so familiar? She’s got a real movie-star face!” “She’s a pretty little thing, but I’m bored of her,” Victor slurred. “If you like her, buddy, I’ll send her over to keep you company right now.” As he spoke, Victor circled his arm around my thigh, his oily fingers immediately sliding underneath my short dress. Rhys Calloway’s stunned gaze sharpened, shifting into something cold and devoid of feeling—unconcealed disgust. I knew he had recognized my status: trash, the dirt beneath his feet. A circle of men began chanting, pouring expensive champagne down my throat, glass after stinging glass. The sharp alcohol burned my esophagus. I suddenly remembered what I used to tell my fans: An independent woman doesn’t need to depend on a man. How laughable now. The man I had once depended on was standing across the room, full of ambition and embracing a beautiful actress. I, the once-promising pageant queen, had been reduced to a sugar baby for a man old enough to be my father. “Don’t just talk about it, Victor! Let us see this little mistress of yours in action!” the host yelled, his eyes undressing me. Victor, a seasoned shark in this industry, instantly recognized the desire in the host’s eyes. Sacrificing a plaything for the happiness of an investor was always a profitable transaction. So, despite his possessiveness, he nudged me to sit next to the host. I was quick to catch on, leaning into the host’s side with a practiced, saccharine smile. Pleased by the attention, the host pulled out a thick wad of bills and tossed them directly at my face. “It’s hot in here! We need to cool down!” he roared. “Tell you what, little beauty: Ten bills for every article of clothing you take off. How does that sound?” The room erupted in cheers. The only sound that cut through the noise was the heavy clink of Rhys Calloway setting down his glass. I instinctively looked his way. My humiliation—the host’s hands, the offer—had been witnessed by Rhys in its entirety. A faint, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. So, I played the game. I let the money fall, picked up the bills obediently, and slipped off my designer jacket. The second time, the host commanded me to remove my silk blouse. I swiftly unbuttoned it, letting it slide to the floor, revealing the generous swell of my breasts, barely covered by lace. There was no hiding now. I heard the collective intake of breath, the sound of men swallowing, and the faint, muffled clicks of flash photography. The third time: bra or skirt. But this time, the host’s aim was off. The stack of tens scattered across the floor. I knelt without a shred of dignity to gather the cash. That’s when Rhys Calloway stepped forward. His polished leather shoe landed squarely on the last hundred-dollar bill, his eyes boring into mine. “A mistress desperate enough to play this game really is pathetic,” he sneered. Ignoring the ridicule hanging above my head, I looked up and smiled. “Mr. Calloway, could you please move your foot?” Rhys hesitated for a few agonizing seconds before retracting his expensive shoe. I scooped up the bill and prepared to decide between my bra and my skirt. But a voice cut through the drunken commotion. “That’s enough! I’ve had paparazzi following me all week. I don’t want anyone taking pictures of this.” Rhys Calloway’s face was dark with anger. The atmosphere instantly deflated. Then, his beautiful co-star, Eliza Reed, suddenly rose and asked me to accompany her to sign autographs for some fans outside. As we walked away from the men’s scrutiny, Eliza slipped her own tailored blazer over my bare shoulders. Outside, there were no fans. Eliza gently took my hand, carefully wiping the area that Rhys’s shoe had reddened. “You… you’re so beautiful. Why would you do this? Why would you earn money this way, with these disgusting men?” I took a moment to study the actress. She was wearing a perfectly tailored Dior suit, radiating a quiet elegance and the kind of innate superiority that comes with a life of comfort. People like her could never understand why a woman with working hands and feet would choose to earn “dirty money.” How could I explain? I desperately needed the cash—the fast cash. My seven-year-old son, Leo, was waiting. My mother was waiting in a hospital bed for me to pay the astronomical medical bills. And all of this, every single consequence, was thanks to her co-star, Rhys Calloway. “Anya, your parents raised you to be more than just a girl who sells herself…” I didn’t know how Eliza knew my real name, but her voice was surprisingly kind, devoid of the filth and judgment I was accustomed to hearing. I wanted to tell her: I never had a father, and my mother became a vegetable the year everything happened. No one was left to teach me how to be human. But I said nothing, choosing silence. Perhaps my calmness unnerved her. Eliza suddenly thrust a thick wad of cash into my hand. “Go home.” My emotional dam, held up all night, finally shattered. I ran out of the building, collapsing onto the sidewalk next to a dumpster, and sobbed until my throat was raw. I didn’t know how long I cried until a horn sounded behind me. A Maybach rolled down its tinted window, revealing Rhys’s face. “Get in.” I shook my head. “No, I’m fine.” Rhys scowled, exited the car, and bodily scooped me up, placing me on the leather passenger seat. The burning alcohol sloshing in my stomach made me too dizzy to argue. I mumbled an address. Rhys drove without a GPS. He knew the address. Eight years ago, a month before the pageant, he used to sneak here and light fireworks for me. Now, I realize he was probably only rehearsing. As I reached for the door handle, Rhys turned and looked at my rundown complex, a cruel smile on his lips. “After all these years, it looks like our beauty queen hasn’t been doing so well, has she?” My hand froze on the door. I stayed silent, too long for his patience. He suddenly leaned over, his fingers wrapping around my throat, a painful, possessive squeeze. “Anya Hollis, I remember you running your mouth about ‘independent women’ to your fans. What happened? Couldn’t snag a second crown, so you decided to sell yourself?” He tightened his grip. “Oh, right. You were too busy carrying some bastard’s baby to even show up for the final round.” As he finished speaking, Rhys bit down hard on my collarbone. I cried out, struggling, but he held me fast. “Is that producer of yours that good? So good that his love bites cover up the teeth marks of others? Does he even know his little toy is a former pageant champion?” Rhys’s voice was dripping with sarcasm when he said pageant champion. If he knew the hell I’d lived through over the past eight years, he would be laughing until he cried with triumph. When I started desperately wiping away the spot he’d bitten, Rhys’s tone shifted, a mix of contempt and genuine anger. “I’m your sugar daddy’s boss, Anya. You should be down on your knees, like a good little dog, begging for my favor.” I realized he was right. I smiled, the expression cold and empty. “Mr. Calloway, you’re absolutely correct. I must maintain a dog’s deference. So, I have to go home and call my master to lull him to sleep.” Rhys released my throat in an instant, his face contorted in disgust. “Anya, you’re nothing but a cheap whore now, passed around by everyone. Why not come be my mistress instead?” His gaze lingered on my exposed collarbone. “I’m younger, richer, and more famous than he is. Or have you gotten so used to being gang-banged that you prefer a geriatric producer?” I was too tired to fight. I simply stepped out of the car. The familiar voice stopped me again. I froze. “How much is Victor paying you?” “Two thousand. A month.” He laughed, a single, sharp burst of utter contempt. “Two thousand? You really are cheap as dirt.” The air behind me grew heavy, but I didn’t dare turn around. *Flashback At the time of the last pageant final, Leo was already four months along. But I loved Rhys too deeply to consider an abortion. That changed when Rhys found me vomiting and told me, word for word, the process of my drunken assault. I realized the passionate nights I remembered were only the crude boasts of thugs in the audio he played for me. I fled the contest in shame. But photos of me, cropped and edited to look like I was eagerly soliciting sex, were already everywhere. In an instant, I went from a rising star to a depraved tramp who’d willingly slept her way to the top. My endorsements were dropped, and the agency sued me for a massive breach of contract fee. When I first escaped overseas, intending to have an abortion, the doctor told me my uterus was damaged. I desperately needed a lifeline, and the first flutter of life inside me—the fetal heartbeat—was all the spiritual anchor I had left. I couldn’t do it. During my third trimester, I hated Rhys Calloway with every fiber of my being. I swore I would find him, slap him twice, and demand to know why he had done this to me. But after Leo was born, the hatred faded. I only wanted to see him, to hear