1. It started with a fever. My son, Leo, was burning up, so I rushed him to the ER at Mount Sinai. Routine blood work. That’s all it was supposed to be. But when the lab report came back, the room started to spin. Leo’s blood type was listed as Type B. I stared at the paper. It was biologically impossible. I’m Type O. My husband, Ethan, is Type A. Two parents with those blood types cannot produce a Type B child. I went home, trembling, and asked Ethan about it. I expected confusion. Maybe a laugh about a lab error. Instead, he turned around and slapped me across the face. “You have the nerve to ask me?” Ethan screamed, his face turning a violent shade of red. “You think I don’t know about you and Ben?”. Ben was my college ex-boyfriend. We broke up years ago. “You were on that business trip in Chicago a month before you got pregnant,” Ethan raged. “I know Ben was there. I checked your texts!”. I was stunned. “That was for the audit! We were working until 3 a.m. on spreadsheets!”. He didn’t listen. He stormed out, leaving me stunned and bleeding. For two weeks, he ghosted me. Then, just as I was preparing to file for separation, he came home, tears in his eyes, begging for forgiveness. “Claire, I love you. Leo is our son. Let’s just forget the past and move on”. I played along, but the cold knot in my stomach tightened. I knew I hadn’t cheated. And I knew blood science doesn’t lie. If Leo wasn’t Ethan’s, and he wasn’t mine… then Leo wasn’t our baby at all. He had to be switched at birth. But every time I brought it up, Ethan shut me down violently. A few days later, Ethan came to me with a “favor.” He was launching a new startup, a stealth mode tech venture, and he couldn’t have his name on the paperwork due to his current employment contract. He needed me to be the legal guarantor and sign for the loans. I agreed, pretending to be the supportive wife. But that night, while looking for his AirPods in his briefcase, I found a burner phone. One unread text: Did she sign the papers yet?. It was his old iPhone, one I thought he’d recycled. He wasn’t texting a business partner. My gut told me everything I needed to know. 2. The next morning, I told Ethan I couldn’t find my passport and driver’s license, so the notary appointment had to wait. He was annoyed but left for work. The second the door closed, I called my cousin Jack. Jack is a private investigator, the kind of guy who thinks cynicism is a virtue. “I told you he was a grifter,” Jack said, not even trying to hide his I-told-you-so tone. “You wouldn’t listen”. Ethan came from nothing. I came from old Connecticut money. When my dad was dying of cancer, Ethan was a saint—changing bedpans, sleeping in the hospital chair. After Dad died, my mom said Ethan was “the one.” Jack had always said Ethan was just chasing the inheritance. Three days later, Jack dropped a dossier on my table. “He’s not working late,” Jack said. “He’s in Jersey. Living with another woman.” Her name was Monica. Ethan’s college sweetheart. And they had a son. “The startup is fake,” Jack continued. “He just wants your signature to load you up with debt”. “Where is their son?” I asked. “Sent upstate to live with Monica’s relatives in a trailer park,” Jack said. I felt sick. Ethan was trying to ruin me. I bugged his car that afternoon. The recordings confirmed it. Ethan was planning to use the shell company to bankrupt me, force a divorce, and make me liquidate my assets—my trust fund, my properties—to cover the “business debts,” which he would then pocket. “If she won’t sign,” I heard him tell Monica on the tape, “we’ll just make the debt bigger. She’ll have to sell everything”. But the kicker? He was accelerating the plan because he knew I’d found out about Leo’s blood type. He knew Leo was Type B all along. 3. I couldn’t understand it. I did two more DNA tests on Leo. No match to me. No match to Ethan. The doctor asked if we did IVF. “Sometimes there are mix-ups in the lab,” she said. “It was natural,” I whispered. I sent Leo to stay with my mom and told Ethan my firm was sending me to London for a month. Instead, I moved into a rental apartment Jack secured—directly across the street from Monica’s duplex in Jersey. Jack knew the super in Monica’s building. We got bugs inside her vents. I watched them through a telescope. Ethan went over there the night I “left.” They were laughing, drinking wine. “With her gone for a month, the plan stalls,” Monica complained. “Patience,” Ethan said. “She ‘lost’ her ID?” Monica sneered. “How convenient”. My phone rang. It was Ethan, checking in. I played the part of the loving wife perfectly. Over the next few days, I dug into their financials. Monica was a receptionist, but she had just bought this luxury duplex cash. The date of purchase? Two weeks after my dad’s estate settled. 4. Jack dug deeper. Ethan and Monica had been together since freshman year. They racked up massive gambling and credit card debt. Ethan didn’t fall in love with me; he targeted me. He kept seeing Monica the whole time. The most chilling detail: Monica was pregnant at the same time I was. She gave birth in the same hospital, on the same day. “They swapped them,” I said to Jack, my voice trembling. “That’s why Leo isn’t mine.” Jack looked ready to kill Ethan himself. “We need proof,” he said.

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It started with a night shift at the ER. I was doing rounds, exhausted, when I saw her. A stunning woman fighting to stay awake next to her daughter’s IV drip. She looked wrecked—messy bun, sweatpants, no makeup—but I still couldn’t take my eyes off her. As I approached, the little girl blinked at me. She recognized me from her checkup a few days ago. “Dr. Ethan!” she chirped. The mom snapped awake, smoothing her hair frantically. “Oh, God. Sorry. We’re back again.” The patient was Lily, a sweet kid I’d treated for bronchitis earlier that week. Maybe I’d given them a little extra attention because, well, the mom looked like she needed a break. “Where’s Dad tonight?” I asked, checking Lily’s vitals. The second the words left my mouth, I wanted to punch myself. Way to be professional, Ethan. The woman didn’t get mad. She just gave a tired, polite smile. “Oh, he’s… busy.” “Right. Well, I’m on call all night,” I said, trying to sound doctorly and not like a guy whose heart was hammering against his ribs. “If you need anything, page me.” “Dr. Ethan, can I get your number?” Lily asked innocently. “Lily! That’s rude,” her mom hushed her. “It’s totally fine. Actually, it’s better for follow-ups,” I lied smoothly. I’m a pediatrician; I know how to charm kids. But let’s be real—I was charming the mom. Lily looked exactly like her. The mom sighed and pulled out her iPhone. “She doesn’t have a phone. You can add me, if that’s okay.” My hands were shaking as I typed in my number. I walked back to the nurses’ station sweating like I’d just run a marathon. A minute later, a text popped up: “Hi Dr. Ethan, it’s Maya. Thanks for everything.” I typed and deleted three different responses before settling on: “Call me Ethan. No problem.” I wanted to say, “Call me anytime. You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world alone.” But I didn’t have the guts. Because unlike me—a single guy approaching his mid-thirties—she had a family. Or so I thought. She didn’t recognize me. Maya. Maya Sterling. The Campus Queen of UCLA. 1. Back in college, Maya was the girl every guy dreamed about. She was effortlessly beautiful and famously unattainable. She rejected the captain of the football team. Rumor had it she turned down a guy because he didn’t play the cello. Seriously. The cello. Everyone said she was waiting for Brad, our class president—the golden boy who transferred to London after freshman year. People said she never dated because she was saving herself for him. I watched her from the sidelines for four years. We only spoke once, at the graduation party. I was the MC; she sang a ballad that made half the room cry. Liquid courage in my veins, I cornered her afterward with a cheap bouquet. “You were amazing,” I stammered. “People say I kinda look like Brad, you know? Ha. Ha.” I was an idiot. She just smiled that polite, distant smile. “Thanks. But the rumors about me and Brad? They aren’t true.” Then she vanished. Ten years later, I was still that idiot. Seeing her name on my phone made my palms sweat. I checked her Instagram—private. Of course. 2. New York is a massive city, but sometimes it feels like a small town. A week later, I walked into a Starbucks near my apartment, and there they were. “Dr. Ethan!” Lily shouted. Sitting across from Maya and Lily was another woman. “Ethan, this is my best friend, Chloe,” Maya introduced us. “And Lily’s godmother.” Chloe squinted at me. “Ethan? Wait. Did you go to UCLA?” “Yeah,” I said, bracing for impact. “I knew it!” Chloe slammed her hand on the table. “Maya, how do you not know this? This is Ethan! The MC from graduation! One of the ‘Med School Hotties’!” Maya looked at me, confused. “You were the host?” She remembered the MC. She definitely didn’t remember the guy who awkwardly hit on her. “Wait,” Chloe continued, loud enough for the whole café to hear. “Ethan, you don’t remember Maya? How is that possible?” Maya grabbed Chloe’s arm. “Ethan, ignore her. She has zero filter. Are you meeting someone? Don’t let us keep you.” “Actually, I’m free,” I said. “Lily, do you want to see Disney on Ice? I have extra tickets.” Total lie. I would pay a scalper triple the price in the parking lot if I had to. “Yes! Can Dr. Ethan come, Mom?” Lily begged. Maya hesitated. “You should probably call him ‘Uncle Ethan’.” “If he comes, I’ll call him whatever he wants!” And that’s how I ended up on a date with my dream girl and her daughter. We had an amazing day. Maya wore a red dress that knocked the wind out of me. We ate gelato, walked through Central Park, and for a few hours, I pretended we were a family. When I got home to my empty apartment, the loneliness hit me like a truck. I knew I was playing with fire. She had a husband somewhere. I was just the nice doctor entertaining her kid. 3. But things kept progressing. Lily started FaceTime-ing me to ask for “playdates.” One weekend, Lily dropped a bomb while Maya was in the restroom. “Mom likes you,” she whispered. “Don’t make things up, kiddo,” I laughed nervously. “I’m serious! She only wears black or white clothes. But every time we see you, she wears colors. Like that red dress.” I froze. I thought back. She was right. Later that night, I dropped a sleeping Lily off at their apartment. It was the first time I’d been inside. It was stylish but cold. No family photos. No men’s shoes by the door. Just a picture of young Maya and… Brad. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to know. “Maya,” I asked, standing in her kitchen. “Where is he? Lily’s dad. Why is he never around?” I expected a slap. Or to be kicked out. “He’s dead,” she said quietly. My stomach dropped. “I… I’m so sorry.” “It was a long time ago.” Suddenly, the lack of photos, the sadness in her eyes—it all made sense. She was a widow holding onto a ghost. I did the only thing I could think of. I hugged her. And to my surprise, she melted into me. “Can I… can I pursue you?” I whispered into her hair. “We can take it slow. As long as you need.” “I’m not…” she started to protest. “Shh. I don’t care if you’re not over him. Let me take care of you.” “Why?” she asked, pulling back to look at me. “Because I’ve been in love with you for fourteen years.” She stared at me. Then, she kissed me. 4. We fell into a rhythm. I was the happiest I’d ever been, but deep down, I felt like a fraud. I looked like Brad. I knew I did. Was I just a placeholder? A body double for the dead husband she couldn’t forget? One night, after we’d been dating for over a year, I took her to meet my parents. My dad, blunt as ever, laughed over dinner. “I never thought Ethan would settle down. He told us years ago he’d stay single forever if he couldn’t have ‘The One’.” “Why did you say that?” Maya asked me on the drive home. “Because of me?” “Yeah.” She looked at me with that familiar expression—guilt. Whenever she looked at me like that, she would initiate sex. And she did, that very night. Passionate, desperate, like she was trying to make up for something. “You don’t have to,” I told her afterward. “I know you still love him. It’s okay. I’m okay with being the second choice.” “You think you’re the second choice?” She looked confused. “I’m just happy to be here.” I decided to propose. I bought a ring. I planned a surprise party for her birthday with Chloe. I was ready to lock this down, even if I was just the consolation prize. 5. Two days before her birthday, I went to pick her up from work. And I saw him. Brad. The Golden Boy. He was standing outside her office building. Maya ran to him, laughing, and hugged him tight. They looked so… right.