his voice—even a call across the ocean. Nothing. I grew afraid of people, unable to even hold a job as a dishwasher. When I returned to the US, I met Victor Shaw, who was fifteen years my senior. He found me working as a hostess at a corporate event and asked if I needed money. When basic survival becomes a luxury, pride and morality are worthless. So, I became a mistress, without a trace of guilt. I didn’t worry about divine retribution; my punishment had begun the moment I met Rhys Calloway. Rhys had only been with me for revenge. Because his little sister had been hit by a car the year I won the crown. Her name was Jillian Calloway. She was my most aggressive, most ambitious pageant rival. Before my sudden rise, Jillian had been the industry favorite, even having cosmetic surgery to maintain her fame. When a black fan called her too short, she broke her leg to lengthen her height. When a judge called her face “chubby,” she starved herself. But a person’s dream is always built on the failure of another. And I was the one who had stepped on Jillian’s failure. From the first audition, I was the undisputed favorite, smoothly sailing to the crown. I still remember the scene backstage in the dressing room. Jillian knelt on the floor, weeping hysterically, clutching at my dress. “Anya, that’s my trophy! Mine! Please, please, just give it back!” I shrieked, terrified. Security guards rushed to pull her away, but she wouldn’t release me. A fan who had been taking photos with me got fed up, grabbed a nearby chair, and slammed it against Jillian’s body. “If you can’t handle losing, go home and play dress-up! What are you doing at a pageant? A plastic surgery nightmare like you isn’t fit to compete with my sister! You’re absolutely disgusting!” That night, Jillian was crucified on social media. The ugly rumors multiplied. The former first-place beauty queen was instantly reduced to a public spectacle, a rat anyone could kick. Jillian began appearing in sensational gossip columns, leading a life of self-destruction. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t self-destruction, but a desperate search for a spiritual anchor. My fans didn’t see it that way. They believed she was faking it for sympathy because she constantly railed about my sudden appearance. They were relentless. Jillian’s social media DMs were soon filled with vile abuse. I assume my fans said terrible, mocking things to her. I never read them, but they must have been horrific, because shortly after, Jillian suffered a complete mental breakdown. On her birthday, she was struck and killed by a car, wearing her old pageant bikini. It was after that day that Rhys Calloway, my seemingly perfect crush, transformed into my own personal hell. He pursued me relentlessly, doing everything he could to win me over. It wasn’t long after he started acting that we were officially together. Until the international pageant finals. Rhys watched me throw up backstage, his face twisted in disgust. “Anya Hollis, Miss Front Runner. Let’s see how beautiful you look now. With a baby weighing down your sash, how will you ever win?” “Oh, and about the father? There were so many men that night, I honestly can’t tell you who got the lucky draw. There were just too many.” Then, he described the assault in sickening detail, playing the audio for me. Rhys’s calculated cruelty destroyed every foundation I had built. I still remember my expression in the mirror that day, and I see it often in my nightmares. My expertly made-up face reflected shock, humiliation, shame, and sheer terror. I wanted to scream, but the tears came first. “I don’t believe you, Rhys Calloway! Tell me it’s a lie. Tell me this isn’t true…” For eight years, that memory has clung to me like a disease, flaying me inch by inch. But the nightmare wasn’t over yet. Rhys jumped out of the car, strode over to me, and yanked my collar. “Anya, how can you live so comfortably? That was a life! Don’t you ever wake up thinking about the knife you handed to the people who killed my sister?” I couldn’t confirm if I was living “comfortably.” After Jillian’s death, I was too busy trying to survive to think about anyone else’s fate. “I’m sorry,” I said, choosing the path of apology. “It was my fault.” The driver who hit Jillian was wrong. The judge who criticized her appearance was wrong. The paparazzi who stalked her was wrong. The fans who told her to die were wrong. And I, as their idol, was not innocent. But we have all been punished… Rhys’s face was contorted in a terrifying mask. He grabbed my wrist, squeezing until I thought the bones would crack. “Sorry? If you were truly sorry, why don’t you just die too? Anya, why wasn’t it you who was hit by that car?” After his roar, he shook, his voice dropping to a fragile whisper. “Tell me! Why haven’t you died yet? Go die now!” Die? I had tried.

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My name is Kira Ransome, the real heiress who was swapped at birth. It was the third day after the Greenes found me that Alistair, the man I was supposed to call Dad, dropped the bomb: the Greene family business was bankrupt. What he didn’t know was that my vision was suddenly filled with flashing, scrolling text—a live feed of internet commentary, like a horrifying stock ticker of my life. “The heroine is about to be played by this whole family!” “Poor thing. The Greenes adore the fake heiress, so they’re faking bankruptcy to pressure the heroine into working herself ragged!” “Kira is such a fool, killing herself to earn money, only to discover she was tricked. Her husband even had a baby with the fake heiress!” “She ends up dead, falling from a high-rise. A textbook tragedy/angst novel.” “Honestly, she deserves it. If she hadn’t been so desperate for their family love, she never would have let them con her into such a miserable death, while the fake heiress gets the perfect life!” I watched the lines of text float past, then turned to look at the man standing opposite me, Mr. Alistair Greene. “Since the Greene family is bankrupt,” I said, my voice unnervingly calm, “I guess I’ll be leaving.” The commentary had already told me everything. They weren’t bankrupt; this was a setup. If they wanted to play games, they could do it without me. 1 My announcement froze all three of them in place. Alistair and Celeste (the woman who was supposed to be my mother) looked horrified. Even Piper Greene—the fake daughter who’d lived my charmed life—was staring me down. “Kira Ransome, what is that supposed to mean?” she snapped. “Your family is in crisis, and you’re walking away? How can you look Dad and Mom in the face?” I actually laughed. For years, it was her who had enjoyed the privilege of this life, dining on steak and caviar in my place. I was the one who had suffered, scraped by, and done without. I had received precisely zero of the Greene family’s benefits. And yet, she was asking how I could look them in the face? “The heroine is truly pathetic! They only brought her back for appearance’s sake because she looks so much like Celeste and was recognized by an outsider!” “Even after bringing her home, they never treated her right. They faked bankruptcy to turn her into a workhorse, making her constantly take on their problems until she was ready to drop from exhaustion.” “When the truth came out, they still threw her off a balcony to her death!” “And they have the nerve to ask her if she’s ‘loyal’ to the family? Gross!” The screen flashed, and the sheer audacity of my predicted fate sent a cold shock through me. Dying, falling from a building—it was a brutal ending. Knowing the script, I had no choice but to change the ending. I looked directly at Piper. “You’re the one who enjoyed the Greene family’s status. In the eyes of the world, you are the Greene heiress. What does that have to do with me, the girl who grew up an orphan?” My counter-question stunned all three of them into silence. “Kira, how can you talk like that?” Celeste rushed forward, grabbing my hand, her eyes glistening. “I know you resent Piper for taking your life, but it wasn’t her fault!” She squeezed my hand tighter, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “We can’t change what happened years ago. We know you suffered, but your father and I still love you! How can you abandon the Greenes the moment we hit a roadblock?” I looked at Celeste, whose face was a perfect mask of tearful sincerity, and felt nothing but ice. The commentary had already informed me: The Greenes had known the truth about the switch for a long time and had investigated everything. But they had spent years raising Piper and saw her as their true daughter. Bringing me back was merely a calculated move to turn me into their cheap labor, their family slave. Watching the three of them act out this pathetic drama, my heart turned to stone. “Kira Ransome, regardless of what you say, we are still your parents,” Alistair declared, his voice hard, trying to use his authority. I didn’t argue. I just smiled, a thin, meaningless smile. “Mr. Greene, your daughter is Piper Greene. I am not. Since the Greene empire is over, I’m done here.” I turned, ready to walk out the door. If they wanted to scam me, I certainly wasn’t going to stick around to be the mark. “Kira Ransome, I always knew you were nothing but a gold-digger! You only came back for the money!” Piper pointed a finger at me, shouting. “Do you have no sense of family at all?” I faced her. “You were the one who enjoyed the comforts of this family. I didn’t receive a dime or a single benefit from the Greenes. Why on earth would I sacrifice myself for you people?” My question left all three of them speechless again. “Kira, how can you be so heartless?” Celeste wailed, pulling at my arm. “We finally found you, and now that you’re back, you should help the family!” I looked at Celeste, speechless myself. The entitlement was dizzying. Seeing my clear refusal, Alistair’s face darkened with open rage. He stared at me with undisguised contempt. “Kira Ransome, we knew you were this kind of person!” He spat the words out. “I’ll tell you the truth: the Greene family isn’t bankrupt. We were only testing you! I can’t believe this is how you reacted to hearing the news!” He paused, clearly waiting for me to break, to beg for forgiveness and my place in the family. I remained completely unmoved. “Since the Greene family isn’t bankrupt, I have no reason to stay. Mr. Greene, I’ll be going now.” Knowing the true nature of their intentions, there was no need for pleasantries. As I walked away, Alistair scoffed, his face a mask of cold fury. “Kira Ransome, mark my words: from this day forward, you are not my daughter! Don’t you dare claim to be a Greene ever again!” “Don’t worry, Mr. Greene,” I said, turning back briefly to meet his eye. “I promise I will never, in this lifetime, claim to have any association with you.” With that, I turned and walked out. I had already given up on the Greene family. There was nothing left to salvage. Behind me, Piper was already comforting them. “Mom, Dad, don’t worry! Kira may not claim you, but I do! I’ll always be your true daughter!” “Oh, Piper, you are the child Mom loves the most!” Celeste sobbed, pulling Piper into a hug. Alistair, meanwhile, was focused on me, still gathering the last of my meager possessions. “You ungrateful girl! How could I have given birth to such a viper!” I ignored him. None of them were good people. The commentary kept rolling. “LOL, the script is changing! I told you the heroine should do this! The Greenes deserve everything they get!” “Exactly! Kira is great, unlike Piper, that total wreck who bleeds the family dry and loses money everywhere she goes!” “After Kira dies, Piper actually kicks the old couple out, and they freeze to death under a bridge!” I realized, watching the frantic chatter, that the Greenes were heading for a dire, self-inflicted fate. So be it. Let them mess up their own lives. After leaving the Greenes, I initially worried about supporting myself, but the live commentary kept offering advice, essentially a blueprint for success. They detailed exactly how to make money. Within months, following the tips on the feed, I had amassed a respectable amount of capital. “The plot is going totally off the rails! The heroine isn’t just intercepting the Greenes’ resources; she’s thriving!” “Haven’t you noticed? She does whatever we suggest! This is the story I want to read!” “As long as Kira doesn’t crawl back to the Greenes, I’m sticking around!” One day, while working late at my new office, the feed suddenly flared up again. “The male lead has arrived!” I paused, raising an eyebrow. The male lead? Who was that? “Watch out, he’s a total scumbag. He gets with Kira on the surface, but he’s secretly sleeping with the fake heiress, who’s pregnant with his baby. Yet he still plans to marry Kira!” “This kind of trash man better not ruin the heroine!” “Is the angst train about to depart?” As the commentary flew, my phone rang. Seeing the name on the screen, I immediately understood who they meant by “the male lead.” Noah Blackwood. My first love. We’d been high school sweethearts, promising each other a future. But after graduation, Noah had gone overseas for college, and we’d completely lost touch. I never expected him to call me now. “Kira Ransome, I’m back. I need to see you.” I glanced at the live feed. “The heroine has no idea the fake heiress knew Noah was Kira’s idealized first love, her ‘White Moonlight,’ and spent his time abroad running into him on purpose!” “Noah and the fake heiress are already hot and heavy, and he’s helping her scheme to hurt Kira!” “The fake heiress is carrying Noah’s baby!” The information clicked into place. I knew everything I needed to know. “Noah Blackwood,” I said, feigning curiosity. “Why are you calling me?” The last remnants of my high school fantasy vanished instantly. I was not going to be tangled up with him. “Kira Ransome, I came back specifically for you!” His voice was playfully earnest. “Come pick me up at the airport, okay?” I shook my head. “No, Noah. I have work to do. I won’t be able to meet you.” Before he could argue, I hung up. I had zero interest in him now. “Aha! The heroine is deviating from the script!” “That’s right! Who said that guy was the male lead? We don’t need that kind of tragedy!” The screen buzzed, and I went back to my work. But Noah was persistent. “Kira Ransome, I miss you so much. I know I was wrong to leave, but I just need to see you.” His voice on the phone sounded desperate. “Fine. Let’s meet once.” I thought about it for a moment. I needed to see what they were planning. I met Noah at a downtown bistro. He was already seated. When he saw me, he stood up and walked straight toward me. He looked exactly as I remembered: sunny, handsome, and charming. If I hadn’t known what I knew, his looks alone would have made me weak. The live feed was currently a mess of angry comments about Noah’s various flaws. I sat down opposite him. “You wanted to see me?” “Kira Ransome, I missed you,” Noah said, staring intensely. “I only came back because I couldn’t forget you.” “DO NOT BELIEVE HIM, HEROINE! The scumbag was just hooking up with the fake heiress right before this meeting!” I smiled, a genuine smile of amusement. “Noah, we haven’t been anything to each other for a long time. If that’s all you wanted, I’ll be going now.” “Kira Ransome, don’t you love me anymore?” He reached across the table and anxiously grabbed my wrist. “You promised you’d love me forever! When I left, you said you’d wait for me, no matter how long!” I immediately yanked my hand away. “Noah, you know the truth about you and Piper, don’t you?” His face instantly drained of color. He clearly hadn’t expected me to know anything about his connection to Piper. He looked utterly panicked. “Kira Ransome, what are you talking about? There’s nothing going on between me and Piper!” he stammered, flustered. I didn’t bother listening to his lies. I got up and left. I had barely stepped out of the restaurant when I saw Piper Greene waiting near the entrance. She glared at me, cold and furious. “Kira Ransome, you ungrateful viper, Mom and Dad demand to see you!” I walked right past her, not even acknowledging the command. I knew they weren’t giving up, especially after seeing how quickly and successfully I’d launched my own company these last few months. They wanted me back to work for the Greene family. But I was never going back. Moreover, Alistair and Celeste were completely oblivious to the fact that, thanks to Piper’s mismanagement, the Greene company was teetering on the edge of financial disaster, requiring only a final push to collapse. It wasn’t my problem. Watching me leave, Piper’s face was twisted with fury. She suddenly lunged forward and grabbed my arm. “Kira Ransome, you backstabbing snake! They are your real parents!” “You’re wrong,” I said, giving her a cold, dismissive look. “They are your real parents. They have nothing to do with me.” “Don’t come looking for me again.” I finished, pulling my arm free and turning to walk away. “Kira Ransome, how can you be this way? Mom has cried buckets over you!” she pleaded desperately. Just then, Noah Blackwood rushed out of the restaurant and joined the fray. “Kira Ransome, how can you refuse your own parents?” he demanded, trying to block my path. “Kira, you need to listen to me and go back home!” I spared a glance for the two of them, said nothing, and kept walking. I hadn’t even made it back to my office before my assistant rushed in. “Boss, someone is slandering you online!” I opened the website. A video was playing: Alistair and Celeste, sitting in front of a camera, tearfully accusing me, their own flesh-and-blood daughter, of abandoning them. I watched their pathetic performance and actually smiled. Alistair and Celeste spoke endlessly about how difficult their lives had been and how I, their biological daughter, refused to acknowledge them. The live commentary was overwhelming, all of it denouncing me as an unfilial daughter.