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The Present She was my best friend in high school. The kind of friend you’d bury a body with. One New Year’s Eve, she came over to keep me company. We started drinking cheap whiskey at eight and didn’t stop until the ball dropped. She passed out cold, so I carried her to my bed. Just as I was tucking her in, her eyes snapped open. “You wanna try it?” Her eyes, usually sharp and guarded, were glassy and direct. “Us?” Everything changed after that night. … This morning, a package landed on my porch. Inside was a letter and a collection of junk: my old varsity wristband, a guitar pick I thought I lost, and a strip of faded photo booth pictures. I thought one of my buddies was pranking me until I saw the handwriting. Spiky, rushed, unmistakable. Then I looked at the postmark. This letter was mailed ten years ago. My heart hammered against my ribs. Suddenly, I wasn’t twenty-eight anymore. I was seeing a face I hadn’t thought about—hadn’t let myself think about—in a decade. A face that looked like a boy but smiled like an angel. “No way,” I muttered. “You’re still messing with me?” Junior Year Ten years ago, I was a senior. I was a burnout, exiled to the back row of the classroom—the “stoner row”—next to the trash can. No one wanted to sit next to me. Three days into the semester, we got a transfer student. Alex. Alex walked in looking like a member of a grunge band: shaggy hair, flannel shirt, oversized denim jacket. The girls in class perked up, thinking we finally got a cute emo guy. Mr. Henderson, our math teacher and a man who looked like he ate nails for breakfast, glared at the new kid. “Alex Miller. I can see your house from here. How are you late on your first day?” Alex didn’t flinch. “I can see the sun from here, too, but I can’t touch it. You wanna try?” The whole class inhaled sharply. Henderson was a former marine. He once broke up a fight in the parking lot by lifting two linebackers by their collars. We thought Alex was dead meat. Instead, Henderson just sighed. “Find a seat. Open your books.” Alex walked straight to the back and dropped a bag next to me. Headphones around the neck, eyes glued to the front. “Hey, man,” I whispered. “You got a death wish? Henderson eats kids like you.” Alex glanced at me, pure disdain. “I’m not your ‘man’.” My jaw hit the desk. Alex was a girl. And she was terrifying. The Bond We didn’t speak for a week. She read comics, listened to her Walkman, and drew on the desk. Then came the Ramen Incident. During study hall, she made instant noodles with hot water from the teacher’s lounge. She spilled some broth on the desk. “Hey, Slick,” she snapped at me. “Pass me a napkin.” “My name is Jake,” I shot back. “Not Slick.” “Napkin!” she barked. I threw a wad of paper towels at her. She wiped the desk, balled it up, and sank a three-pointer into the trash can next to me. “Whatever, Slick. Don’t be so sensitive.” The nickname stuck. That was Strike One. Strike Two happened in the Computer Lab. We were supposed to be learning Excel, but the guys were setting up a LAN party for Counter-Strike. Suddenly, my buddy Ben raised his hand. “Mr. G! My screen froze!” “Mine too!” “Same here!” The teacher, a clueless guy named Mr. G, started panicking. “Who isn’t frozen?” I looked around. My screen was the only one working. Alex, sitting to my left, stood up. “Jake’s computer is fine.” Mr. G rushed over. “Why is yours working?” I grinned nervously. “Built different, I guess.” That’s when Alex reached over, grabbed my mouse, and minimized my window. Behind it was a pop-up ad I hadn’t closed—a very graphic, very adult pop-up ad featuring a woman in compromising lingerie. “Sir,” Alex said with a straight face. “I think Jake gave the network a virus. He’s looking at porn.” The class erupted. My reputation was nuked. From that day on, girls avoided me, and guys high-fived me in the hall. ” didn’t know you were into the weird stuff, Jake!” I looked at Alex. She was smirking. Game on, I thought. The Shift I finally got leverage a month later. Alex was acting weird—pale, quiet, refusing to stand up during lunch. I noticed a dark stain on her jeans. I knew exactly what it was. “Hey, Alex,” I said loudly. “Let’s go to the cafeteria. My treat.” “No,” she hissed. “I bet I can beat you there. Unless you’re scared?” She glared at me, trapped. She wanted to kill me, but she couldn’t stand up. I waited a beat, then took off my oversized flannel shirt and tossed it to her. “Tie it around your waist,” I whispered. “You leaked.” Her face went crimson. It was the first time I’d seen her look embarrassed. “Do you have… supplies?” I asked. “What?” “Tampons, pads. You know.” She looked like she wanted to die. “No.” “Stay here.” I ran to the nurse’s office, grabbed a handful of supplies, and sprinted back. I slid them to her. “Go. I’ll watch the door.” The next day, she returned my shirt. It smelled like laundry detergent—lavender. “Your shirt was filthy,” she grumbled. “The water turned black.” She was still mean, but the wall had cracked. We weren’t just desk-mates anymore. We were bros. The Letter: Part 1 Hey Slick, It’s me. Your favorite nightmare, Alex. If my math is right, you’re twenty-eight now. How’s life? Did you become a rock star, or did you sell out and become a suit? Getting this letter must be weird. We sat next to each other for a year, but we never really talked about the real stuff. I spent most of that time pranking you. You probably hated me. I acted like a dude, dressed like a slob, and kept everyone at arm’s length. It was armor, Jake. If I didn’t care, I couldn’t get hurt. If I didn’t let anyone in, they wouldn’t have to watch me leave. But you… you were different. You were warm. Being around you was like standing next to a campfire in the middle of winter. That’s why I was so mean to you. Every time you were nice to me, I panicked. I wanted to be close to you, but I made myself run faster. I was a coward. The Fight Senior year. Winter. Alex was moody. I asked if it was “that time of the month” and she told me to go to hell. Finally, she cracked. “Can you beat someone up for me?” I blinked. I was on academic probation, hanging by a thread. “Who?” “Tyler Vance.” Tyler was a varsity linebacker and a total prick. “Why?” Alex bit her lip. “He… he’s bullying me.” That was all I needed. That night, I kicked open Tyler’s dorm room door (we were at a semi-boarding school). He was playing poker. I dragged him off the top bunk and broke his nose before his roommates pulled me off. “Touch her again, and you’re dead,” I spat. The next morning, I was suspended. Sent home until May to “reflect” before finals. As I packed my locker, Alex stood there, eyes red. She gave me her prized vintage Walkman. “Jake… I didn’t think you’d actually get expelled.” “Worth it,” I grinned, sporting a black eye. “Now I can play video games all day.” She tried to smile, but a tear rolled down her cheek. The Letter: Part 2 I regret asking you to fight him. Tyler wasn’t bullying me. He was blackmailing a girl in our class, Linda. He had photos of her. I wanted to stop him, but I was scared. So I used you. I watched you pack your bag. You were smiling, trying to make me feel better, even though your dad was going to kill you. If I had just three more months… maybe things would have been different. The saddest thing isn’t losing. It’s almost winning. It’s the “what if.” New Year’s Eve Two days into my suspension, Alex showed up at my house. She was wearing a white puffer jacket and a red scarf. For a second, she actually looked… pretty. “How’d you find me?” I asked. “Stole your address from the office,” she said. “Get dressed. We’re going out.” We spent that winter causing trouble. My parents were away on business, so we owned the town. Arcades, pool halls, skating rinks. She was terrible at skating—she’d grab onto me and drag us both down onto the ice, laughing hysterically. Then came New Year’s Eve. She showed up with a bag of snacks and a bottle of Jack Daniels. She mixed the whiskey with hot water and lemon—said it was an old family remedy for the cold. We drank. A lot. We watched the countdown on TV. By midnight, we were wasted. She fell asleep on the couch. I carried her to my room because it was freezing downstairs. I put the blanket over her. That’s when she opened her eyes. “You wanna try it?” she whispered. “Try what?” “Sex.”

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I was dead. Technically speaking, I was a lingering spirit tethered to a pre-war walk-up in Queens, New York. I died the cliché way: a Wall Street burnout who lost everything in a Ponzi scheme, got diagnosed with terminal cancer, and decided to check out early via a sturdy belt and the ceiling fan. I was bitter, angry, and had successfully scared off twelve tenants in two years. Then came Chloe. She was broke—like, “eating ramen for dinner six nights a week” broke. She walked in with a shady broker who told her the rent was $800 a month. In New York City. That alone should have been a red flag the size of a billboard. “It’s haunted,” the broker whispered, terrified to step inside. “The last guy… hung around, if you catch my drift.” Chloe just checked her bank account app, sighed, and said, “Does the Wi-Fi work? I’ll take it.” The Arrangement I intended to haunt her. I really did. But on her first night, instead of trembling in fear, she set up a little altar on the radiator. She didn’t use incense; she lit a fancy “Stress Relief” candle and waved a bundle of burning sage around. “Okay, look,” she announced to the empty room. “I know you’re here. I respect your space. You’re basically my invisible roommate now. As long as you don’t murder me, I’ll keep the place clean and the vibes good. Deal?” I watched her from the ceiling. She was tiny, wearing an oversized hoodie, looking terrified but determined. Deal, I thought. We fell into a routine. She ate mac and cheese; I inhaled the scent of her eucalyptus candles (which, surprisingly, felt like a spa day for my soul). She hung up fairy lights and tapestries to cover the water stains. She turned my tomb into a Pinterest board. I learned about her life. She came from a small town in the Midwest, drowning in student loans, working double shifts at a warehouse while studying for grad school. She was exhausted. One night, she fell asleep with a pot of water boiling on the stove. The water overflowed, extinguishing the flame, filling the tiny kitchen with gas. I panicked. I couldn’t touch things easily, but adrenaline (or whatever ghosts have) kicked in. I focused all my energy and snapped the circuit breaker. The sudden darkness woke her up. She smelled the gas, rushed to turn it off, and opened the window. “Thanks, Roomie,” she whispered into the dark, shivering. I realized then: I didn’t want to scare her. I wanted to protect her. The Scumbag Then came Tyler. He was her “boyfriend,” if you could call him that. He was a SoundCloud rapper with a trust fund he’d already blown, addicted to Call of Duty, and possessed the personality of a wet sock. He came over one night, complaining about the walk-up. “Babe, it’s freezing in here,” he whined, grabbing her hands. “Warm me up.” I hovered in the corner, glaring. Get your hands off her. Chloe pulled away gently. “I’ll make you some tea.” Tyler didn’t leave. He ate her food, complained about her cheap TV, and then had the audacity to ask her for gas money. “I need fifty bucks to get back to Jersey,” he lied. I knew he lived ten blocks away. Chloe, being the saint she was, gave it to him. I followed him out. I watched him walk into a dive bar, buy a round of shots for some random girl, and brag about “finessing some chick for cash.” I made the bar lights flicker and explode. Tyler screamed like a toddler and ran out. It was petty, but it felt great. The Incident A few months later, things escalated. Chloe was sick—flu season hit her hard. She was curled up in bed, miserable. I was pacing (floating?) anxiously, wishing I could just hand her a glass of water. Tyler showed up. He claimed he was there to take care of her, but he reeked of cheap cologne and desperation. “You look hot when you’re sick,” he muttered, sitting on the edge of her bed. His hand crept up her leg. “Tyler, stop. I’m not feeling well,” Chloe croaked. “Come on, I came all the way here,” he sneered, pushing her back down.

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It happened on the way to pick up Liam from his kindergarten. I saw the whole thing. I watched a man snatch him, watched my six-year-old’s face—terrified, tear-stained—pressed against the car window, his tiny hands clawing at the glass, screaming “Mommy.” Then the window rolled up, and his face was gone. But when the detectives pressed me, when they made me sit through hours of interviews, I told them nothing. Not a word. Even when my husband, Ethan, knelt before me on the hardwood floor, his eyes broken, begging me to recall a license plate, a jacket color, anything, I remained silent. My in-laws, their eyes raw and red-rimmed, screamed and cursed me. They called me a cold-blooded executioner, a monster. I only curled tighter into the corner of the sofa. When the reporters blocked our driveway, I grabbed the rolling pin from the kitchen and charged out like a rabid animal. Ethan never divorced me. The man who had once built a perfect world for me, who had treated me like a princess, simply put a deadbolt on the life we knew and locked the world out. He ignored the gossip, the police reports, and the public outcry, deciding I would stay in that house to pay my penance. He tortured me. Every single day. Five years of it, until the day that neural-mapping technology matured and he sent me to the Memory Retrieval Tribunal. 1 The large screen above the trial platform flickered, and Ethan’s face, cold and razor-sharp, filled the frame. He stood at the head of the auditorium, behind the judge’s bench, a sea of over three thousand people filling the seats behind him. “Audrey,” his voice boomed, echoing through the vast Metropolitan Convention Hall, “you don’t deserve the title of mother!” “Liam was so devoted to you,” he spat, “yet you stood there and watched him be taken, refusing to offer a single clue about the monster who did it!” I was strapped onto a specialized medical gurney, a plastic tube snaking down my throat, a necessary evil after years of neglect. My body was an artifact of suffering; lifting an eyelid felt like a monumental effort. “Don’t play dead!” Ethan’s voice was deafening, pumped through the hall’s massive speakers. “The police said you were the only eyewitness. Security footage showed you lingered at that intersection for ten minutes. What were you so afraid of?” “Today, this Memory Extractor will drag out everything you’ve hidden inside your head!” A storm of insults rained down from the audience, a collective, angry roar. Eggs and rotting fruit splattered against the thick, clear partition that separated me from the enraged public, leaving trails of foul, yellow-green slime. My in-laws sat in the front row. My mother-in-law was shaking, weeping uncontrollably, held upright by my father-in-law. “You murderous bitch! Liam was only six! How could you be so cruel?” “That was your own son!” I knew their hatred was boundless. Liam was the only grandchild, the light of their lives. My refusal to speak had turned the case cold, a national obsession and an unsolved mystery. Grief had aged my in-laws ten years in one. As the metallic probes of the Extractor were fixed to my temples, I forced what little strength I had left to shake my head at Ethan. A tear finally broke free, tracing a hot path down my cheek. He only sneered. He nodded to the technician. “Begin.” The instant the machine powered on, a thousand molten needles seemed to pierce my skull. My eyes flew wide. I couldn’t scream. My body spasmed violently, uncontrollably. A doctor rushed forward to administer a sedative, but Ethan waved him off. “No. I want her to be fully conscious when she watches her own memory. She will atone in excruciating clarity.” The massive screen in the center of the auditorium lit up, beginning to stream fragments of my mind. The first image was Ethan’s back. He was wearing a black suit, standing in a room overflowing with white lilies. In the center, on a small table, was a photograph of Liam. He was six, wearing blue overalls, holding up a drawing of a sunflower, his two small canine teeth showing in a gap-toothed, proud grin. Toys and coloring books lay scattered nearby. This was the memorial room. I saw myself walk forward, wanting to touch Ethan’s shoulder, but he shook me off. He turned, grabbed my throat, and dragged me right up to the photograph. “You have the audacity to come here?” His eyes were bloodshot, manic. “The police asked for the license plate, and you said you didn’t see it!” “They asked what color jacket the man wore, and you said you couldn’t remember!” “Audrey, look at Liam’s eyes,” he growled, shaking me until my teeth rattled, “and tell me again you don’t remember.” My body trembled, but even in the memory, I remained mute. The image began to warp and blur. The insults from the auditorium grew more intense. “She’s doing this on purpose! Maybe she was in on it with the kidnapper!” “This kind of woman should be flayed alive!” My physical convulsions grew more violent. The tube in my throat scraped my vocal cords with every spasm, sending searing pain through my chest. I felt a warm, sticky liquid—saliva mixed with blood—trickle from the corner of my mouth onto the pillow. The doctor’s face wavered in my blurred vision. He hesitated, looking up at Ethan. Then, with a grim determination, he plunged a syringe of adrenaline into my vein. The drug hit my bloodstream and, suddenly, the fog in my consciousness tore open. The screen went haywire. The shouts, Ethan’s face, the blur of the running child—everything imploded into a chaotic mass of color before dissolving into a single, cohesive wash of warm, saturated orange light. The doctor rushed to the microphone to explain. “The Memory Extractor detected a surge of intense emotion. The memory being displayed now is likely the patient’s deepest, most profound fragment—the most critical one.” The screen slowly stabilized. It was our sun-drenched living room. Liam was on the rug in his little dinosaur pajamas, the afternoon sunlight slicing through the French doors and spilling over him. He was coloring sunflowers, just like the one in the memorial picture. I sat beside him on the sofa, peeling a tangerine. I broke off a section and offered it to him. “Mommy, look!” Liam held up his artwork, a smear of yellow crayon on his nose. “I drew Mommy and Daddy for the sunflower so it won’t be lonely!” I wiped the crayon off his nose, squeezing his soft cheek. “My clever boy.” He giggled and launched himself into my arms, burying his little head in my neck. “Mommy smells so good,” he whispered, “like a cupcake.” Just then, the front door clicked. Ethan walked in. Before he could even put his briefcase down, Liam had slid off the sofa and toddled over on his short legs, wrapping his arms around his father’s thigh. “Daddy! You’re home!” Ethan bent down and lifted him, the exhaustion instantly melting from his face, replaced by a profound, heart-stopping tenderness. A profound silence fell over the hall. “Wait… that looks like a happy family,” someone whispered. “Why wouldn’t she give up the killer’s information if she was this close to him?” “If she was truly cold-hearted, why would this warm memory be the strongest?” “Maybe there’s another side to the story?” But the murmurs of doubt were quickly drowned out by renewed fury. “It’s a performance! She’s trying to manufacture sympathy to confuse the machine!” Ethan, standing by the platform, stared at the image of our smiling, sun-lit faces. His hands clenched into fists, his expression so dark it looked like storm clouds brewing. “Enough!” he roared suddenly. “Audrey, you have no right to remember those moments!” He vaulted off the platform, ignoring the technician’s protests, and rushed to the Memory Extractor, snatching the control lever. “Mr. Ethan, no! It’s already at eighty percent of the safety threshold! Any higher will cause irreversible brain damage!” “Irreversible?” Ethan’s voice was a chilling sneer. “She killed my son. I need the answer now.” Slam. He pushed the lever all the way to the top. Kerr-CHUNK! The Extractor emitted a high-pitched, electric scream. The metal probes on my temples felt like they’d instantly turned into branding irons. My head felt like a bell struck by a hammer, my skull cavity pressurized to the point of rupture. My eyeballs rolled upward into my head, and my body began to convulse with ten times the force, my limbs twisting at unnatural angles. “Doctor! Stop the machine! You’ll kill her!” a voice from the audience screamed. “This is barbaric! It’s not a trial—it’s murder!” The discussion erupted into full-blown panic. Security rushed to block the exits as several distraught attendees tried to rush the platform. The doctor, frantic, again tried to inject the sedative, but Ethan brutally shoved him aside, sending him tumbling to the floor. Ethan stood over the gurney, his face a mask of pure hatred. “You think you can die, Audrey? I promise you, not even the Devil himself can take you until you tell me who the kidnapper was!” He spun to the technician. “Stabilize the power! I need a clear picture! The killer’s face!” “I want everyone to see the bastard!” The technician was shaking, but fearing Ethan more than the exploding machine, he fumbled with the controls. I felt my neural pathways snapping, one by one. The darkness at the edge of my vision grew thicker. I could only see the broken fragments flickering on the screen. Liam’s crying face, the glaring sun, the flashing red light of the crosswalk. The pain was too severe to concentrate, too consuming to piece together any coherent image. I felt my breathing shallow, my consciousness sinking into a bottomless well. The shouts of the audience had quieted, replaced by looks of horror and pity. Some began to murmur that Ethan was too obsessed, that this spectacle was senseless cruelty. My in-laws’ hatred softened, replaced by a lost, vacant confusion as they looked at my near-dead body. But Ethan heard none of it. “The killer? His face? Audrey, think! Now!”

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“In court, I’m gonna say he touched me here.” I watched on my security camera as my own mother coached my eight-year-old daughter—a child with Down syndrome—to commit perjury. The lie was designed to strip me of my daughter, my reputation, and my freedom. The Build-A-Bear I bought her was laughing at me from the back seat, so I did the only thing I could: I sewed a voice recorder into its belly. For three weeks, I became the world’s greatest actor, installing tiny cameras everywhere, gathering irrefutable proof of their monstrous plot. Now, in the packed courtroom, my daughter clutches the bear, ready to deliver the final, devastating lie. But she doesn’t know her “Mister Snuggles” is about to testify on my behalf. 1 On my way home from work, my home security camera activated. On it, I saw my mother in the living room, coaching my eight-year-old daughter. “In court, I’m gonna say he touched me here.” My daughter was pointing at her private parts, while my mother hugged her and told her she was a good girl. I almost swerved off the road, watching my daughter smile about how she was going to ruin my life in three weeks’ time. The surprise Build-A-Bear I’d bought her was laughing at me from the back seat. The photos of Julie my mother had sent earlier now seemed contaminated. But instead of getting angry and acting on impulse like college-me would have, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I sewed a recording device into the Build-A-Bear before driving home. “Grandma’s here!” Julie squealed when I walked through the door 20 minutes later, running to me with the same innocent face that had just been rehearsing my destruction. “I know, sweetheart,” I said, handing her the Build-A-Bear. “Mister Snuggles has a new friend for you.” My mother smiled that grandmother smile I’d trusted for 42 years. “You spoil her, Daniel. How was work?” “The usual.” I kissed Julie’s forehead, my stomach churning. “Thanks for watching her, Mom.” Over the next two and a half weeks, I became the world’s greatest actor. I installed cameras in Julie’s dollhouse, her jewelry box, even inside the old tablet she used for games. Every device was legally purchased and placed in my own home, in items I’d bought. My lawyer would later call it genius. Tuesday, my mother brought Disney brochures to my daughter. “For after the bad man goes away,” she whispered to Julie, who was ecstatic about the holiday and seemed to have no idea of the consequences she was doing. On Thursday, they practiced Julie’s testimony again. “Remember baby, tears help. The judge needs to see you’re scared of Daddy.” On Saturday, she gave Julie a new American Girl doll. “This is for being such a brave girl about our secret.” Each night, I’d transfer the recordings to three separate cloud services and a physical drive in my office safe. Then I’d tuck my daughter in, bringing her milk and cookies before calling her a good girl. It wasn’t her fault. She had Down syndrome and didn’t understand the gravity situation. I couldn’t be mad at her. When young children do bad things, you point the finger at the adults in their life. The court date arrived three weeks later. The room was packed for what everyone thought was day three of our custody battle. Jessica, my ex-wife, sat with her lawyer, looking confident. She’d been pushing for full custody with supervised visits only. My siblings sat behind my mother. “Your Honor,” Jessica’s lawyer announced. “We’d like to call Julie Grimes to the stand.” My eight-year-old daughter walked in clutching her Build-A-Bear. She wouldn’t look at me. The bailiff helped her onto the witness stand, adjusting the microphone to her height. “Julie, sweetheart,” Jessica’s lawyer said. “I know this is scary, but can you tell the judge what you told your mommy and grandma?” Julie’s little voice shook. “Daddy… Daddy touches me in bad places.” The courtroom gasped. Jessica dabbed her eyes. My mother reached over to squeeze Jessica’s hand in support. “Where does he touch you?” Julie pointed to her private areas. “There. He says it’s our special secret.” I felt my lawyer’s hand on my arm, keeping me seated. My siblings were staring at me in horror. “How long has this been happening, Julie?” “A long time. He said if I told anyone, Mommy would get hurt.” Jessica broke into performative sobs. The CPS workers were furiously taking notes. The judge’s face had turned to stone. “Julie, one last question,” the lawyer continued. “Do you feel safe with your Daddy?” Julie started crying, coached tears. “No. I’m scared of him. I want to live with Mommy and Grandma forever.” “No further questions.” The judge looked at my lawyer. “Does the defense wish to cross-examine?” “Your Honor,” my lawyer stood. “Before we proceed, we need to submit critical evidence that will recontextualize this testimony.” “This is a delay tactic!” Jessica’s lawyer protested. “Your Honor, I have 18 days of video evidence that this child has been coached to give false testimony.”