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After his long-term mistress, Skye Miller, ran out on him for the ninety-ninth time, Gideon Shaw, the powerful heir to a formidable New York fortune, agreed to a family-mandated marriage to spite her. On the day the selection was held, every suitable young woman from the East Coast elite avoided the fate, terrified of becoming a mere pawn in their little game. Only I, Anya Scott, spent a small fortune to secure the winning slot, marrying Gideon the moment I returned from overseas. After the gossip rags uncovered my seven-year-old secret admirer accounts dedicated to him, everyone swore I was madly in love—a woman desperate enough to claw her way to the top and tear his “protégée,” Skye, limb from limb. Yet, five years in, I was the picture of grace. I was patient and generous. I tolerated their on-again, off-again affair. I accepted that Gideon chased Skye across every continent. I even sent them a fresh box of ultra-thin condoms every wedding anniversary. Finally, the man decided I was pitiful enough for a crumb of attention. Outside the hotel entrance, he captured my jaw and gave me a searing, pitying kiss. “If you’re this good,” he murmured, his breath smelling faintly of Scotch, “how about I give you a child?” But as I handed him the pack of contraception I’d just picked up, I suddenly said, “Let’s get divorced.” 1 The moment his lips left my cheek, they took with them the familiar, cold scent of cedarwood and rain. As always, Gideon was about to graze my hair—the closest he ever came to a tender touch—before heading off for his rendezvous. But he froze, his hand mid-air. He hadn’t heard me, his attention already elsewhere, looking down at me as the thick raindrops hammered the glass of the hotel hallway. Knowing he missed it, I repeated the words gently, my usual polite tone intact. “I said, we should divorce.” Our eyes met. The seriousness in mine must have been palpable. Yet, my soaking wet, disheveled state made the defiant words sound strangely pathetic. This time, Gideon heard me. He raised a cynical eyebrow and slowly exhaled a plume of smoke, letting the wisps drift across my face. “Is this because I made you cross half the city in a downpour just to deliver a pack of rubbers?” His eyes were full of a mocking amusement, assuming I was throwing a tantrum. “No.” I shook my head. But the rainwater running down my hair dripped into my eyes, stinging them and forcing out a tear. It made him laugh. He extended an arm, pulling me into a dismissive half-hug, and then glanced up at Skye Miller, who was standing a few feet away. “How about you head back, Skye? We can reschedule.” He tightened his grip on me. “The little woman has been so good; I almost feel guilty about how pathetic she looks.” Gideon’s tone was light, but Skye only looked at my soaking form and curled her lip in contempt. She didn’t move. She wasn’t worried. She was certain Gideon loved her. He hadn’t touched me in five years; he certainly wouldn’t start now. I knew he was placating me, dangling a future that would never arrive. And he was banking on my compliance, certain I would manage a weak, dutiful smile and remove myself from the scene, just as he wished. But this time, I evaded the finger that was about to land on my cheek. Just before his lips could touch mine, I turned my head away. “Gideon.” I used his full first name. “I’m serious about the divorce.” The air thickened instantly. Gideon’s eyes went cold. “Third time’s the charm, Anya?” “You think because I offered to give you a child via IVF to cement your place as Mrs. Shaw, you can push your luck?” His voice was laced with menace. Skye couldn’t help but let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Some people just don’t know when they’re well off,” she spat. “If you don’t appreciate the opportunity, then leave. Don’t interrupt Gideon and me.” He was indifferent to her tone. Pushing me away, he pulled the pack of ultra-thins I’d delivered from his pocket, then immediately kissed Skye with a hungry possessiveness. He wanted me to retreat, to take the hint. But I stood rooted to the spot, stubbornly waiting for his answer. When his lust was finally overpowered by annoyance, he scowled and barked, “Get lost.” “If you actually want a divorce, then wait right there until I’m finished.” He was certain his little wife, who was pathetically in love with him, would understand the implication of his words and use this as a chance to slip away gracefully. But this time, I watched them with unnatural calm. As I reached out and gently pulled the heavy hotel door shut behind me, I gave a clear, quiet answer. “Fine.” I agreed. But my voice was too soft. The people inside didn’t hear. The only response was Skye’s soft, eager moan and Gideon’s deep, low grunt. It was the first time I had ever waited outside the door during their trysts. And it was the first time I truly understood how sharply the sounds of their intimacy could pierce through a thick slab of wood. My first instinct was to flee. But then I remembered my purpose. I stayed by the door, head bowed like a child punished to stand in the corner. The weather was worsening. The slightest gust of wind in the hallway sent an icy chill through my pores and straight into my bones, blurring my vision. Through the haze, the door to the adjoining suite opened. A pair of black loafers stopped in front of me, and a dry towel was gently offered. “Wipe your hair, Anya. You’ll catch a cold.” The warm, familiar voice belonged to Rhys Weston, Gideon’s childhood friend, who had witnessed my humiliation countless times. Just like before, I ignored his gesture. Rhys, used to my refusals, leaned against the doorframe and let out a soft, pitying click of his tongue. “Anya Scott, you staying here—are you serious about divorcing old Gideon?” “Look, you should just head home. You’re soaked. You’re just suffering here.” He sighed. “Skye comes from nothing; she’ll never be allowed into the Shaw family. You can relax. No matter how much Gideon messes around with her, he’ll never replace you. As long as you keep playing the obedient wife, he won’t let you go.” He understood Gideon. He believed he understood me. Even after five years, he was convinced I loved Gideon with a desperate, self-sacrificing devotion. He thought my refusal to leave was just grief-stricken helplessness. “But I am serious about the divorce.” I explained earnestly. Rhys laughed as if I’d told a joke. “Who doesn’t know you’re completely obsessed with Gideon?” “You’ve been pining for him since college. You’re telling me you want a divorce now? Who would believe that?” He found it absurd. His gaze softened slightly when he saw the redness around my eyes, where the cigarette smoke had stung. “Just stop the drama, Anya. Old Gideon hates drama.” He didn’t believe me. I couldn’t blame him. Everyone knew the story. Gideon had only agreed to the arranged marriage to spite Skye. Because everyone knew they’d continue their affair, all the eligible women had shunned him, terrified of marrying a husband whose heart belonged to someone else. I was the outlier. I had actively pulled strings and paid a small fortune to ‘win’ that seemingly fair selection. I had married him in a whirlwind of fanfare. The discovery of my seven-year secret fan accounts had only confirmed their suspicion: I was crazy in love with him. They expected me to be a raging nightmare, hell-bent on destroying the mistress. Instead, I became the picture of graceful tolerance, never interfering with Skye, even cooperating with Gideon when he needed me. My annual gift of ultra-thin condoms made everyone believe I loved Gideon so much I would endure any humiliation and betrayal. But no one knew that the person I truly held in my heart was his twin brother, Jude Shaw. We had promised each other forever. But he died. His ashes were returned to the Shaw estate. The Shaw family rules were absolute: only a direct descendant or a woman who had been married into the family for a full five years could enter the family vault. So. To be close to him. To finally take him away. I had married Gideon. For the five years Gideon chased Skye across the globe, everyone assumed I was home, weeping into my pillow every