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I entered a game where the challenge was to survive 7 days on 50 bucks. The prize: a staggering 120 million. Simple math, brutal reality. A bottle of water cost 15. A sandwich ran 40. Everyone else whispered, laughed, even sneered at me. “You’re doomed,” they said. They didn’t know, I thrived in these conditions. Call it luck, call it experience, call it what you will. I was a sophisticated dirt poor, and the game was practically tailored to me. I would be the one walking out alive, side by side with the few who dared to last. A mechanical, electronic voice cut through the anticipation. “Welcome to the Dirt Poor Game. Initial funds: $50. Objective: Survive in the game for 7 days. Winner receives: 120 million. Overspending, death, or leaving the game zone will result in elimination and a 120 million debt.” 1 A pause, heavy with mischief. “Now, any cowards want to quit?” Quit? I laughed under my breath. A young guy with bleach blonde hair scoffed, shaking his head. “Seven days? I could survive on water alone.” A chubby kid in a soaked t-shirt muttered something about stretching $50 over bagels and peanut butter. His shoulders sagged with nervous energy, but the glint in his eyes said he still believed in fortune favoring the bold. “Only an idiot would quit now.” Around us, the crowd buzzed with blind excitement. Some daring each other with smirks and bets, others frozen in silent panic. Finally, the system confirmed what I already knew: not a single player has quit. “Game rules activated. Players cannot quit. 100 players deployed. Welcome to Airport Odyssey. May you survive.” A flash of white light swallowed me, and then, chaos. I was standing in an airport that stretched endlessly in all directions, terminals disappearing into vanishing points. Travelers streamed past, faces blurred, some human, some not. I couldn’t tell which were players and which were NPCs. I glanced at my interface. $50. Exactly as promised. Three stats blinked above it: Hunger, Thirst, Energy, all full. My eyes caught a convenience store across the terminal, a flicker of hope. I moved toward it, scanning the shelves. Then came the sound that froze me in place—a choked, terrified cry. “Holy hell!” It was the chubby kid from earlier, staring at the cooler like it had just turned into a wall of fire. “$15 for a bottle of water?” he groaned, eyes wide. “Highway robbery!” I stepped closer, heart sinking. Cupcakes? 50 bucks. Sandwiches? 40. Bagels? 10. Even the cheapest pack of graham crackers was 18. The math was merciless. Seven days, $50, and not enough to buy half a bottle of water each day. He grabbed my arm, panic flaring. “Player 66, sis, we’re screwed. 50 bucks won’t even cover three bottles of water for a week. We’ll starve. We’ll die.” I let out a long sigh. Charity wasn’t in the system’s vocabulary. I already knew survival wouldn’t be easy. Around us, other players crowded the store, faces twisted with disbelief and dread. “Miss, I’m Player 44,” the kid said, rubbing sweat from his brow. “Come on, let’s team up. I can handle anyone who messes with you.” He threw a quick flurry of martial arts moves, smooth but nervous. I shook my head politely. “Not yet.” I needed to understand the rules before I trusted anyone. My eyes scanned the terminal. My priority was simple, cold, and clear: water. Free water. Outside the restroom, I spotted a water fountain. Two discarded plastic bottles lay nearby, dented and forgotten. I washed them quickly, filling both to the brim. Water problem solved. Cost: zero. Survival didn’t have to be complicated yet. Next came energy. My eyes fell on a Starbucks across the terminal. The condiment stand gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights. Rows of sugar packets and creamer cups lined neatly like soldiers. Sugar was essential. It could save me from low blood sugar, from weakness, from mistakes. I moved toward it, calm and deliberate, every motion fluid and casual, like I belonged there. Within seconds, a dozen sugar packets and a few creamers slid into my pockets. Less than two seconds. Then, just as casually, I walked out. Reaching a deserted corner, I tore two packets open and dumped the sugar directly into my mouth. Sweetness exploded, sharp and cloying, but energizing. Cost: zero. The airport’s air conditioning blasted like an icebox. Maybe the system had designed it this way; colder temperatures burn energy faster. My thin clothes offered little protection, but I improvised, moving to stay warm. A discarded airline blanket in a trash can became my temporary armor against the chill. Hunger, however, was more persistent. By 8:00 PM, I drifted toward a small bakery tucked behind a glass counter. The unsold bread radiated warmth and a rich, yeasty aroma. My stomach growled loudly, a reminder that instincts alone weren’t enough. My dirt poor instincts whispered that the bread should be discounted by now. A loaf marked $30 sat temptingly behind the glass. Now it read 15. Still not enough. Waiting longer could yield deeper discounts, maybe even free. Every saved dollar was a chance to survive another hour, another day. I perched on a chair across from the bakery, half-closing my eyes to rest. The quiet was shattered by an anonymous broadcast on the game’s public channel. “Head to the bakery in Terminal 3, Zone A. Bread here is half price. Hurry, don’t shove. It’s mine!” Pandemonium erupted. 20, maybe 30 players surged toward the bakery like a stampede. People waved cash frantically, grabbing loaves straight off shelves. Staff shouted for order, but their voices were drowned in chaos. Within minutes, every discounted loaf, including the one I had been eyeing, was gone. Some players held their bread triumphantly, relief written across their faces. Others pounded their chests, cursing their luck. Curses, complaints, and desperate sighs hung in the cold air like smoke. My hunger pangs twisted sharply, yet I forced a deep breath, suppressing the cramps. My gaze drifted upward to the flight information screens hanging above the terminal. Red statuses scrolled relentlessly. It was time to show my true skills. The red letters on the departures board told a story most players hadn’t yet understood: Delayed. Delayed. Cancelled. Flight after flight, destination after destination. This wasn’t just an airport; it was a trap designed to bleed money from the desperate. But delays meant something else entirely to someone like me. Delays meant free food. I approached the nearest gate agent, a tired-looking NPC—or player, I still couldn’t tell—shuffling papers behind a desk. The crowd around her had thinned after the latest cancellation announcement. “Excuse me,” I said, my voice carrying just the right blend of exhaustion and concern. “My flight’s been delayed six hours. Are there meal vouchers available?” She barely looked up. “Vouchers are only for delays over eight hours.” “Oh.” I let my shoulders slump, then brightened slightly. “What about the passenger rights compensation? I read something about that online.” A flicker of annoyance crossed her face. “You’d need to file a formal complaint. Takes three business days to process.” I nodded slowly, as if accepting defeat, then played my real card. “I understand. It’s just… I’m diabetic, and I need to eat regularly. Is there anything you can do? Even just pointing me toward where they put the expired sandwiches?” Her expression softened minutely. She glanced around, then leaned forward. “Wait here.” Three minutes later, she returned with a wrapped sandwich and a small bag of pretzels. “Don’t tell anyone. These were supposed to be thrown out anyway.” “Thank you so much,” I breathed, genuine gratitude flooding my voice. As I walked away, I checked my interface. Hunger: 78% Thirst: 85% Energy: 82% Balance: $50 Cost: Zero Behind me, I heard Player 44’s voice rising in pitch. “What do you mean you don’t have anymore? She just got food! I need food too!” The agent’s voice turned cold. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step back.” I found a quiet corner near Gate C17 and unwrapped my prize. The sandwich was dry, the lettuce wilted, but it was sustenance. As I ate slowly, savoring every bite, I observed the other players. Most had already spent money. I could see it in the way they clutched shopping bags, held half-empty water bottles, or nervously checked their interfaces. The blonde kid from earlier strutted past with a large coffee. $20 gone in a single impulse. Others huddled in groups, pooling resources or arguing about strategy. The public channel crackled to life again. “Day 1, Hour 12. Current Player Count: 100. Eliminations: 0. Average Remaining Balance: $38.50.” Someone had already burned through almost $12. The game had barely begun. A new announcement echoed through the terminal. “Attention passengers. Due to inclement weather, all flights are grounded until further notice. Complimentary blankets available at Terminal B, Gate 7. First come, first served.” The stampede began immediately. I stayed seated, finishing my sandwich. Blankets were useful, sure, but I already had one. More importantly, I’d noticed something else on the departures board. A pattern in the delays. Every two hours, one specific flight kept getting pushed back by exactly 30 minutes. Flight AA2847 to somewhere called Nexus Point. That flight was important. I didn’t know why yet, but the system wanted us to notice it. I settled back against the wall, pulling my salvaged blanket tighter. Around me, the airport’s fluorescent lights hummed their monotonous song. In the distance, I heard shouting as the blanket distribution turned into a brawl. Survive 7 days. That was all I had to do. I closed my eyes and began counting the hours until my next move. I woke to the sound of crying. It was soft at first, muffled, like someone trying desperately to hide their breakdown. I opened my eyes to find the terminal dimmer; they must have switched to night lighting. My interface read 3:47 AM, Day 2. The crying was coming from a figure huddled near the window, silhouetted against the tarmac lights. I recognized the body language before I saw the face. Player 44, the chubby martial arts kid. “Hey,” I said quietly, approaching. “You okay?” He jumped, wiping his face quickly. “Player 66. Yeah, I’m… I’m fine.” His interface was visible on his wrist display. Balance: $23.50 $26.50 spent in less than a day. My stomach tightened. “What happened?” He laughed bitterly. “I got hungry. Bought a sandwich. Then I got thirsty. Bought water. Then I thought, might as well get something for tomorrow, right? So, I bought another sandwich. And chips. And…” He trailed off. “I’m an idiot.” “You’re panicking,” I corrected. “Different thing. Same result.” “I’m going to die in here.” He looked at me with desperate eyes. “Please. Team up with me. I can protect you. I’m strong, I can—” “Protection isn’t the problem,” I interrupted. “Resources are. And if I team up with you, your spending habits become my problem.” His face crumpled. “So you’re just going to let me die?” I should have walked away. The rational, survival-focused part of my brain screamed at me to cut loose the dead weight. But another part, maybe the stupid part, remembered what it was like to be young and scared and in over your head. “Listen,” I said, sitting down next to him. “I’m not carrying you. But I’ll make you a deal. I teach you how to survive on nothing, and you watch my back when I need to rest. Equal partnership. You follow my rules exactly. No improvising. No panic buying.” “Deal?” He nodded frantically. “Deal. Yes. Thank you. Thank you.” “First rule,” I cut him off. “Stop thanking me. Gratitude makes you weak. Makes you feel like you owe me. We’re partners, not charity case and savior. Got it?” “Got it.” “Second rule: never, ever announce free stuff on the public channel. That was you with the bakery, wasn’t it?” He had the grace to look ashamed. “I thought… I don’t know. I thought people would appreciate it.” “You created a stampede. You know what happens in stampedes? People get hurt. Resources get hoarded. And you make enemies.” I leaned forward. “In this game, information is more valuable than money. You give it away, you’re giving away your edge. Understand?” “I understand. Do you?” I studied him. “What’s your real name?” “James. James Chen.” “Okay, James. I’m Maya Patel. And starting now, we survive together. But only if you can prove you’re worth the investment.” His jaw set with determination. “What do I need to do?” I smiled. “First lesson: Airport Infrastructure. Come on.” Over the next two hours, I taught James everything I knew about surviving in institutional spaces. The maintenance closets that were rarely locked. The employee break rooms with microwaves and, sometimes if you were lucky, forgotten leftovers. The loading docks where delivery trucks occasionally left pallets of supplies unattended for precious minutes. But most importantly, I taught him about people. “See that guy?” I nodded toward a middle-aged player in a business suit, pacing and muttering to himself. “He’s about to crack. Watch.” Within five minutes, the man had purchased a $40 sandwich and a $50 bottle of wine from the duty-free shop. He ate and drank with frantic urgency, barely tasting anything. “He’s not surviving 7 days,” James whispered. “No. He’s not built for deprivation. But watch what happens next.” Sure enough, an hour later, the man approached other players, trying to sell his remaining wine. “Thirty dollars! It cost me fifty! Come on, someone!” No takers. Alcohol wasn’t essential, and everyone was hoarding cash for food and water. The man’s face darkened with rage and fear. “That’s when things get dangerous,” I explained to James. “When people realize their mistakes and start getting desperate. Stay away from them.” James nodded, absorbing everything like a sponge. By dawn of Day 2, I’d spent nothing. James, now operating under my guidance, had spent nothing additional. My stats were manageable: Hunger: 65% Thirst: 72% Energy: 68% James’s stats were worse—Hunger 45%, Thirst 53%—but improving with the sugar packets and water I’d shown him how to obtain. The morning announcement came. “Day 2, Hour 18. Current Player Count: 97. Eliminations: 3. Average Remaining Balance: $31.20.” Three people had already lost. Either by overspending, death, or somehow leaving the game zone. The reality of the situation was setting in across the terminal. I could see it in the way players moved—slower, more cautious, eyeing each other with suspicion. “Maya,” James said quietly. “What do you think happens to people who get eliminated?” “I don’t know. But I don’t plan to find out.” That’s when we heard the screaming. The scream came from Terminal D, shrill and full of genuine terror. James and I ran toward it, joining a stream of other curious and concerned players. We found a crowd gathered around Gate D12. At the center lay a body. A young woman, maybe 25, her face pale and eyes staring at nothing. Next to her, a shattered water bottle leaked its contents across the floor. “She’s dead,” someone whispered. “Oh god, she’s actually dead.” A player in medical scrubs pushed through the crowd, checked for a pulse, then sat back on his heels. “Definitely dead. But I don’t see any obvious cause.” My eyes caught something on her wrist display. Balance: -$3.75 “She overspent,” I said aloud. The crowd turned to look at me. “Her balance is negative,” I continued, pointing. “The game rules said overspending results in elimination. This must be what that means.” “That’s insane!” someone shouted. “They killed her for going three dollars over?” “We agreed to the rules,” another voice called back. “We all heard them.” The medical player stood up, face grim. “Whatever the cause, we should move her somewhere respectful.” “No.” The electronic voice of the system cut through everything, emanating from hidden speakers. “Bodies of eliminated players will disappear automatically within one hour. Do not interfere with the process. All players are reminded: Overspending, death, or leaving the game zone will result in elimination and a 120 million debt.” “Would anyone like to quit now?” The silence was absolute. “Negative debt will be transferred to your real-world accounts. Think carefully.”

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Seven months into the sickness that was slowly hollowing me out, I asked Vivian Shaw for a divorce. She didn’t even grant me a flicker of her emerald eyes, keeping them glued to the documents she was reviewing. “A reason?” I slid an Asset Transfer Agreement across the mahogany desk toward her. The edges of the paper were worn, and the date was three months before our wedding. Multi-billion dollar controlling shares in the Shaw Group, three European villas, a private island in the Caribbean. All gratuitously signed over to my stepbrother, Rhys Alden. The only thing I’d received, all those years ago, was a cold, brutal prenuptial agreement. I signed it, stepping into the Shaw estate with nothing, not even a penny from Vivian’s considerable dowry. For a decade, the limit on my corporate allowance card was five hundred dollars a month. Now, even a hospital stay required stringent financial planning. Finally, she put the file down and looked at me. A flash of something that might have been concern—a brief flicker of warmth—crossed her face, only to be immediately sealed over by her customary frost. “This expired, voided agreement? Ethan Bellweather, since when have you become so dramatic about paperwork?” I looked at the woman I had loved for fifteen years. In her eyes, I didn’t even have the right to be hurt. I didn’t cry. I didn’t raise my voice. I was unnervingly calm. “Vivian,” I said. “I’ll have the divorce papers drafted and sent over in a few days.” Then I turned and walked out, pulling my cell phone out to call the medical center. “Hello, I’d like to schedule my surgery for one week from today.” 1 The appointment confirmation pinged in immediately. Looking at the scheduled time on the screen, a spasm of pain shot through my abdomen, involuntary and sharp. I braced myself against the bedroom wall and slowly sank to the floor, fighting back tears as I messaged my attorney. He called me back instantly. “Mr. Bellweather, are you truly determined to waive all marital assets and walk away with absolutely nothing?” “You are entitled to at least fifty percent of…” Marital assets? I couldn’t stop the bitter, hollow laugh that escaped me. There were no marital assets. Vivian’s equity growth over the years was held in blind trusts, and every asset in her name had been legally notarized pre-marriage. My name was nowhere on the beneficiary list for the family trust. She’d mentioned it casually the day we got engaged: she would never marry a man who was dependent on her fortune. She wouldn’t hand over what she had fought so hard to inherit just because of a marriage certificate. At the time, I assumed it was her anger at her father for forcing her into the marriage with me. I also understood the immense battle she’d fought to secure the Shaw Group against her swarm of illegitimate siblings. So, I had dutifully signed every page of the thick stack of financial waivers. I thought that one day she would lower her guard and truly see me. But it wasn’t until I saw that Asset Transfer Agreement that I realized how foolish I’d been. Every single item on that transfer agreement perfectly matched the list of assets she had made me sign away at the notary’s office. She wasn’t unwilling to share her wealth; she just never intended for me to be the husband she shared it with. “Ms. Reed,” I interrupted my attorney. “Please prepare the divorce agreement. I only ask for a clean break. No assets.” My hand was still shaking when I hung up. It wasn’t hesitation. It was fury. Ten years of marriage felt like a long, elaborate fraud, and I had been the willing fool. The password to the hidden safe in Vivian’s study was Rhys Alden’s birthday. She was willing to give Rhys everything she owned, yet my monthly allowance never exceeded five hundred. Even when I was too sick to eat, throwing up until I was dizzy and weak, she was across the city at Rhys’s private art exhibit. The most pathetic part? I had designed their love nest with my own hands. Three months ago, Vivian had slapped a set of blueprints on my bedside table, forcing my feverish, weakened body out of bed to work. “A friend is gifting his partner a villa. Design it to the highest standard, and fast,” she’d commanded. Now it was clear that “friend” was herself. And the signature at the bottom of the resident form, a bold, sweeping “RA,” was clearly Rhys Alden’s initials. The divorce agreement arrived via courier just before sunset. My attorney made one last plea: “Mr. Bellweather, at least keep the income you earned during the marriage…” I shook my head. Vivian never contributed a dime to the household; my entire income over the years had been sunk into the maintenance and upkeep of her property. Now, I realized that in her eyes, my contribution—my life—was truly worthless. A fresh wave of pain surged through me as I signed the papers. I couldn’t hold back anymore. The tears finally fell. 2 That same afternoon, Ms. Reed helped me secure a small apartment. I didn’t care about the neighborhood or the floor plan; I just needed to move out immediately. It was eight o’clock when I returned to the Shaw mansion for the last time. The fatigue from my illness made it nearly impossible to stand straight, but I cooked one final dinner. A four-course meal, all her favorites. For ten years, I knew her tastes better than I knew my own. Regardless of the ending, fifteen years of my life had been tied to hers. I wanted a clean, peaceful finish. But it was past one in the morning when Vivian finally returned. She carried the cloying scent of Santal—Rhys Alden’s signature cologne—and the unmistakable shadow of a hickey, brazenly marking the base of her throat. I watched her movements, and my gaze caught on her left hand. Her ring finger was bare. She had taken our wedding band off. I didn’t know when. Her eyes landed on the untouched, cold meal on the dining table, and her brow furrowed—a habit born of impatience. There was no warmth in her expression, only clear, visible annoyance. “Another pity party? You think this will make me roll over?” She shrugged off her trench coat, tossing it carelessly onto the designer sofa, and moved to walk past me. “Vivian,” I called out. My voice was so calm it surprised even me. “The divorce agreement is on the table. Sign it.” She stopped dead, turning back with a look of derision that nearly spilled over. “Because of an expired piece of paper? Ethan, since when have you been so irrational?” “Your father coerced me into marrying you using a life debt. I had no choice but to agree.” “Rhys has a bad heart. I simply wanted to give him a blessing, a formality!” A blessing? A formality? How absurd. Two weightless words that negated all my suffering and all my devotion. I suddenly understood that the barrier between us for the last decade was not circumstance or family obligation. It was simply that she had never loved me. Fifteen years ago, on a rainy night, she was being hunted by her vicious half-siblings. I hid her in a storage room for three days. I was the one who snuck her food and medicine, nearly getting beaten to death by her pursuers myself. She had gripped my hand and promised: “Ethan, when I take control of the Shaw Group, I will marry you in a ceremony that will make headlines.” And she did. She took the reins of the Shaw Group with ruthless, thunderous efficiency. But she married me with the coldest, most calculated prenuptial agreement ever penned, calling that the “ceremony that made headlines.” “Vivian,” I slowly stood up, fighting the sharp ache in my side. “So you do remember that you owe me a life.” She froze for a moment, then let out a chilling laugh. “Oh, so we’re tallying up the scores now? Fine. Name your price. How much?” Name my price. A bitter smile touched my lips, and the last, warm corner of my heart finally went entirely cold. “It won’t be necessary, Vivian. I am done with this relationship.” “I want the signed divorce agreement on the living room table by nine a.m. tomorrow.” I used every ounce of strength to keep my voice steady. Then, without waiting to see her reaction, I turned and headed upstairs. Behind me, the silence was shattered by the violent sound of shattering porcelain and her low, furious roar: “Ethan Bellweather! You had better not regret this!” Regret? My only regret was opening that storage room door fifteen years ago on a rainy night. 3 When I went downstairs the next morning, the living room was empty. The divorce papers had been ripped into confetti and were scattered across the expensive, hand-woven rug. My heart seized at the sight of the shredded paper, but the panic quickly subsided into a dull, familiar numbness. That was Vivian’s answer. She was too arrogant to negotiate and too controlling to let go. My phone screen lit up with a new message. It was from Rhys Alden. He had suddenly re-added me on social media a month ago. His first message: “Ethan, long time no see. I’m back. Vivian picked me up at the airport. She hasn’t changed a bit, has she?” Since then, my phone had become the live-stream of his perfect happiness. A blurry picture of Vivian’s back at the art gallery. A candid shot of her putting food on his plate. A deliberately visible half-arm in the passenger seat of her car. And yesterday, he’d sent a voice note. In the background, I could clearly hear Vivian impatiently hanging up on someone. “Ethan Bellweather? Ignore him. He’s always making a scene. Just focus on your painting.” The last message was ten minutes old. A photo. Vivian was asleep in his bed, her profile peaceful against his familiar dark sheets. The caption: “Ethan, I hear you were going through Vivian’s study and upset her? Don’t worry, that agreement was just something she gave me years ago when I was sick, to cheer me up. It’s totally void. Don’t take it the wrong way.” “Oh, and you really remind me of the old me, especially your eyes. Vivian said that’s the first thing she noticed about you.” “By the way, how is your body? Vivian says you’re getting more and more disgusting these days.” A wave of icy nausea slammed into my throat. I bolted into the bathroom and dry-heaved violently. The illness had never made me feel as physically sick as I did in that moment. I gripped the sink, staring at my pale, red-rimmed face in the mirror. My eyes… they were the reason? Because they resembled his? Fifteen years of first love, ten years of marriage, all originated in one woman’s unfulfilled obsession with another man. And I was merely the clumsy, second-best replacement. The tears I had suppressed finally burst forth. They ran down my cheeks, hot and heavy. With a trembling hand, I typed a reply to Rhys. “You always liked picking up my leftovers. Keep her. Both of you.” The message sent. Almost immediately, Vivian’s phone call came through. I didn’t answer. I ended the call, then blocked her number. The world instantly went quiet. I pressed my hand to my tightening abdomen, inhaling deeply, forcing myself to regain composure. This was not the time for grief. I called the moving company I’d booked and started to pack my possessions with a cold, almost surgical efficiency. My clothes, my design sketches, the cheap kitchenware and small appliances I’d bought myself… Everything that bore my personal mark was boxed. The expensive watches, the bespoke suits, the luxury bags—all of it had been bought by Vivian to maintain my “role” as her husband. I left every piece. Including the wedding band I’d taken off, which lay glinting silently on the vanity. The movers arrived swiftly, loading a dozen cardboard boxes onto the truck. Before leaving, I took one last look at the villa where I had lived for a decade. It was beautiful, cold, a perfectly constructed gilded cage. And I was finally serving out my sentence. 4 My rented apartment was tiny, but the sunlight poured in. I spent the entire day arranging my things, exhausting my body, but feeling an odd, weightless peace in my mind. That evening, I received a text from an unfamiliar number. It was Vivian. “Ethan, come home immediately. We can pretend none of this happened.” “Rhys is fragile. Stop trying to upset him.” “Also, I know you’re unwell. Get the treatment you need. Stop this foolish tantrum.” I looked at the message and almost laughed until I cried. Even now, she was concerned with Rhys’s feelings and assumed I was throwing a childish fit. My own pain, my sickness, my life, was irrelevant. I didn’t reply. I deleted the text and blocked that number, too. 5 The day before the surgery, I went in for a final consultation. The doctor reviewed my charts. “Your results are very encouraging. If we proceed with the treatment, your chances of a full recovery are significant.” “And if I refuse the surgery?” The older physician pushed his glasses up, his gaze troubled. “Mr. Bellweather, the hope for recovery is truly great. Are you certain?” I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood before finally replying. “I need more time to think.” As I walked out of the office, my steps felt unsteady. And then, at the end of the long hospital corridor, I saw the person I least wanted to see. Vivian. She was impeccably dressed, radiating the cold, assured power of the Shaw Group CEO. “You’re coming back with me.” She grabbed my wrist, her grip so hard it felt like she was trying to crush bone. “The tantrum ends now.” “A tantrum?” I looked up at her. “Vivian, you truly believe this is a tantrum?” “That agreement is old and void,” she repeated, her voice laced with impatience. “Rhys has a heart condition. I simply wanted to give him a blessing…” “So I get to be the sacrificial lamb for your fantasy love story?” I violently yanked my arm away. “Vivian, do you remember the year of our wedding, when I had a 104-degree fever? You said you were too busy to come home, but later I saw photos of you and Rhys skiing in Aspen on his social media.” “Our third wedding anniversary. You claimed you had a mandatory board meeting, but I saw your car in Rhys’s studio parking lot on his selfie.” “Anytime I needed you, you were busy. But you always had time to attend his art shows and celebrate every one of his birthdays.” I recounted the betrayals, one by one, my voice eerily calm, as if speaking of a stranger’s life. Vivian’s face finally changed. “You… you knew all of this?” “I never spoke of it because every time, I told myself to give you one more chance, to believe in you one last time.” I laughed, but the tears finally came. “It wasn’t until I saw that asset transfer agreement that I realized how pathetic I was.” She was silent. For the first time, I saw something akin to guilt in her eyes. But it was too late. Everything was too late. “I will get treatment,” I said softly. “But it has nothing to do with you.” “From this day forward, whether I live or die is entirely irrelevant to you, Vivian Shaw.” I turned and walked away. She didn’t follow. For the next few days, I shut myself off, focusing only on resting in the apartment. My lawyer called to say Vivian was refusing to sign the divorce papers. “Mr. Bellweather, if you insist, we have to file a suit. But given your current health status, the court will lean heavily toward mediation.” “Furthermore, Ms. Shaw stated that if you insist on a legal battle, she has the means to drag this out for years.” The lawyer sounded troubled. I held the phone, silent for a long moment. I knew Vivian was capable of it. She had the money and the influence; I had nothing left. “Ms. Reed, how long would a contested divorce take?” “If the opposing party is determined and utilizes all her resources, it could be stretched out for several years.” Years? I didn’t have that long. I had to force Vivian to agree to the divorce. 