night. They didn’t know that in the quiet solitude of the mansion, I was happily counting down the days. Today. It was my five-year wedding anniversary with Gideon Shaw. It was the day I was finally entitled to enter the vault. I had Jude’s ashes. The marriage to Gideon, naturally, had reached its end. Seeing that I was immovable, Rhys decided not to waste his time. He placed the clean towel on the hallway railing, turned, and closed the adjoining suite door. I didn’t touch the towel. I stood there like a forgotten statue, letting the cold light stretch my shadow long and thin down the corridor. As the rain intensified, my chilled body began to heat up. The corridor lights blurred in my vision. I knew I had a fever. But I didn’t leave. I waited until the door finally opened. Gideon stepped out, his eyes holding the lazy, sated look of a man who’d just enjoyed himself. But when he saw me standing there, his face immediately darkened. The fever-induced dizziness made me groggy, preventing me from fully registering his anger. But I hadn’t forgotten the business at hand. I lifted my hazy eyes and grabbed his sleeve. “You promised. The divorce.” My words cut through Gideon’s lingering contentment, immediately replacing it with irritation. “Anya Scott, enough is enough.” “You should know by now. You aren’t Skye. I don’t have this kind of patience for your theatrics.” He gave me a stark warning, reminding me of my place and who truly held his heart. But all I wanted was the divorce. Seeing that he refused to hear me, a wave of profound unfairness washed over me, and tears suddenly spilled from my eyes. But I quickly wiped them away before the man could register his triumph. I pulled the pre-drafted divorce papers from my bag. “I know how much Skye means to you.” “So, let’s get divorced.” Gideon looked at the neatly printed document as if it were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen. “Is this some kind of reverse psychology?” he scoffed. “Anya Scott, since when did you learn to play these ridiculous games?” His eyes were full of scorn. Skye, now wearing Gideon’s large button-down, emerged from the room. A flash of skin revealed various kiss marks, and she smiled through her flushed face. “I actually thought you were generous enough to watch us together. You finally can’t pretend anymore, so you think using a divorce threat will make Gideon turn back?” She walked closer intentionally, ensuring the marks on her body were in sharp focus. “Reverse psychology is effective. Too bad your threats are utterly useless. After all, everyone knows Gideon only married you because he was mad at me.” Her words were meant to sting. But I remained impassive to her boasting and provocation, not even lifting my gaze. I simply held the divorce agreement and a pen out to Gideon. I repeated: “Sign it.” Seeing my continued defiance, the fury in Gideon’s eyes fully ignited. When the sheer pressure of his rage bore down on me, I instinctively recoiled, bracing myself for a blow. But when I squeezed my eyes shut, he simply seized my wrist and violently yanked me back into the room. Slamming the door shut on Skye, he reached up and unbuttoned the shirt he’d just fastened, revealing a set of toned abs marked with fresh redness. “You really want to push things this far?” He crowded me, his breath hot on my face, carrying a barely contained anger. When I remained silent, he laughed, a cold, harsh sound. “Fine, I’ll play your game. I’ll admit your theatrics worked.” “I’ll spend our anniversary with you. Will that do?” His eyes swept across the remaining foil packets on the bedside table, his throat bobbing. Lust returned to his expression. “Only two left.” “When we’re done, stop the drama. Hm?” From outside, Skye, who’d heard the unexpected compromise, started banging on the door in disbelief. “Gideon!?” He ignored her, shoving me hard onto the bed. The bed accepted my weight, followed immediately by the possessive pressure of his body. I tried to struggle, but the high fever made me too weak to evade his hot kisses. When he paused, catching my tears with his fingertip, his eyes were heavy and dark. “I’m giving you what you wanted, aren’t I?” “Why are you crying?” “Don’t tell me you regret it.” He smiled wickedly, intent on giving me a deep humiliation on the bed he’d just shared with Skye. Thankfully, just as his fingers brushed the collar of my shirt, Rhys burst through the door with a keycard. Rhys paused, noticing my tear-streaked face. He stepped forward to physically restrain Gideon. “Gideon! Skye is on the roof!” “She said if you touch Anya, she’s jumping!” At the mention of Skye, Gideon immediately got off me and bolted out of the room. He didn’t look back. “Anya Scott, do you hate me?” Rhys asked, assuming I’d resent him for interrupting the closest I’d ever gotten to my husband. But as the light streamed into the room, I clutched the necklace holding Jude’s ashes beneath my clothes. I said only one word. “Thank you.” With the tension broken, I swallowed the fever reducer Rhys offered. Clutching the unsigned divorce papers, I followed them to the rooftop. The moment the elevator doors opened, the wind and rain-damp chill hit us, whipping my hair around my face. Twenty minutes had passed. Skye was still perched precariously on the edge of the rooftop, her face tear-streaked as she looked at Gideon. “Gideon! Either divorce Anya and marry me, or I’m jumping right now!” The sight of his choice at the hotel entrance had pushed her over the edge. Shaking, she gave him a stark ultimatum. Gideon, too, had lost his usual cool. Rhys turned to me suddenly. “Anya, do you think Old Gideon will choose you?” Watching the confrontation, I slowly shook my head. “His choice has always been Skye.” “Hasn’t it?” My voice was flat, devoid of emotion. Gideon, watching Skye lean forward as if to jump, finally broke, his voice raw. “Skye! Don’t jump!” “I promise you! I’ll divorce her, and I’ll marry you…” Skye instantly burst into relieved laughter. She threw her arms around his neck like a triumphant child. She expected me to be devastated. But watching her embrace Gideon, I smiled. Without waiting for Gideon to speak, I walked over and offered him the divorce agreement. I extended the document, and he accepted. Our fingertips were both icy cold from the wind. Gideon paused when his gaze landed on me. He picked up the pen to sign, and his hand trembled slightly. But he tightened his grip on the pen and slowly put his name down. After signing, he seemed relieved, yet strangely lost. “Anya, when I’ve calmed Skye down, we’ll remarry.” I frowned. I didn’t understand why he would say something so ridiculous. But I knew it didn’t matter. I carefully scrutinized the fresh divorce agreement. I barely heard him mutter, “Just wait for me a little longer,” and subconsciously nodded. It didn’t matter. We were done. Gideon carried Skye away without daring to look back at me. Only Rhys watched me calmly fold the divorce papers and let out a sudden curse. “Damn it!” “Anya Scott, how can you be this compliant?” “Gideon is a fool!” He stared at me for a moment, then grinned cheekily. “How about you consider me?” “If you were my wife, I’d treat you like a queen.” His tone was teasing, but I wasn’t oblivious; I saw the genuine sincerity beneath the casualness in his eyes. I refused him gently but firmly. “Thank you for the compliment.” “And goodbye.” I didn’t return to the Shaw family mansion. I immediately hailed a cab to the airport and booked the earliest flight to Iceland. Gideon, perhaps having already placated Skye, sent a text message. “Skye wants to travel to clear her head, so I’m taking her away for a few days.” “Stay home and be a good girl. I’ve ordered you the new Cartier necklace as compensation for this mess.” His tone was comforting. But I was unmoved. He always used this method of ‘compensation’ after every one of his escapades with Skye. Over five years, I’d collected countless expensive jewelry, designer bags, and wire transfers. I never cared for any of it. And I hadn’t taken a single penny or item with me. Which is why, after cutting all ties, I felt perfectly entitled to toss the burner phone I’d used for five years into an airport trash can. Then, I boarded the plane.

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The moment my roommate, Phoebe Davis, learned I had three guys waiting in the wings—a solid, well-curated roster of backups—she let out a laugh that was half-joke, half-condescending snicker. “Honestly, I feel bad for your future husband,” Phoebe said, swiping through TikTok on her phone. “He’s going to drain his 401k just for the down payment on a wife who’s already been driven around the block a few times.” I considered this for a moment. She wasn’t wrong, but the delivery was pure Phoebe—snide and dripping with manufactured innocence. “You know what?” I offered, shrugging. “I could always transfer one of them to you.” Phoebe’s eyes, glued to the screen of her phone, widened instantly. 1 “I… I don’t know about that,” she stammered, her gaze darting everywhere but at me. Then, the air around us shimmered with an imagined text overlay—a phenomenon I’d grown numb to, but one that Phoebe seemed utterly reliant on. [OMG PHOEBE! Don’t even hesitate! Skylar’s backups aren’t just anyone!] [A Wall Street CEO, a Biker Bad Boy, and a Boston Trust Fund Prince—all ripped, all rich, all prime quality. This is the stuff of fantasies!] [Heh, the thought of Phoebe getting all the fish Skylar carefully baited is just so delicious.] [I’m already craving the scene where Phoebe brings her whole harem to rub it in Skylar’s face, watching the look of wild regret on the villainess’s face! Get it, girlie!] Phoebe’s expression cycled through shock, disbelief, and finally, settled on a look of utter, greedy ecstasy. “You have three guys on rotation, right?” she declared, her tone suddenly booming with the confidence of a shopper at a luxury outlet. “I want all of them.” I let out a soft, appreciative chuckle. “Three at once might give you indigestion,” I said, leaning back. “Let’s start with one. Once you’ve secured him completely, then we can talk about the other two.” Phoebe hesitated, then nodded sharply. “Fine. But don’t you dare regret this later.” “No regrets,” I promised. “One backup for ten thousand dollars. Cash only.” Her jaw dropped. “Wait, you’re charging me? Ten grand? Are you serious? Just go rob a bank!” I remained cool, unbothered. “Oh. In that case, let’s forget I offered.” The imaginary comments immediately flared up in a panic: [NO, PHOEBE! Don’t let this opportunity slip! This is a once-in-a-lifetime deal!] [These men are worth billions, you idiot! Ten thousand dollars is nothing! You’ll be swimming in ten million once you reel them in!] [Skylar is so shortsighted, it’s sickening. A poor girl with no class. If she knew she was trading a multi-billionaire for ten grand, she’d be clawing at the walls with regret!] Phoebe swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on the ceiling where the imaginary words hovered. “Fine,” she conceded, her voice a strained whisper. “Ten thousand. Deal.” 2 It took Phoebe a week to scrape the cash together. In the meantime, I had carefully selected which of my current prospects I would pass on—the fish I was ready to release back into the stream. “Ashton Lennox, 21 years old, six-foot-two, eight-pack abs,” I recited, handing her a burner phone and a gaming console account. “He’s a student at the university across town, from a very average background. We met playing this game.” I continued my detailed briefing, every word a subtle lie designed to maintain the narrative I’d created. “He occasionally buys me takeout coffee—the gifts never cost more than thirty bucks. His parents’ messy divorce left him with serious attachment issues. He’s very sensitive and needs constant reassurance.” I looked her dead in the eye, offering the full customer-service rundown. “I’ve established myself as the ‘Gentle, Understanding Older Woman.’ You have to maintain that persona and give him all the security he craves.” [Hahaha, the villainess still thinks the main guy is just a poor college student. Our Ashton is just testing her—he hates gold-diggers, so he acts broke!] [To think Skylar spent all that time only to get a few cheap coffee orders, and our girl Phoebe gets everything for free! I can’t stop laughing!] Phoebe’s lips curled into a smug half-smile. The moment the accounts were hers, she changed the passwords. She gave me a pointed, triumphant look. “Skylar, when I’ve got this guy secured, you’re going to be so sorry you let him go.” I smiled sweetly. “I won’t regret it. I only hope you don’t.” Phoebe just scoffed, dismissing me. She immediately logged in and began chatting with “Ashton.” For the next few weeks, Phoebe was inseparable from her phone, either texting him or playing the game with him. The imaginary commentary confirmed that things were going well: Ashton hadn’t noticed the switch. Phoebe, guided by the online cheerleaders, was slowly erasing my digital footprint and meticulously executing the seduction plan. A fortnight later, Phoebe walked into our dorm room. The first thing I noticed was the dazzling sparkle on her neck—a massive diamond necklace. She immediately noticed my stare, tossing her head back with a triumphant smirk. “Ashton bought me this necklace,” she announced. “I looked it up online. It’s worth over two million dollars.” I nodded slowly, offering a simple, “It’s beautiful.” Phoebe sighed dramatically. “Honestly, I don’t get men,” she mused. “You’re so much prettier and smarter than I am, and you were with him for so long. All he ever got you was a few cheap coffees. I’m just average and a little clumsy, and we’ve only been talking for two weeks, but he sends me this million-dollar piece. Why do you think that is?” What else could I say? “Because,” I explained, my voice flat, “he was pretending to be broke the entire time he was talking to me.” 3 I knew Ashton was rich. Of course I did. That’s why I pursued him in the first place. We’d met on a high-stakes mobile game. That game had two kinds of players: whales who drop tens of thousands of dollars without a second thought, and people like me who hustle to sell account boosts for cash. Ashton was the former. I was the latter. The moment I saw his game avatar, clad in gear that would cost six figures in real money, I knew he was no ordinary catch. A once-in-a-lifetime sight. I immediately began my calculated pursuit. Daily dungeon runs, sweet morning and goodnight texts, endless concerned inquiries. I waited patiently, and one night, after he poured out a sob story about the ‘pain of his unstable childhood,’ I solidified my persona as the ‘Gentle, Understanding Older Woman’—the one stable, maternal figure he needed. The needy, emotionally starved boy was securely hooked. Perhaps he feared that everyone who got close to him only wanted his money. Ashton had adopted the cover of a cash-strapped, average college student with poor grades and a plain appearance. He’d often play the pitiful victim, asking me in a small, vulnerable voice, “Babe, am I really worth your love, being so ordinary? I’m so scared you’ll meet the real me, be disappointed, and just… leave.” I’d be silently rolling my eyes at his full complement of custom, god-tier game gear. For a rich guy, dropping a million in a mobile game is probably like dropping a hundred bucks for a normal person—they don’t even notice the cost. He hadn’t even realized how badly he’d