6 Just as I was thinking, the doorbell rang. Rhys Alden stood there in a soft, white cashmere sweater, looking fragile and innocent, holding a fancy insulated container. I opened the door, but made no move to let him in. “What do you want?” “Ethan, I knew you’d be here.” He offered a weak smile and started to step inside. “Vivian is worried sick about you. She sent me to check in. I brought you some chicken broth. You’re sick, you need to nourish yourself.” I blocked the doorframe, unmoving. “Thank you. I don’t need it. You can leave.” His smile faltered, replaced by a wounded expression. “Ethan, are you still mad at me? Vivian and I aren’t doing anything inappropriate. She just takes care of me…” “Whatever you two are doing is irrelevant to me,” I cut him off coldly. “I’m divorcing her soon. You can finally let her take care of you openly.” A flash of triumph flickered in Rhys’s eyes, quickly masked by feigned concern. “Ethan, don’t rush into a divorce! You have no money now. And Vivian says she wants you to be healthy…” Before he could finish, I looked up and stared at him, my eyes burning. “She wants me to be healthy? So what? So I can keep playing my part in your sick game?” Rhys was startled by my gaze and instinctively stepped back. “Ethan, why would you think that? I only felt sorry for you, substituting for me all these years…” He trailed off, but the unspoken words were the most vicious blade, instantly slicing through my last defense. So that was it. That was why she refused to divorce me. Because I was a mere stand-in, and she couldn’t openly be with the real man. She needed me, the man with the eyes “like his,” to complete their fantasy! A tremendous wave of absurdity and revulsion overwhelmed me. I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I snatched the insulated container from his hand and hurled it at him with full force! Warm chicken broth splattered all over his white sweater. He shrieked and leaped back. “Get out!” I pointed to the stairs, trembling all over. “Tell Vivian I will divorce her even if it kills me!” Rhys looked down at his ruined clothes, and the mask of wounded innocence finally cracked, revealing a sliver of malice. “Ethan, don’t be ungrateful! If Vivian wants you alive, you will live! Do you really think you can resist her?” “Let’s see!” I stared him down. “Let’s see if I can!” Perhaps my expression was truly terrifying, because Rhys ultimately slunk away, defeated. I closed the door and slid down the wall, sinking to the floor, my body cold and shaking uncontrollably. Fear and despair washed over me. I knew the extent of Vivian’s power. If she truly intended to force me into treatment, I had virtually no defense. No. I could not let her win. My body, my life, had to be mine. Not Vivian’s. And certainly not Rhys Alden’s! A desperate, insane thought took root in that moment. If I simply ceased to exist, would they finally let me go? 7 My heart was in agonizing turmoil when my phone suddenly buzzed. It was an anonymous email. Driven by an impulse I couldn’t explain, I clicked it open. The email contained no text, only a few scanned documents. The first was a screenshot of an old email exchange between Vivian and Rhys, dated years before my marriage to her. The second was a copy of Rhys Alden’s medical report, diagnosing him with congenital azoospermia—infertility. The third document was a bomb. It was a recording of a conversation between Vivian and her private counsel. I pressed play, and Vivian’s cold voice filled the tiny apartment, terrifyingly clear: “That gift agreement must be watertight, no legal loopholes, but it’s the security I promised him. It has to be effective.” “As for Ethan… we don’t need to worry about him anymore. He’s been my husband for ten years; I’ve paid off that debt of gratitude long ago. His only remaining value is to give me an heir.” “Once the child is secured, if he cooperates, we’ll give him a generous settlement to keep him quiet. If he doesn’t… you know what to do.” “Rhys loves children. If my child has eyes like him, that would be the best possible outcome.” The recording cut off abruptly. I sat on the floor, the blood draining from my body. I was so cold my teeth were chattering. So… this was the truth! Every suspicion was confirmed. My help, my life debt, was merely an “obligation” she needed to “pay off.” A surge of volcanic anger and nausea hit me. I rushed back to the bathroom, vomiting until my stomach was empty. This wasn’t sickness-induced retching. This was a purely physiological reaction of disgust. Disgust for the fifteen years of love I had wasted, for the decade of marriage I had mistakenly cherished! When it was over, only acid remained. I gripped the wall, looked at the ashen-faced man in the mirror, and a cold smile touched my lips. I pulled out my phone and unblocked Vivian’s number. It rang once, and she answered. I held the receiver, letting out a soft, unnervingly clear laugh. “Vivian, you want me to give you a child, is that right?” There was a moment of silence on the line, followed by her voice, tight with barely contained fury. “Ethan Bellweather, what are you doing?” “What am I doing?” My laugh turned colder. “What can I do…” “I just wanted to tell you…” I paused, speaking each word slowly, deliberately, driving them like stakes into her heart. “That child, you will never, ever get it.” Then, without giving her time to react, I hung up and turned off my phone.

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I am the Phoenix, the first and the last of my kind, woven from starlight and primordial fire. A thousand years of my life force, a millennium of my own heart’s blood, had gone into the single, perfect egg nestled in my sanctuary. Then, during a routine suppression of the Maelstrom Abyss, the intrusive text began to flash across my vision. [No cap, she’s the MC. The Phoenix God is away, so she’s stealing the house.] [Girl boss is shoving the egg straight into her ancient pocket-dimension.] [It’s the Primordial Void Space—no way the Phoenix God can track that.] [So what if the MC force-contracts it before it hatches? She’s the Chosen One, the literal main character.] [The little Phoenix tried to break the contract after hatching, but thankfully the MC isn’t a saint. She just processed it into a puppet.] [LOL. And the Phoenix God thinks it’s her daughter’s choice and bows down to the MC.] [I live for this kind of Dark Empress MC. So good.] 1 My golden eyes narrowed into slits. The True Fire circulating my body flared, threatening to spiral into an uncontrollable conflagration. What arcane sorcery was this? What strange, insidious curse of the demonic races could conjure such mind-scrambling words out of thin air? For a thousand years, I had protected the human cultivators, sacrificing my own life-force countless times to reinforce their grand Abyssal Seal. If even a shred of gratitude remained in their hearts, they would never dare touch my child while I was fighting their endless war against the darkness. But the seed of doubt had been planted. I closed my eyes, focusing my millennia-old consciousness, attempting to locate the faint, familiar thrum of my daughter’s soul-bond. The connection, which had always been as clear as a blazing sunbeam, was gone. Severed. Cleanly. A cold, gut-wrenching dread seized my heart. The suppressed demonic energy in the chasm below immediately surged, exploiting my momentary lapse. “Phoenix Goddess!” the nearby human cultivators cried out, scrambling backward. “Are you alright? The Maelstrom is breaching the seal!” I ruthlessly crushed the rising panic, my True Fire blazing from my fingertips, forcing the swirling darkness back into the depths of the chasm. That egg, forged from my very essence, was due to hatch in three days. The moment before I left, Master Gideon, the head of the Aetherium Citadel, had knelt with dozens of his most revered disciples outside my lair, pleading that if the demonic energy leaked, the entire Ascended Realm would be devoured. I left my unborn child to save their world. And now, someone had raided my nest. More blinding text flashed across the void. [Girl boss is back at the Citadel.] [Here we go, the scene where the MC shuts down the false saintess sister.] [She risked her life to get that Phoenix egg. Why should she give it back?] [Seriously. Willow hasn’t done squat. She just opens her mouth and tells the MC to return it.] [Ugh, I get so mad just thinking about this part of the plot!] [The false saintess is useless, plus she warns everyone that if the Phoenix God finds out, it’ll bring ruin to the Citadel.] [But our Girl Boss knows how to stay undetected. That’s why she risked it.] [And this Willow snitch even tries to turn the Phoenix God against the MC out of sheer jealousy!] [If the MC hadn’t preemptively turned the little Phoenix into a puppet, it would’ve run back to its mother.] [Cultivation is all about being ruthless and taking what you can!] [Strongest rules, duh.] My fists clenched, my golden claws retracting and extending in a paroxysm of need. I needed to be with my daughter. Now. But if I abandoned the Maelstrom Abyss, the demonic power would break containment immediately. The choice was unthinkable. I had to be strategic. I plucked a single, brilliant golden feather from my tail and infused it with a fraction of my soul, shaping it into an avatar. “Go to the Aetherium Citadel. Retrieve my daughter.” The Avatar nodded its feathered head, beat its wings, and soared toward the Citadel, a streak of desperate gold against the darkening sky. The intrusive text went wild. [Wait, why is the Phoenix God sending an avatar to the Citadel?] [She must’ve realized the egg is gone.] [Heehee. She’s too late. The MC has already secured the contract.] The Avatar was blindingly fast, reaching the sky above the Citadel in less than half a pillar’s worth of incense. The humans’ self-proclaimed First Grand Sect was certainly impressive. Ancient runes flowed around the gates, rumored to withstand the full assault of the Ascended Realm’s most powerful Elder. The Avatar’s spiritual power was limited. Breaking the barrier would take time, so I directed it to use its Divine Sense to scout. On the Spire of Lumina, the peak with the strongest concentration of spiritual energy, a cluster of young cultivators were gathered. My gaze snapped to the small, shrinking figure nestled in the arms of a female cultivator in white. I only needed a glance, and my eyes instantly burned with incandescent rage. Golden-crimson fuzz was matted and sparse, clinging to its tiny body. Its wings were not yet fully formed. It was my daughter. Phoebe. She should have remained safely dormant for three more days. Instead, she was so weak she could barely open her eyes. At that moment, the “Main Character,” Sera, lashed out, a vicious slap cracking across the white-robed cultivator’s face. The intrusive text exploded with the word “SATISFYING” on repeat. Sera’s voice was as cold and sharp as obsidian. “Willow, I have been patient. Too patient. “This Phoenix is my property. I secured it. “What I choose to do with my familiar is none of your business. “Out of respect for our shared lineage, give the Phoenix back to me, and I will let this go.” Willow covered her cheek, her eyes red, but she clutched the tiny Phoenix tighter. “Senior Sister, the legend says the Phoenix God has only ever conceived this one egg. You can’t just steal their child.” Sera gave a dismissive, arrogant laugh. “Steal? I obtained this during my own perilous journey. It has nothing to do with theft.” Perilous journey? I had laid layer upon layer of divine wards around my nest. Even a high-stage Ascended Elder would struggle to get through. Her “chance encounter” was clearly a calculated, monstrous act of violation! 2 Willow held Phoebe close, her voice choked with tears. “Senior Sister, the little Phoenix says she doesn’t want you. Just let her go.” Sera didn’t need to respond; the intrusive text did it for her. [The False Saintess has some nerve! She couldn’t get the egg herself, so now she dares to criticize the MC!] [I can’t stand Willow’s fake piety. Give the Phoenix back to the Girl Boss!] [The MC faced death for that egg. Willow just stands here moralizing. Disgusting!] The male cultivator standing behind Sera stepped forward, frowning at Willow. This was Master Gideon. “Willow, stop this melodrama. Give the Phoenix back to Sera. “The creature has been contracted. To attempt to break a blood-oath is an offense, and it must be punished.” Willow’s tears fell faster, making her look truly heartbroken. “But Master, didn’t you see? “Senior Sister just used the Soul-Rending Brand! That’s a forbidden art that can destroy the consciousness of even a mid-stage cultivator. “The little Phoenix just hatched. She’s just a baby. How can she possibly endure that?” Sera crossed her arms, watching Willow with a cold, mocking smirk. “And what of it? It’s my contracted familiar. I can punish it however I see fit. “Even if I chose to incinerate it, it wouldn’t be up to you to object.” The Soul-Rending Brand! My true body at the Maelstrom Abyss shuddered violently. My golden True Fire erupted without warning, causing the demonic energy below to shriek in agony. This thunder not only lacerates the flesh, it tears the soul. One wrong application, and the victim is reduced to nothingness, their spirit scattered to the winds. My daughter was a hatchling. Her soul was inherently unstable. How could she possibly survive the destructive force of the Soul-Rending Brand? But the intrusive text was cheering. [That’s right! Disobedient creatures need the Soul-Rending Brand!] [This Phoenix is so stupid. The Girl Boss is the Chosen One. She’s going to Ascend! Following her is the greatest fortune, and yet it resists!] [Seriously. Familiars need to act like familiars. Disobey the master, suffer the punishment!] Willow furrowed her brow, trying to argue again. “Senior Sister, you are forcibly separating a mother and child. This is against the Cosmic Order. If the Phoenix God discovers—” Sera cut her off, her tone dripping with mockery. “And what if she does? “The Phoenix God was careless. She left a nearly-hatched egg undefended to wander off and play hero. “She only has herself to blame for losing it. “Besides, the little Phoenix will receive the best possible care with