exposed himself. But I’d reply with syrupy sweetness: “Never. In my heart, you are the most special little puppy. I could never leave you.” Ashton seemed determined to maintain the ‘broke’ narrative. He was incredibly cheap. His coffee orders were from no-name chains, and his gifts were usually nine-ninety-nine-and-free-shipping junk from Amazon. But his sweet talk was on point, he consistently carried me in the game, and he’d occasionally send me scorching-hot, borderline-explicit photos of his abs. For a while, I genuinely liked him. Until one time. I was rushing to a gig on my scooter when I crashed into a road barrier. My right leg was fractured, and a kind stranger rushed me to the ER. The x-rays, the hospital stay, the follow-up physical therapy—it came to over twenty thousand dollars. I was desperate. I took a picture of myself in the hospital bed, looking pathetic, and reached out to Ashton. “Babe, can you lend me some cash? I promise I’ll pay you back the second I’m better!” His response? Silence. For an entire month, Ashton did not reply. Luckily, I found a new prospect who covered the hospital bill. Otherwise, I might have been permanently disabled. It was only after I was fully recovered and discharged that Ashton resumed our chat, acting as if nothing had happened—daily good mornings, constant life updates. The jerk. Why didn’t he just wait for me to die and then send flowers to my grave? I wanted to dump him then and there. But I couldn’t find the right moment. You don’t just casually break up with a guy who can crush you socially or financially without a second thought. A messy exit could have serious repercussions. So I played along, performing affection while shifting my focus to other men in my portfolio. Maybe he sensed the chill. Ashton’s neediness and possessiveness exploded. He started relentlessly pushing for us to meet in person. Absolutely not. Online life is one thing. It can’t contaminate my real-world hustle. I was trying to figure out how to put him off when Phoebe, my convenient roommate, stepped up. She’d taken this spoiled, demanding idiot off my hands. Perfect. If she could actually manage to get money out of Ashton, that was her skill, not my loss. At least I had secured ten thousand dollars, cold hard cash. Since my low-key attitude failed to provoke her, Phoebe dropped the topic of the necklace. “By the way, Ashton wants to meet up in person,” she said, her eyes flicking to mine. “He said to bring all my roommates—he wants to treat us to dinner and get to know you guys.” She slowly twisted the knife. “Skylar, you’re free the day after tomorrow, right?” [Awww, finally, the highly anticipated confrontation! Will Skylar break down?] [The villainess thinks he’s an ordinary guy, but when she sees our Ashton is a total Greek god in person, she’s going to be absolutely demolished!] [Oh, but I’m worried. What if Skylar decides she wants him back? What if she tries to steal him from our girl?] [Relax! Ashton is clearly obsessed with Phoebe now. Even if he knows the truth, he’ll choose her without hesitation!] [If Skylar tries anything, Ashton will protect Phoebe and crush her!] 4 I was ready to decline. But then Phoebe mentioned it. Ashton was bringing a welcome gift for each roommate. A solid gold chain for everyone. I immediately canceled my plans. Damn capitalism! The day of the dinner, I wore a simple t-shirt and jeans, no makeup, and chose the seat furthest from the head of the table. I wanted zero attention. Phoebe was the star. When Ashton walked in, I glanced up. Pale skin, perfect, chiseled features. An aura of cool, detached entitlement that only comes with obscene wealth. Yes, I thought. Definitely a guy who can drop a million in a mobile game without blinking. After my momentary appraisal, I went back to looking at my phone. Ashton’s eyes lingered on me for a second, then quickly moved on. Phoebe rushed to greet him, all fake sweetness. “You’re late, sweetie! Punishment: you have to peel all my shrimp for me later.” She reached out to take his hand. He subtly sidestepped the touch. “My apologies for the delay,” Ashton said with a faint smile. “I brought some gifts for everyone. Thank you all for taking care of my girlfriend.” He turned to Phoebe. “Sweetie, will you introduce me to your roommates?” “Of course.” Phoebe went down the line, but when she got to me, she paused, a venomous smile playing on her lips. “And this is Skylar Rhodes. The campus queen. Beautiful, smart, and a long line of admirers. She’s famous for juggling three guys at once, so she’s pretty talented.” Ashton froze. “Three…?” I looked up, meeting his intense, dark gaze. I gave him a calm, casual smile. “Correction. Only two now.” Ashton stared at me, his eyes wide and unblinking. The atmosphere turned instantly arctic. Luckily, the waiter chose that moment to serve the main course, easing the tension. During the meal, Phoebe worked overtime to show off their ‘relationship,’ demanding Ashton feed her and peel her shrimp. I kept my head down, hunched in the corner, casually eating and texting on my phone. Suddenly, my phone was snatched out of my hand. I looked up. Ashton was standing over me, his face disturbingly calm. “Why are you on your phone the whole time? Is the food not to your liking?” The nerve of this guy. Zero boundaries. I frowned, simply holding out my hand, silently demanding my phone back. Ashton ignored me, instead glancing down at the screen. “What’s so interesting? Can I see?” The vibe was getting seriously weird. Phoebe, looking confused, chimed in hesitantly. “Skylar always eats lightly, Ashton. Just ignore her, let’s keep eating.” He didn’t acknowledge her. He just kept his unsettling gaze on me, then asked, each word distinct and loaded: “Who, exactly, are you texting?” Uh oh. Even the thickest person at the table should have noticed the shift. Phoebe’s voice was trembling. “Ashton, what is the meaning of this? You’ve been staring at Skylar since you walked in! You won’t even talk to me! Do you even want to be with me anymore?” Ashton looked at her with pure, cold disdain. He tsked softly. He didn’t even bother to explain. He just delivered a sharp command: “Ten seconds. Take your roommates and leave. I’ll let this slide. Otherwise… you won’t want to know the consequences of my bad mood.” Phoebe’s eyes welled up, but her two other, more self-preserving roommates quickly pulled her away, practically dragging her out of the restaurant. I considered a swift exit, but Ashton was already standing in front of me, blocking the path. His eyes were red, and his voice cracked with a wounded sound. “It’s just us now. Can you explain?” He sounded genuinely heartbroken. “Why did you give the account to your roommate? Why did you dump me? You said I was your good little puppy, your most special one! Why did you have other backups behind my back?” Ashton’s questions came faster and louder. He slammed my phone onto the table in front of me. “Is it because of this ‘(872) 422-xxxx Ryder Jensen, the Race Car God’? Is this jerk hitting on you? You’ve been texting him nonstop since I walked in!” He was panting now. “I saw he sent you a bunch of chest selfies! That shameless loser, hitting on another man’s girlfriend! What does he have that I don’t? Skylar, say something!”

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“Dad, please. Sit in the back. People will judge me if they see you.” I swallowed my pride and walked to the last row of the church, clutching the only thing my late wife left me: a sealed letter addressed to our daughter. She told me to open it only if our little girl “lost her way.” When the groom, Daniel, saw me hiding in the shadows, he demanded to know why. I didn’t speak. I just handed him the letter. He read the first line, and his face went pale. He read the last line, and he turned to my daughter. “I can’t marry you,” he whispered. And just like that, the secret my wife kept for eight years changed everything. 1 I told my husband, “I told you so,” and started laughing at him when we got the paternity test results. So, I had my daughter about six weeks ago. She came out with this super light blonde hair and these pale blue eyes. I’m talking almost white-blonde. My husband and I both have brown hair and brown eyes. The second the nurse handed her to him in the delivery room, I could see his face change. He got real quiet and just stared at her. We got home from the hospital and that same night, he cornered me in the kitchen while I was trying to make toast because I hadn’t eaten anything real in like two days. He straight up told me he wanted a paternity test. I was so tired I could barely stand up, still bleeding, everything hurt, and he’s asking me this. I tried explaining that babies can be born with lighter features that change over time. My mom was blonde until she was like four. His own cousin was born with red hair that turned brown. He didn’t want to hear it. He said if I didn’t agree to the test, he’d file for divorce just like that. So, I said, “Fine. Do whatever you need to do because I was too exhausted to fight about it.” The next morning, he packed a bag and left to stay at his parents’ place. Didn’t even help me get the baby to her first pediatrician appointment or anything. Just gone. Three days after he left, his mom called me. She didn’t even ask how I was doing or how her granddaughter was. She just launched into this whole speech about how if the test came back and the baby wasn’t his, she’d make sure I got nothing in the divorce. She used the phrase “taken to the cleaners” like three times. I was sitting there holding my daughter, who wouldn’t stop crying, and I just hung up on her. My sister moved in to help me those first few weeks. She was the one getting up with me at night, making sure I ate, doing the laundry. My husband called once to ask when the test results would be ready. That was it. One phone call in three weeks. The results finally came back yesterday. The lab called me in the morning and said we could pick them up that afternoon. I texted my husband and he showed up around two o’clock. He didn’t bring anything for the baby. Didn’t ask how she was doing. Just walked in and sat down on the couch next to me. I handed him the envelope because honestly, I wanted him to be the one to open it. He ripped it open and pulled out the paper. I watched his eyes scan the page. It said right there in bold letters: 99.9% probability of paternity. He was the father, obviously. His face went completely pale. His mouth dropped open a little and his eyes got huge. He looked like someone told him his car got totaled or something. Just frozen there holding this paper that proved I’d been telling the truth the whole time. I couldn’t help it. I started laughing. Not even a mean laugh at first, just this burst of tired, relieved laughter. And then I said it: “I told you so.” He snapped his head toward me and his whole face changed. He started yelling about how I was being cruel and mocking him during a difficult time. A difficult time for him? I just spent three weeks alone with a newborn, recovering from giving birth while he got to sleep through the night at his mommy’s house. But sure, this was hard for him. My sister heard him yelling from upstairs where she was putting the baby down for a nap. She came down and just stood there in the doorway with her arms crossed. He shut up real quick and grabbed his keys. Said he needed to clear his head and left again. Didn’t even look at his daughter. Two hours later, his mom called. She laid into me about how disrespectful I was for laughing at him. How he was going through something traumatic and I made it worse. She said I humiliated him and that I should be apologizing. I told her that maybe if she raised a son who trusted his wife, we wouldn’t be in this situation. She hung up on me. She’s been texting me since yesterday. This morning, I woke up to four messages about how I’m a terrible wife and how hurt my husband is. One of them said, “I clearly don’t understand what it’s like to have doubts because I’m not the one who has to wonder if the baby is mine.” I wanted to throw my phone across the room. My husband still hasn’t come back home. It’s been a full day now since he saw the results. I spent the rest of the day walking around the house in this weird mix of anger and numbness, holding my daughter against my chest while she slept, and wondering how the hell we even got here. Every time my phone buzzed, I felt my whole body clench because I already knew it was either him or his mother, and I didn’t have the energy for either of them. I kept thinking about how this was supposed to be one of the happiest times of our lives. Our first baby, our first weeks as a family. And instead, I’d spent it defending myself against accusations I never deserved. At one point, I found myself standing in the living room just staring at the spot on the couch where he had sat with that envelope in his hands. The sheer disbelief on his face didn’t make me feel validated the way I thought it would. If anything, it made me sadder. It made me realize that even after years together, even after everything we’ve been through, he didn’t trust me enough to believe our daughter was his. And once that trust breaks, how do you ever put it back the same way? My sister tried to lighten the mood by making dinner and forcing me to sit down and eat. She kept saying how proud she was of me for standing up for myself. But all I could think about was how I never wanted to be in this situation in the first place. I didn’t want to be proud; I wanted a husband who didn’t accuse me the moment something didn’t make sense to him. While we were eating, she asked quietly if I wanted him to come back at all. I didn’t answer. I didn’t know. Or maybe I did and didn’t want to admit it to myself. That night, the house was silent except for the baby’s little breaths. I kept waiting for the front door to open, for my husband to walk in with some kind of apology, or explanation, or even anger—anything that showed he cared enough to come home. But nothing. Midnight passed. Then 2:00 AM. Then 4:00. I sat in the rocking chair with my daughter in my arms and wondered if he was lying awake somewhere thinking about us. Or if he was sleeping peacefully in his childhood bedroom while his mother comforted him like he was the victim. By morning, the silence had turned into something heavier. I opened the curtains and just stared outside, feeling like I was watching my own life from the outside. I kept checking my phone even though I didn’t want to. Still no message from him. No call. Nothing except another angry paragraph from his mother about how I mocked a man in emotional distress and how postpartum hormones didn’t excuse acting like a brat. I didn’t respond. I didn’t trust myself not to say something I couldn’t take back. Around noon, my husband finally texted. Not an apology. Not an “I love you.” Just: “I need time.” Time? Time for what? Time to think about whether he still wanted to be a father to a child who had been proven, scientifically, undeniably, to be his? Time to decide whether he trusted me now that a piece of paper told him the truth I had been saying from day one? I stared at the message for so long my eyes started burning. My sister asked what he said, and when I read it out loud, she rolled her eyes so hard she nearly fell off the chair. “He had six weeks of time,” she muttered. “You didn’t. You were here raising a newborn while he ran away. And she was right. He got to step away. I didn’t. I didn’t get to take a break from healing stitches and leaking milk and sleepless nights while he panicked about nothing.” I didn’t get to walk out every time I felt overwhelmed. My daughter didn’t get a break from crying and needing comfort. We stayed. We managed. We survived. He ran. By the end of the day, something inside me had shifted. I wasn’t crying. I wasn’t anxious. I wasn’t even angry anymore. I just felt done. Done waiting for a man who abandoned us the moment fear got to him. Done apologizing for laughing when the truth proved me right. Done dealing with a mother-in-law who acted like my husband’s ego was the only thing that mattered. Done holding a house together alone while he hid elsewhere. I texted him back: “Take all the time you need. We’re fine here.” And for the first time in weeks, I meant it. My daughter was asleep on my chest in her tiny flower onesie, and I realized this little person was the only one who had shown up every single day since she entered the world. She needed me. I needed her. And maybe—just maybe—that was enough. I didn’t know what would happen next. Maybe he’d come back with real remorse. Maybe he wouldn’t come back at all. Maybe we’d fix things. Maybe the trust was too shattered. But what I did know, standing in the quiet living room with my daughter’s hand gripping my shirt, was that whether he chose to be part of this family or not, I wasn’t going to let anyone make me feel guilty for telling the truth, for standing up for myself, or for laughing when years of trust thrown in my face blew up exactly how he feared. Except not in the way he expected. He feared she wasn’t his. What he should have feared was losing us. And now, for the first time since she was born, I stopped fearing that too.

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