me. “What future does it have following its mother? To spend eternity guarding the Maelstrom Abyss?” The intrusive text immediately supported her. [MC is right! The Phoenix God is irresponsible. Losing the egg is on her!] [Girl Boss is a formation genius. Later on, everyone will depend on her to suppress the demons. Who even cares about the Phoenix God?] [The little Phoenix has a future only with the MC.] I took a deep, shuddering breath, my heart ripped in two. If I abandoned the Maelstrom Abyss now, the demonic energy would be completely unleashed, bringing ruin to all life. But my daughter was being subjected to inhuman torture! Sera took a step closer, her eyes turning cold. “Willow, my patience is exhausted. If you don’t return the Phoenix to me, you will face consequences.” Willow frantically looked at Master Gideon, pleading. “Master, please talk sense into Senior Sister! “For thousands of years, the Phoenix God has helped suppress the darkness. “If she finds out her child was stolen, it won’t just be the Citadel that faces danger. “The entire Ascended Realm could be destroyed!” Master Gideon’s face finally shifted, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “Willow does have a point…” 3 Sera looked at them with pure scorn. “Little Sister, you truly are a master manipulator. A few crocodile tears, and you have men siding with you. “What? Run out of logical arguments, so you resort to fear-mongering?” Willow’s face flushed crimson, a mix of anger and distress. “I’m not! I’m telling the truth!” Sera sneered. “The truth? “The Maelstrom is held by the human Grand Formation, not the Phoenix God. Her role is marginal. “Besides, I am the formation genius. They will be begging me to suppress the darkness later.” The intrusive text reinforced her words. [Exactly! The False Saintess is so manipulative, only begging for sympathy!] [Who needs the Phoenix God to suppress the Maelstrom? The human formation is enough!] [Our Girl Boss is so powerful. She’ll surpass the Phoenix God eventually!] A few different comments flickered through the chaotic text. [Hold on, didn’t the Phoenix God still play a role?] [The MC’s grand formation uses the Phoenix God’s life-blood essence.] [Yeah, she uses the little Phoenix to make the mother obey, drawing her blood every time she needs to set up a seal.] [The Phoenix God is so pitiful. She thinks she’s protecting her daughter, not realizing her daughter’s soul has been extinguished by then…] [Shut up, you bleeding-heart saint! Get out of here!] [The title is literally Dark Empress MC. Why are you looking for morality?] [Our Girl Boss’s skill at manipulating people is genius!] [This is the true law of survival in the Ascended Realm!] Willow tried to speak again, but Sera ignored her completely. Sera looked down at my daughter and commanded with cold authority: “Come here.” Phoebe, weak as she was, managed a tiny, defiant voice. “No!” Sera’s expression darkened. “It seems you wish to experience the Soul-Rending Brand again.” I saw my daughter tightly shut her eyes. “Kill me if you dare. My mother will avenge me!” The intrusive text exploded. [This Phoenix is ungrateful and arrogant!] [Such insolence! The Girl Boss is offering her a path to Ascend, and she’s hoping her mother will kill her master!] [Wait until the Girl Boss uses the Brand to teach her a lesson. She needs to know who the master is!] A vicious spark ignited in Sera’s eyes. “You choose disrespect!” As she spoke, black-violet lightning began to condense on her fingertip. Just as the lightning was about to strike, my Avatar succeeded in breaking the Citadel’s outer defense. A heaven-shattering cry of a Phoenix suddenly echoed across the mountains. A curtain of blazing crimson-gold True Fire enveloped Willow and the little Phoenix, deflecting the Soul-Rending Brand. Phoebe heard the cry, her eyes snapping open. She screamed with a mixture of terror and overwhelming relief: “Mama!” 4 My heart bled as I gently took my daughter from Willow’s protective arms. Phoebe’s tiny body was covered in marks of abuse. Half of her golden-red fuzz had been brutally pulled out, revealing seeping, raw skin beneath. Her back and wings were covered in charred scabs—the unforgiving scars of the Soul-Rending Brand. What pained me most was the instability of her soul. Forcefully hatched, it was fragmented and liable to collapse at any moment. I could barely breathe from the agony. In a thousand years, I had never felt such rage. Not even against the most ferocious demonic horde did I feel this pure, visceral urge to grind someone to dust. The intrusive text was flashing hysterically before my eyes. [How did the Phoenix God get here? She was supposed to be at the Maelstrom!] [According to the plot, she shouldn’t appear now! Did the story break?] [The Phoenix God is so selfish! What if she abandoned the Grand Formation and the darkness breaks loose?] [We’re screwed. The MC is in danger. The Phoenix God’s power is equivalent to a Peak Ascended Elder!] Master Gideon subconsciously recoiled when he saw me. Sera, however, was still desperately trying to project calm, feigning ignorance. “Who are you? How dare you trespass on the Aetherium Citadel and try to steal my familiar?” I poured a small measure of spiritual energy into my daughter. When I looked up again, my eyes were molten with killing intent. “You steal my child, and then pretend not to know me? “Sera, you have a staggering nerve.” Master Gideon’s face turned even paler. “Are you… the Phoenix Goddess?” Sera’s eyes, however, were narrowed and viciously focused on me. “Impossible! With the demonic energy rising, the Phoenix God would be busy at the Maelstrom Abyss. How could she be here? “You must be a fake! Willow sent you to frighten me!” She spun on Willow, her voice full of false indignation. “Willow, to try a cheap trick like impersonating a deity just to seize my familiar? I am utterly disappointed in you!” The intrusive text immediately supported her. [MC is so smart. She saw right through the False Saintess’s dirty trick!] [This Willow is so annoying. She found an imposter to take the Phoenix!] [Don’t be scared, Girl Boss. Expose their true colors and show them your power!] I let the True Fire around me leap higher. The temperature of the air instantly became suffocating. “My patience is limited. Sever the contract now, and I will spare your life. “Continue this delusion, and I will drown the Aetherium Citadel in blood.” Sera stood her ground, her neck stiff with defiance. “This is my contracted familiar. No one has the right to take it! Even if you are the true Phoenix God, you cannot be so unreasonable!” I scoffed, intending to use the raw power of my True Fire to subdue her. Unexpectedly, a dark, heavy light shone from her body. The intrusive text roared with laughter. [Didn’t see that coming! The Girl Boss touched the Primordial Titan’s Tomb and ground its bones into defensive armor!] [With the Titan Shell, the Phoenix God can’t hurt her!] [The Phoenix God is going to lose. The MC is the Chosen One. She cannot lose!] When I read the content of the intrusive text, my anger reached a boiling point. The Primordial Titan was a celestial beast born alongside me, our bond deeper than blood. It sacrificed its life and body to seal another great demonic chasm. Its remains were revered by the human cultivators as a sacred relic. Sera, far from showing reverence, had desecrated the Titan’s divine body, using its bones for a frivolous defense—an act worse than any demon’s. Sera saw that her shield held and a smug, victorious smile spread across her face. “You brought this upon yourself!” she declared, condensing a sword-like spiritual energy and lunging at me. My Avatar, being only a feather, was struggling. It began to fade, becoming translucent. “Mama!” Phoebe sensed the danger and cried out anxiously. Sera’s smile widened, her triumph complete. As my Avatar dissolved completely, the intrusive text erupted in a celebration. [Girl Boss wins!] [HAHAHA. The Phoenix God is nothing special after all!] [Next up is the puppet refinement. Can’t wait to see the MC’s skills!] My daughter saw the Avatar vanish and screamed, thrashing in a desperate attempt to lunge at Sera. “I’ll kill you! I’ll avenge my mother!” Sera grabbed her wing, her red robes snapping in the hot wind. “You? You think you can stand against me?” I watched it all unfold from the Maelstrom Abyss. The last sliver of my mercy for Sera vanished. I had intended to spare her life. But now, she didn’t deserve it. Ignoring the panicked shouts of the cultivators behind me, I beat my massive wings and soared toward the Aetherium Citadel. Did they say the strongest rules? Then I would show them what true strength looked like.

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I had to work until eleven, and I hadn’t managed to get the Kobe Ribeye Liam wanted. As a peace offering, I splurged on an expensive Black Cod, the kind he’d mentioned wanting last week. But he didn’t want it anymore. He smashed the container against the tile floor, the spray of water soaking my slacks. The comments section was buzzing. [It’s the FMC’s fault. How much does that overtime pay anyway? Keeping the ML happy is the real job.] [Black Cod is delicious and expensive, but the ML specifically asked for the beef. Anyone would be mad at that kind of obvious substitution.] Really? Maybe they had a point, but I had just spent over twelve hours on the clock, and I was utterly exhausted. Too tired to handle the mess on the floor, or the furious man standing over it. 1 It was almost eleven PM, and only our office lights remained on in the entire corporate tower. I rubbed my pounding temples and saved the sixth draft of the proposal before powering down. The five-hour project review that afternoon had ended with the client tossing out everything we had. The whole team scrambled, managing to nail down the final outline just before the late-night commuter train stopped running. But we weren’t done. We had a week until the project deadline, and there was still a mountain of work to climb. Despite the screaming protest from my body, I shoved my laptop into my tote bag. The moment I pushed open my apartment door, a blast of cold air, thick with stale cigarette smoke, hit me. Liam was sitting on the sofa, a cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers. The acrid smoke made me cough. A low, almost inaudible scoff reached my ears: “Don’t start…” The sound vanished a second later, so fast it felt like a hallucination. On the first day we moved in together, we set a firm rule: no smoking inside the apartment. Liam was fine with it initially. Then, he started arguing that the living room wasn’t a room—only the bedrooms counted. Now, ash trays were scattered in every corner of our small space. Perhaps it was the chill of early winter, but my coughing escalated, a tight, painful spasm that felt like a tiny claw scratching at my lungs. I dropped my bag and headed straight for the water glasses. They were all empty. That’s when Liam finally spoke, his voice ice-cold. “You decided to come back, then? Take a look at how many times I called you.” I had already seen. The second the meeting ended, I checked my phone: five missed calls and one text message. [Get the Kobe Ribeye from The Prime Butcher on your way home. They close at seven.] I’d called him back, but he never picked up. I knew he was angry. Ever since I joined the project team, my life had accelerated. When I got busy, every minute, even for eating or drinking, was calculated. Liam was a freelance artist, usually sleeping until the late afternoon. He couldn’t accept my reasons. We’d fought countless times over missed calls and slow text replies. “We had a project review today. Everyone had to silence their phones.” I put my bag down, my voice heavy with exhaustion. “I saw the text at seven-thirty.” Liam sneered. “And? Where’s the beef?” “The Prime Butcher was closed.” I pulled a clear container from my canvas bag. “But I bought you Black Cod. It’s very fresh. Twenty minutes steaming, and it’s ready.” He shot up, snatched the container, and stared at the pale red fish, his eyes dangerously cold. “Ava. I was specific. The Kobe Ribeye from The Prime Butcher.” He ground out every word: “Are you suddenly deaf, or do you just not care what I actually want?” The words ended in a low, seething growl. A few familiar sentences scrolled across my vision. [The ML is just worried the FMC is working too hard. He’s taking it out on her.] [FMC, just apologize. Say some sweet words and it will all blow over.] [Honestly, the ML just feels neglected. That’s why he’s so furious.] A massive sense of absurdity washed over me. If he was just worried about me being tired, Liam had all afternoon—why couldn’t he have gone to pick up the beef? Why was I expected to work a twelve-hour day, buy the groceries, and then cook the meal? I was too drained to argue. I tried to reason with him calmly. “Liam, I didn’t get out until eight. That place was honestly closed. This fish—you said last week you were craving it. I drove forty minutes out of the way to the seafood market for this.” “Out of your way?” He scoffed. “Ava, you are always like this. Always falling short, always just almost enough. Just like you think you’re so dedicated to this stupid job, but you can’t balance our life with your so-called career!” His voice rose sharply. “Your company is making bank—have they cut you a single check for all this? You’re always pulling all-nighters, but why are you never the one getting promoted?” I froze. “What is that supposed to mean?” “It means you’re naive!” He practically yelled. “What’s the point of all this effort? You don’t have the connections, you don’t have a family name, and you’re not exactly a stunner—you are never going to move up! Just like this fish…” He violently threw the container onto the floor. “It will never replace the Kobe I wanted!” Under the harsh overhead light, Liam was breathing heavily, his eyes bulging with rage. I could barely see his face through the scrolling comments. [The ML went too far. He’ll regret this in a minute.] [He’s just worried about the FMC constantly working. He doesn’t know how to express it.] [FMC, don’t be sad. The ML actually wanted you to have the beef, not him.] I looked at the water spreading on the floor, the Black Cod’s scales flashing faintly under the light. That fish cost nearly fifty dollars. It was expensive for me. I’d deleted the new clothes I’d been eyeing for weeks from my online cart just to afford it. Now, it seemed I had lost both the pretty clothes and the fresh fish. I spoke softly. “Liam, I am genuinely exhausted.” He paused, clearly thrown by my subdued reaction. The usual Ava would already be explaining, apologizing, and placating him. She would probably promise to take a day off tomorrow just to buy him that specific beef. But he quickly recovered his rhythm, his voice louder than before, a raw, furious accusation. “You’re tired? I’m the one who’s tired!” “Waiting up for you every night, only to find out I can’t even have the one thing I asked for!” The comments kept refreshing. [The ML is using reverse psychology! He means he misses spending time with you.] [FMC, go hug him! He’s been waiting all night just to have dinner with you.] I stared at the words, and a small, brittle laugh escaped me. “What are you laughing at?” Liam frowned. I shook my head, knelt down, and carefully picked up the Black Cod. Its eyes were still clear, maintaining that fresh, glossy look. “What are you doing?” he demanded. I didn’t answer. I simply walked over to the kitchen trash can and dropped the entire fish inside. “Ava!” He shouted, his voice laced with disbelief. I turned back to him. “Since you don’t want it, I’m throwing it away.” The comments went silent for a beat, then erupted into a frenzy. [What is the FMC doing? She’s escalating the situation!] [The ML is stunned! She has never acted like this.] [It’s over, it’s really over this time!] Liam’s mouth was open, momentarily speechless. He looked at my calm face, his expression shifting from blind fury to confusion, even a hint of panic. “I’m going out.” I picked up the bag I’d just dropped. “Ava!” He called my name, his voice uncertain. “Where are you going?” I stopped at the doorway but didn’t turn around. “Maybe I’ll go find a place that’s still open right now, where I can buy The Prime Butcher’s Kobe Ribeye.” I spoke quietly. “Or maybe just a place where I can eat a meal in peace.” I opened the door, stepped out, and closed it. The actions were fluid, without hesitation. The motion-sensor light in the hallway clicked off. I stood in the dark and heard his frustrated sigh from inside the apartment. Then, the comments finally began to change. [This feels different.] [Is the FMC actually… leaving?] 2 I took a cab back to the office. Lying in the breakroom, I couldn’t fall asleep. My mind kept replaying our recent arguments. This was the third time Liam had exploded this month. The first time, it was because I was thirty seconds too slow handing him a yogurt. He threw it on the floor. “Clumsy idiot! Can’t even do one simple thing right!” The second time was even more ridiculous. I took a work call while ironing his shirt, and he snatched it away. “Is your job more important or is my shirt more important? You clearly don’t care about me! You’re completely selfish!” He acted like a constant observer in my life, using a magnifying glass to find my flaws, using any failure to immediately bend to his will as proof that I was worthless. [FMC, don’t be sad. The ML just has a short fuse, but he thinks the world of you.] [His words are harsh, but his heart is in the right place. Women really don’t need to work so hard.] [The ML is regretting everything right now, but he’s too proud to apologize. FMC, give him an opening!] The comments swirled around me like annoying flies. I suddenly realized they would always take Liam’s side, finding any excuse to absolve him. The next morning, my colleague handed me a coffee. She looked at the dark circles under my eyes and the messy bedding in the breakroom, and her concern was clear. “Ava, you look terrible. Another fight with your boyfriend?” I managed a weak smile. “I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep well.” “How many times this month?” My colleague, Maya, sighed. “Last week you were crying in the bathroom. The day before that, you had to call him during a meeting to send him a mini-manifesto of apology. Ava, this isn’t a normal relationship.” I opened my mouth, wanting to defend myself, but I couldn’t find a single reasonable argument. “Why don’t you crash at my place for a few days?” “He won’t allow it.” I rejected the idea instantly. Every time I suggested living apart, Liam would fly into a rage: “You want to break up, don’t you? I knew you didn’t love me anymore!” Then, he’d use even crueler words to validate my cold-heartedness and callousness. The final project meeting that afternoon confirmed the plan. I downed two cups of coffee and psyched myself up for another late night. Just then, my phone screen lit up. [I’m coming to pick you up after work.] Instead of the usual lift, my heart instinctively tightened. [I’m working late tonight. It’s a major push. Don’t come. I ordered that beef you like from Seamless. Just grab it.] I replied cautiously, but Liam seemed to ignore me. [Six thirty. Be downstairs on time.] The usual tone of command. [I really can’t leave. The Director is right next to me.] I could already feel the coming storm. [Ava, what is this supposed to mean?] [I actually offered to come get you. This is how you respond?] [If you don’t want to be with me, then don’t. No need for the theatrics.] Predictably, the comments were fueling the fire. [The ML is trying to be considerate!] [The ML is all talk, but the FMC must be thrilled inside!] [The ML was up all night fuming, and today he’s preparing for… hee hee, the FMC is going to have a rough night.] The Director had glanced at me several times. If I didn’t stop texting Liam, she was the one who was going to make my night rough. I set my phone to Do Not Disturb and shoved it into my desk drawer, forcing myself to concentrate. Ten minutes later, the internal office line rang suddenly. “I need to speak to Ava!” “Are you coming down or not? I’ve been waiting five minutes!” “I’m giving you three more minutes. If you don’t come down, I’m coming up to your office to find you!” Liam’s voice was so loud the handset vibrated in my hand. I lowered my voice to explain. “I’m racing a deadline. The Director is right…” “Is your Director more important than your boyfriend?” He cut me off sharply. “Or is your overtime more important than me? I came all this way to pick you up. Is this the right attitude? Ava, why are you always so selfish!” The whole office was looking at me. My face was burning. “Can you please be reasonable? This is my job…” “Job? Do you even call that pittance you make a job?” He scoffed. “A clueless brown-noser like you, are you actually thinking about a promotion? They must be really scraping the bottom of the barrel over there.” I was stunned into silence. “Thirty years old and still so clueless, still such an idealist. What do you even have? Money? Family status? Are you seriously acting like the heroine of some rags-to-riches story?” “Who else but me would put up with a personality like yours? Do you think the sky is going to fall if you’re not there to hold it up?” “You don’t even have basic social skills. If I came to pick up a dog, it would at least wag its tail. Ava, what is it that you actually bring to the table?” The comments offered their feeble defense. [The ML waited too long. Be understanding.] [He only says that because he cares. When she goes downstairs, he’ll run up and give her a big hug!] [FMC, go home with the ML. You look run-down. You need some tender loving care. Hahaha.] The comments were turning vulgar. I looked away, refusing to acknowledge Liam’s vicious remarks. Finally, he seemed to run out of steam, taking a ragged breath before asking: “Last chance. Are you coming down?” I looked at the crucial section I had just finished. I spoke softly. “No. Go home, Liam.” The line went dead silent for a moment, then I heard his voice, tight with pure venom. “Fine! Ava! You can marry your job! We’re done!” The crashing sound of a trash can being kicked silenced the entire office. I walked back to my cube, ignoring the astonished looks from my coworkers. I finished working around nine. Stepping out of the building, the night air was biting. My phone showed over a dozen missed calls. The latest text read: *[You seriously didn’t come down? I misjudged you completely! You wait!] * I turned the screen off and zipped my jacket all the way up. As I passed the corner, a street vendor selling hot pretzels was closing up shop. “Late night, miss?” The vendor, a kind old man, looked up and greeted me warmly. I managed a slight nod and kept walking. “Wait.” He called out, pulling the last pretzel from his warmer and carefully wrapping it in a paper bag. “Closing up. This one’s on me. You look completely worn out, dear. Have something warm.” In that moment, my eyes burned. Tears threatened to fall. A complete stranger could see my exhaustion and offer unsolicited warmth. And the man I lived with, the man who supposedly loved me? The old man pushed his cart away. “Go get some rest now, miss.” The pretzel in my hand radiated a warm, comforting heat, its smell simple and welcoming. The world settled back into a deep quiet. Liam didn’t send any more messages. The surface of the sea was calm, but I knew the deep currents were treacherous. Yet, I had no energy, no desire, to wrestle with his emotions anymore. I think, I really need to rest. 3 When I reached my apartment door, the electronic deadbolt screamed a harsh “BEEP-BEEP.” I paused, then entered the code again. It flashed red. “Password incorrect. Please try again.” The cold electronic voice was jarringly clear in the late-night hallway. I pulled out my phone and tried calling Liam three times. All went straight to voicemail. The fourth call didn’t even go through. The system showed my contact status as “abnormal.” He blocked me! I had no choice but to use the phone location tracker he’d insisted on opening “for my protection” to find the bar he frequented. It was almost laughable. By the time I arrived, it was eleven again. I pushed open the heavy, soundproof door, and the pounding music rushed over me. I saw Liam immediately. The long-haired woman draped over his arm was familiar: Chloe, a former college acquaintance who openly pursued him. Chloe had never hidden her hostility toward me. The first time we met, she trailed Liam, looking me up and down without politeness. Liam laughed then. “This is Chloe, an old friend. She’s crashing here for a few days.” Chloe batted her eyes, then walked over, grabbed my hand, and feigned enthusiasm. “You must be his mom, right? He said he was introducing me to his family, and you look so young, Auntie!” I had dressed up and done my makeup because I knew his friends were coming. I could find no excuse for her rudeness other than deliberate cruelty. Liam roared with laughter. “My mom? No, this is Ava, my girlfriend.” Chloe put on a show of surprise, covering her mouth with her hand, her face a mask of feigned regret. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Ava! It’s just that you dress so… so maturely. I honestly thought you were his elder! Heh.” I was shaking with anger, but Liam was doubled over, justifying her behavior. “Oh, you’re too cute, Chloe! Haha! You’re still young, making a mistake is normal. It’s Ava’s fault, really. I told her her features are too average, and she insists on copying those influencers. What’s that phrase… a cheap knock-off!” At twenty-five, it was the first time I’d been called “Auntie” in public. And my boyfriend couldn’t see my humiliation or rage; he only laughed at the offender’s “innocent charm.” “The lady of the house is here!” Someone shouted, and the noisy booth suddenly went quiet. Liam slowly turned his head, his arm still resting on Chloe’s shoulder. He was clearly drunk, but his eyes held a clear, sober challenge. “Well, well, if it isn’t Ava the workaholic. What, you finally have time to grace us with your presence?” Chloe made a show of trying to stand, but he pulled her back, pinning her to his lap. “Don’t worry, sweetie. We didn’t do anything wrong.” His friends’ expressions varied. Some hooted and whistled, some looked down at their drinks, and a few girls openly watched my reaction. After everything, I have to say, I was past the point of being angry at this kind of pathetic drama. Last month, I got soaked in a downpour. I called Liam to pick me up. He agreed, but never showed up, finally turning his phone off. I got home, completely drenched. The “unreachable” Liam was in the living room blow-drying Chloe’s hair. She was wearing my sweatshirt. Seeing my miserable entrance, he seemed to realize what he’d promised, a flicker of guilt crossing his eyes. But he immediately became defensive. “Chloe couldn’t get an Uber. She’s a young girl, and she doesn’t have any friends here. I couldn’t just leave her. As for you, why couldn’t you ride with a coworker? Why are you always so dramatic?” Chloe stood up nervously, her voice a delicate purr. “Liam, is Ava going to be mad?” Liam shrugged dismissively. “She’s not that petty.” The comments went silent for a moment, then rushed back in to defend him. [The ML is right. The FMC can’t rely on the ML for everything.] [The ML is just trying to teach her how to solve problems independently. It’s understandable.] Later that night, when I tried to express my frustration in the bedroom, Liam blamed me. “Can you stop being so sensitive? Sure, Chloe has a crush on me, but I don’t like her. If anything was going to happen between us, it would have already.” “Liam,” I said, my voice flat. “Did you change the door code?” He let out an exaggerated laugh. “Of course, I did. It’s my apartment, babe. Get it straight—why should you get to walk in whenever you feel like it?” He then leaned in and whispered something to Chloe, who giggled and playfully pushed his shoulder. [FMC, get mad! The ML is waiting for you to throw a drink in the Other Woman’s face!] [The ML is trying to provoke you. Tell him you care! Give him the validation he wants!] [The little tea girl is a total snake, but what guy can resist… HAHAHAHA.] The comments were flashing like a strobe light, dictating the appropriate emotional response. I was supposed to flip the table right now. But watching Liam’s deliberately performed intimacy, I suddenly found it all tedious. The three years of our relationship felt profoundly pointless. “Fine. I understand.” I nodded and turned to leave. One of Liam’s friends followed me. “He’s had too much to drink, Ava. Don’t take it personally…” I stopped, and I heard Liam shout from behind me. “Let her go! Don’t pretend you’re above it! You’re probably tearing up inside!” “Chloe, you ever heard that saying? Swallow your tears, don’t swallow blood—internal injuries are hard to fix! Hahaha!” He sounded smug, as if he had finally won this round of the emotional game. His friend looked at me awkwardly. “He really crossed the line tonight…” “It’s okay,” I interrupted him, my voice surprisingly calm. “I’m going.” Work really did have the ability to strip away a person’s passions and emotions. All I wanted was a long, quiet sleep. If I couldn’t go back to that apartment, I simply wouldn’t go back. I checked into a hotel, took a long, satisfying hot shower, and ordered the expensive meal I had always denied myself: a perfectly seared steak and a glass of good Bordeaux. A half-glass of wine cut through the mental fog, clarifying everything. I realized: when you’re constantly losing, the only way to win is to walk away from the table. This time, I was not going back.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “387249”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel