After Declan secretly drove Marissa home for what felt like the hundredth time, I was done. A bone-deep, marrow-sucking exhaustion washed over me. I told him it was over. He buried his face in his hands, playing the tortured victim. “Just because I gave her a ride?” “What exactly do I have to do for you to be satisfied, Paige?” “We’re in the same department. It’s a professional requirement. I can’t just cut her out of my life.” I stared at the tube of lip gloss tucked beneath the passenger seat. A harsh, hollow laugh scraped its way up my throat. “Is it because she’s a colleague that you can’t cut her off?” I asked softly. “Or is it because she was your first love?” 01 I was so incredibly tired. Maybe this psychological fatigue had been festering since the day Declan brought the wrong bag home. Declan owned a faded, charcoal-gray canvas messenger bag that he’d lugged around for over a decade. He claimed it was a relic from his high school debate team—sturdy, utilitarian, indestructible. From high school to undergrad, through his PhD, and straight into his tenure-track position at the university, he had a habit of stuffing it with lecture notes and grant proposals. We had been together for seven years. I knew the geography of Declan’s life like the back of my hand. That included the frayed edges of that canvas bag. So, the evening he tossed it onto the entryway bench, the smudge on the strap caught my eye immediately. “When did you get nail polish on your bag?” The sound of running water from the bathroom made his voice sound fragmented, distant. “Huh? What do you mean?” I held up the strap, pointing to a tiny, dark smear catching the hall light. “Look. It’s black, but it’s got glitter in it. You only see it when the light hits it.” He took the bag, angling it under the pendant light. He unzipped the main compartment, peeked inside, and let out a heavy, exasperated sigh. “I see. This is Marissa’s bag. She must have grabbed mine by mistake.” “Marissa?” Declan didn’t miss a beat. “The new adjunct in our department. We actually went to high school together.” I nodded, piecing it together. “So she has the same debate team bag.” At the time, I thought it was just a cute coincidence, a shared piece of alumni nostalgia. I wouldn’t find out until much later that fifteen years ago, they had swapped these exact bags by mistake. That the hazy, intoxicating rush of their teenage romance had sparked from that very mix-up. Sturdy. Built to withstand the test of time. Not just the canvas bags. But the unresolved, tragic romance of the girl who got away. 02 Declan’s face went rigid. “You knew we dated in high school?” I rolled the lip gloss between my fingers, letting out a quiet breath. “It would take a miracle not to know, Declan. I’m not blind.” He lowered his eyes. The silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating. “When did you find out?” I tilted my head, studying the stranger sitting in my living room. “Does it matter?” “Are you trying to figure out where the leak was? Run a post-mortem on your strategy so the next lie is airtight?” I couldn’t keep the venom out of my voice. “When you, Marissa, and Kelsey were all coordinating your stories to keep me in the dark, did you hold weekly departmental meetings about it? Like you do with your lab data?” “Tell me, Declan. As my boyfriend, and as my supposed best friend, did it give you a thrill to stand on Marissa’s side of the line and make a fool out of me?” Declan took a sharp, suffering breath, the picture of a man pushed to his limits. “How many times do I have to say it? We didn’t team up to lie to you!” It was laughable. “Are you an idiot, Declan, or do you just think I am?” 03 For months, Marissa’s name had been a constant hum in the background of my life. They shared a faculty office. They were both the university’s rising stars in the department. They shared a hometown, a high school, a history. Whether it was the dean assigning them joint research projects or the undergrads gossiping in the corridors, the world seemed determined to tether them together. Marissa was woven so tightly into the fabric of Declan’s career that he couldn’t even tell me about his Tuesday without mentioning her. Naturally, I grew curious about her. But I was naive. I brought a gentle, friendly curiosity to the table, entirely unaware that she brought an arsenal of quiet, malicious exclusion. And Declan? He played the blind man. He couldn’t see Marissa’s calculated toxicity. He couldn’t see her ulterior motives. He simply let her bulldoze right past every boundary a man in a seven-year relationship should have. It started small. His undergrads, oblivious and eager, would joke about how perfect Professor Shaw and Professor Howell looked together. He never corrected them. Then, it escalated. He began driving her home every single day. He looked me in the eye and swore he was keeping his promise to me—that outside of faculty meetings, he had zero contact with her. Then came my suspicions. When I casually asked about the mythical, devoted high school boyfriend Marissa loved to brag about, Declan lied again. He claimed he hadn’t really paid attention to her dating life back then. And then there was Kelsey. My college roommate. The woman I considered my chosen sister. To my face, she played the peacemaker, urging me to give Declan the benefit of the doubt, telling me I was letting my insecurities win. Behind my back, she was the bridge connecting them. She curated group hangouts, manufactured excuses for them to be together, and played lookout. Time and time again, I swallowed my discomfort. I choked down my grievances. I gave Declan my grace, and I gave Kelsey my trust. And they took those gifts, sharpened them into blades, and gutted me. 04 “I explained everything you were upset about, didn’t I?” Declan’s jaw clenched. His tone was drenched in genuine bewilderment. I stared at him, marveling at the fact that I had loved this man for the better part of a decade. “Your students joke that you two are soulmates, and did you ever shut it down?” “You and Marissa just exchange those little smiles and let them whisper. You never deny it. You never set the record straight. But you come home and tell me I’m overreacting, that I’m inventing ghosts.” “You promised me you wouldn’t interact with her outside of work, yet you’re playing her personal chauffeur every afternoon.” “You come home smelling like her perfume, and you look me in the eye and lie!” Declan’s brow furrowed, his voice rising to match mine. “Because the second her name comes up, you lose your mind! I couldn’t tell you the truth because you’re impossible to talk to!” He caught himself, swallowing his temper, and shifted into damage control. “If we break up, what are we supposed to tell your parents?” “Your dad’s heart isn’t great, Paige. Your mom has been waiting for us to pick a wedding venue. It’s been seven years. Are you really going to throw all of this away over a misunderstanding?” My hands froze. When my dad started showing the warning signs of a mini-stroke two years ago, Declan was the one who caught it. He drove him to the ER. Because of that, my parents didn’t just love him; they owed him. They felt a profound, unbreakable gratitude toward him, frequently hinting that we shouldn’t wait much longer to tie the knot. If I walked away now, how would it break them? “Paige, baby, let’s just stop fighting, okay?” Declan dropped his voice an octave, slipping into that soft, velvet tone he knew I loved. “If you’re really this insecure about it, come to the high school alumni dinner this Saturday with me.” “See for yourself. See how we interact. You’ll realize you’ve built this whole thing up in your head. Okay?” 05 I went to the dinner. Somewhere, buried deep in the bruised tissue of my heart, a pathetic little ember of hope still flickered. You don’t just sever a seven-year bond like a loose thread. Once the blinding red rage faded, the memories crept back in. The years of being adored, of being prioritized, of laughing until my ribs ached in his kitchen. Those ghosts coaxed me into trying one last time. Give him the chance to prove me wrong. I wanted him to evolve. I wanted him to finally look at me and understand the exact shape of my pain. From the moment we walked into the private dining room, Declan kept his fingers interlaced with mine, holding on tight. “Hey, class prez is here! And who is this gorgeous woman?” a guy greeted us, his smile wide and genuine. Declan didn’t hesitate. “Everyone, this is my girlfriend, Paige.” “Leave it to Shaw to pull someone completely out of his league.” Declan’s lips twitched upward into a proud, devastatingly familiar smile. “I’m a lucky guy, what can I say?” The table erupted into good-natured cheers. For a dizzying second, I felt like I was time-traveling. I was back in our mid-twenties, back when we first became an ‘us,’ insulated and untouchable. Something tight in my chest went soft. Maybe coming here was the right move. 06 For the first hour, Declan was a man of his word. He was hyper-attuned to me. If anyone brought up an inside joke that left me out, he smoothly derailed the conversation, redirecting it to something inclusive. I watched him navigate the room, charming and attentive. The coiled spring in my chest began to unwind. Then, the heavy oak doors swung open. Marissa. She drifted into the room, dispensing gentle, practiced smiles to everyone who called her name. Taking the empty seat right beside Declan seemed like nothing more than an innocent coincidence. Instinctively, Declan shifted his chair to give her more room. Before she even sat fully down, he reached across the table, picked up the wine glass set at her place setting, and swapped it with a tumbler of warm water. “Your stomach has been acting up. Skip the Pinot tonight,” he murmured. The intimacy in his hushed voice was a physical blow. The movement was fluid, unconscious, lacking even a fraction of a second of hesitation. It was muscle memory. “Man, you two never change,” the guy across from them laughed. “Remember when you guys swapped those debate bags senior year? Swear to God, you were the IT couple…” The guy next to him sharply elbowed his ribs, gesturing wildly with his eyes toward me. “Oh, uh, my bad. But hey, Shaw’s girlfriend doesn’t look like the type to sweat ancient history, right?” Declan said nothing. He didn’t agree. He didn’t deny it. He just laughed easily and pivoted the conversation, exactly like he had done for me all night. The soft, hopeful thing in my chest crystallized into ice. He was right. I was never the type to sweat ancient history. So who turned me into this paranoid, score-keeping shadow of myself? I turned slightly to Kelsey, who was seated on my left. “You see it, right?” I whispered. “You see how he is with her?” “Do you still think I’m just being sensitive?” I waited for her answer. I was offering up the pulse of our friendship, waiting to see if she would save it or let it bleed out. Kelsey’s brow furrowed in fierce annoyance. “Declan is already walking on eggshells, Paige. He’s barely even looked at her tonight.” “Do you have to be so exhausting? They’re old friends. What do you want him to do, build a Berlin Wall between them so you can feel secure?” She didn’t offer a single word of comfort. She just leaned forward, catching Marissa’s eye, and launched into an animated conversation about her new earrings. Seeing my expression, Declan frowned and reached out to brush my arm. “Hey. What’s with the face?” His eyes flicked down, finally registering the full glass of Cabernet sitting untouched in front of me. “Are you feeling sick? If you’re not feeling well, you really shouldn’t drink.” Two glasses of wine. When it belonged to her, he preemptively removed the danger. When it sat in front of me, it was practically invisible until I inconvenienced him with a bad mood. It was a sick joke. “I did everything you asked,” he whispered, his tone edging into frustration. “Why are you still punishing me?” I looked at him. The urge to explain myself, to communicate, evaporated entirely. His “boundaries” were just theatrical performances put on for my benefit. His “compromises” were just a chore, a tax he paid to keep me quiet. From start to finish, he never felt my grief. Because his emotional real estate was already occupied. By a ghost he didn’t even have to consciously think about to protect. Someone who had a VIP pass to his instincts, someone who naturally bypassed the line and stood at the very front of his heart. 07 Love gave me my answer. Now, it was time to put Friendship on the chopping block. It took three separate attempts before Kelsey finally agreed to meet me for lunch. She slid into the booth opposite me, radiating impatience. “What’s so urgent? Couldn’t we just FaceTime later?” I took a slow, steadying breath. I thought about the last few months. When I asked her out on weekdays, she was drowning in deadlines. On weekends, she was burnt out, needing a “rot day.” Yet, my Instagram feed was constantly updated with photos of her at brunch, at wine bars, at spin classes with other girls. It seemed like no matter what day of the week I chose, it was the exact day she lacked the time, the energy, or the desire to exist in my orbit. I gave a dry laugh. “When exactly is ‘later,’ Kelsey? Because it feels like whenever I ask, you’re magically booked solid.” Kelsey’s gaze flicked away, a telltale sign of her guilt, before she forced a defensive glare. “What are you talking about? I would never avoid you!” “We’re best friends.” Best friends. I rolled the words around in my head. They tasted like ash. “If you really consider me your best friend,” I said quietly, “then why did you play matchmaker for your ‘best friend’s’ boyfriend and another woman?” Kelsey’s face hardened instantly. “Is this about Declan and Marissa again?” “Jesus, Paige, why are you like a dog with a bone? You’re so paranoid!” “When did I ever play matchmaker? You’re just hypersensitive. You project your insecurities onto everything everyone does!” Watching her put on this ferocious, self-righteous act, I felt a strange, chilling calm settle over me. “You didn’t?” “Then why didn’t you tell me Marissa was his high school sweetheart the day she was hired?” “Why did you laugh along with the rest of the faculty when they made jokes about them dating, knowing full well he came home to me every night?” “You’re close friends with both of them. When you laugh at those jokes, it validates the rumors. It tells the world there’s a spark there. Are you going to sit there and tell me you didn’t know exactly what you were doing?” “I…” Kelsey opened her mouth, scrambling for a lifeline. But I didn’t want to hear it. I had waited in the dark for her explanations for so long. I had starved waiting for her loyalty. And all she ever fed me was gaslighting. I just wanted to purge the poison from my system. “I came to you, crying, telling you Declan had no boundaries with her.” “And knowing exactly how much it was destroying me, you suggested he drive both of you home from happy hour. And you made sure he dropped you off first, leaving them alone in the car.” “What was the goal, Kels? Make sure they had thirty minutes of uninterrupted time in the dark to trauma-bond?” “At first, Declan felt guilty. He knew it crossed a line. But you were the one who told him it was fine. You told him that since you were there, it wasn’t a ‘solo hangout,’ right?” Tears blurred my vision, hot and humiliating. It wasn’t just that she chose Marissa over me. The knife twisted deeper because of a much colder truth. “You stopped being my friend a long time ago, didn’t you?” I knew Kelsey. “Even if I were just an acquaintance to you, you have too much pride to be an accomplice to an affair. You only did it because I ceased to matter to you at all.” 08 “You’re right.” Kelsey’s voice was stripped of all its frantic defensiveness. The silence that followed was heavy and metallic. “I don’t consider you my friend anymore.” She looked at me, her face a mask of cool indifference. “So, helping my actual friend get what she wants? Yeah. I’d say that’s pretty justified.” Memories hit me like a physical blow. Our cramped sophomore dorm room. Eating takeout on the floor. Walking aimlessly around campus at midnight, dissecting our fears, our messy breakups, our chaotic futures. She knew my deepest insecurities. I knew the fragile ego beneath her armor. Then came grad school. The corporate world. The slow, agonizing fade of her affection. I used to tell myself it was just adulthood. People get busy. People get tired. I just needed to try harder. Be more accommodating. Be the low-maintenance friend. I bled myself dry trying to water a dead plant. Until she started building a bridge between the man I loved and the woman who wanted him. Until this very second. When she sat across from me and admitted that my heart had simply been collateral damage in her game. 09 I tilted my head up, refusing to let the tears fall. Kelsey’s jaw was set tight. Not a flicker of remorse behind her eyes. “Then this is where we get off,” I whispered, swallowing the jagged rock in my throat. “From this second on, whatever you do, whatever happens to you—it’s none of my business.” I slid out of the booth. “You probably don’t care, but for the record? Declan and I are done.” “I hope you and your friend finally get everything you deserve.” 10 I had intended to dump Declan to his face. It was the respectful thing to do, for him, and for the seven years we built. But seven o’clock came and went. Then eight. He wasn’t home. Where are you? We need to talk. It’s important. Half an hour later, his reply popped onto my screen. Marissa got super sick. I had to take her to the ER. Is it an emergency? Just hold on, let me get her admitted and I’ll head back. It was the final nail in the coffin. I wanted to end this with grace. With quiet, adult dignity. So I replied: Okay. I’ll wait. But midnight struck, and the front door remained shut. In that quiet, dark living room, the tether snapped. The obsession, the anxiety, the desperate need for closure—it all evaporated into the ether. There was nothing left to say. There was no point in looking at his face one last time. I pulled my suitcase from the hall closet, packed the essentials, and ordered an Uber. As the car pulled away from the curb, I sent Declan Shaw one final text. We’re done.

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My husband makes twelve thousand dollars a month, net. His father holds his payroll card, and for six years, he hasn’t contributed a single dime to our household. I pay the mortgage. I pay the car loan. I maxed out my credit cards just to cover our daughter Zoe’s preschool tuition. The year I was suffering from severe postpartum anemia, my credit card debt spiraled to over eighteen thousand dollars. That same year, his father took my husband’s money to buy his younger brother a forty-five-thousand-dollar SUV. I asked him if he could just bring three thousand dollars a month home. He smashed his glass right in front of the entire family: “Who the hell do you think you are, trying to steal from my father?” Looking at his unfamiliar face, the sheer absurdity of it finally hit me. The next morning, I cancelled all the autopay accounts, packed up our daughter, and went back to my parents’ house. By day ten, overdue notices were plastered all over his door, and the bank was calling his office. He finally panicked. 01 My father-in-law, Richard, was bragging in the family group chat again, posting a screenshot of a wire transfer. $12,000. Sender: Greg. Recipient: Richard. The caption read: “A son who knows his duty is worth more than anything in this world.” The chat blew up instantly. My brother-in-law, Justin, posted three thumbs-up emojis: “Greg is the man. Mom and Dad are set for life.” My mother-in-law, Beverly, added a heart-eyes emoji. I sat at the dining table, staring at this month’s stack of bills spread out in front of me. Mortgage: $2,800. Car payment: $600. Daycare: $1,200. Utilities, Wi-Fi, and trash: $400. On top of that, Zoe had been hospitalized with bronchitis last month. Even after insurance, the out-of-pocket medical bill was $2,400. My monthly salary was $3,500. The minimum payments on my credit cards felt like a noose tightening around my neck. Zoe sat in her booster seat, poking her spoon into her bowl of oatmeal, her voice soft and sweet. “Mommy, is Daddy coming home for dinner tonight?” I glanced toward the kitchen. The slow cooker still had the beef stew I’d kept warm for Greg. “Yes, sweetie.” Right on cue, the front door clicked open. Greg walked in, his suit jacket draped over his arm, his face lined with the exhaustion of working late. When he saw the bills on the table, his movements faltered. “Calculating the budget again?” I pushed the statements toward him. “I can’t make the credit card payments this month. Can you talk to your dad? Just ask him if you can start bringing four thousand a month home to cover our expenses.” He didn’t even look at the paper. Instead, he picked up his glass of water. “My dad needs the money right now.” “He bought Justin a forty-five-thousand-dollar car last week.” “Justin is getting married. He needs a reliable car.” “Zoe’s preschool tuition is due next week. I have exactly two hundred and sixty dollars left in my checking account.” He unscrewed the cap and took a slow sip. “Daycare is too expensive anyway. If we can’t afford it, find a cheaper one.” I stared at him, my hands tightening in my lap. “Do you even know why Zoe is at this daycare? Your mother told me public preschool waitlists were too long and told me to handle it myself. I did the research. I do the pick-ups and drop-offs. When she gets sick, I’m the one taking unpaid leave.” Greg slammed his glass down onto the table. “Do you have to turn everything into a lecture? I work hard, Lydia. I’m tired.” The sudden noise startled Zoe, and her spoon clattered to the table. I picked it up, wiped it clean with a napkin, and handed it back to her with a gentle smile. “I’m not saying you don’t work hard,” I said, keeping my voice level. “I’m asking if you can help support our household.” He finally looked at me, his eyes cold and defensive. “Lydia, don’t be so obsessed with money. When I was in school, my dad worked twelve-hour shifts at a freezing warehouse just so I could go to college. His hands were literally cracked and bleeding. Now that I have the means, giving him my paycheck is the right thing to do. It’s my duty.” “Then what about me?” He frowned. “What about you?” “I pay the mortgage. I pay the car payment. I feed our child, handle every utility bill, and max out my credit cards to keep a roof over our heads. What am I to you?” He was silent for two seconds before his voice dropped to a frigid tone. “You live in this house too, don’t you? You drive the car. Zoe is your daughter. Stop acting like you’re doing me a favor by paying for your own life.” I looked at the mountain of debt on the table and suddenly let out a soft, dry laugh. Zoe reached out and tugged at my sleeve. “Mommy, don’t laugh like that. It’s scary.” I stroked her soft hair. “I’m sorry, baby. Don’t worry.” Greg tossed his jacket onto the couch. “You’ve gotten so bitter lately. You never used to be like this.” 02 My mother-in-law, Beverly, came over the following morning. She let herself in, carrying a plastic bag of cheap oranges in one hand and a cardboard box of high-end collagen wellness shots in the other. “Lydia, I couldn’t stand the taste of these wellness shots. You take them. Give yourself a little boost.” I took the box. It was already open, with only two small bottles left inside. Beverly kicked off her shoes and scanned the living room floor. “Zoe’s toys are everywhere. You shouldn’t spoil her like this.” I was busy braiding Zoe’s hair. “She just finished playing. I’ll clean it up in a minute.” Beverly sat on the couch, pulling out her phone. “Did you pick another fight with Greg about money last night?” The hair tie twisted in my fingers. Zoe’s hair was fine and slippery, and a few strands fell loose. “It wasn’t a fight. We literally do not have enough money to cover our bills.” Beverly let out a dismissive laugh. “You young people just don’t know how to budget. You make thirty-five hundred a month. How is that not enough? Back in our day, we raised two kids on a fraction of that.” I zipped Zoe’s little backpack. “Beverly, we have a mortgage now.” “But the house is in your name, isn’t it?” “It’s in both of our names.” “Then it’s perfectly normal for you to pay for it. A woman needs her own home to feel secure.” She said it so smoothly, as if this crippling debt wasn’t a burden, but a privilege I should thank her for. Zoe ran up to Beverly, her backpack bouncing. “Grandma! I’m going to paint a bunny at school today!” Beverly pinched her cheek. “Why waste time on painting? Kids don’t need all these expensive activities. Your father never went to any fancy extracurriculars, and he still went to an Ivy League school.” I walked Zoe down to the car. When I returned, Beverly was already standing in front of my open refrigerator. “Why is there barely any food in here?” “It’s the end of the month.” She slammed the fridge door shut, her expression tightening. “Lydia, I actually came over to talk to you about something. Justin is getting engaged next month, and his fiancée’s family expects a beautiful ring and a down payment on a house. Your father-in-law is under immense pressure. Stop pressuring Greg for money.” I froze. “Justin is getting married. Why is Greg funding it?” Beverly looked at me as if I’d asked the stupidest question in the world. “They’re brothers. Why wouldn’t he help? Greg is the older brother, the successful one. It’s only natural he carries the weight.” “And what about his own daughter?” “Zoe has you. It’s not like she’s starving.” I leaned heavily against the dining table, my palms pressing into the hard wood. “Beverly, I am eighteen thousand five hundred dollars in credit card debt.” She blinked, her brow furrowing. “How did you run up that much debt? Have you been buying luxury things behind Greg’s back?” I pulled up my banking app and thrust the phone toward her. Hospital bills, mortgage payments, car payments, daycare tuition, groceries. Line by line. Clean, necessary, unavoidable. Beverly glanced at it for a second, then pushed the phone back to me. “I don’t understand all these digital statements. Look, if your little family is struggling, you need to find a way to fix it ourselves. Greg’s money has already been promised to his father. We can’t just take it back.” “And what if I can’t fix it?” She stared at me, her voice turning sharp. “Then spend less. Pull Zoe out of preschool. Stop driving. Stop ordering takeout. You’re a mother, Lydia. If you tighten your belt, you can make it work.” I thought of the cold leftovers I had eaten for dinner the night before. I thought of my winter coat, which was three years old and fraying at the seams. I thought of the follow-up medical checkup my doctor had ordered months ago, which I still hadn’t scheduled because I couldn’t afford the co-pay. Beverly stood up and grabbed her designer purse. “Your father-in-law is waiting for me at the jeweler’s. I have to go. Make sure you drink those wellness shots—don’t let them go to waste.” The door clicked shut behind her. I looked at the box containing the two remaining bottles, picked it up, and threw it directly into the trash. 03 I didn’t attend my brother-in-law’s engagement party. It wasn’t out of spite. Zoe woke up that morning with a fever of 102.5. I called Greg. He didn’t answer. I sent him a text. He replied hours later: “Today is a massive day for my family. Take her to the clinic yourself.” The emergency room was packed. Zoe’s face was flushed red, her tiny hands clutching my collar as she rested her heavy head on my shoulder. “Mommy, it hurts,” she whimpered. I rocked her back and forth, staring at the endless line at the registration desk. In front of me stood a young couple. The father held their crying toddler, while the mother carefully reviewed the paperwork. They took turns whispering comforts to the child, taking turns standing in line. I was entirely on my own. By the time Zoe’s fever finally broke, it was 11:00 PM. I sat in a hard plastic chair in the pediatric unit, holding her small, limp hand. My phone buzzed. It was a notification from Facebook. My mother-in-law had posted. In the photo, Justin was wearing a sharp new suit, and his fiancée was showing off a sparkling diamond ring. Richard stood right next to them, his face flushed red with joy and alcohol. The caption read: “My youngest is officially set. The oldest funds it, the youngest builds his home. That’s what family does.” The oldest funds it. I zoomed in on the photo. Greg stood on the very edge of the frame, holding a thick envelope, a polished, polite smile plastered on his face. That envelope looked incredibly heavy. I looked down at Zoe. Her tiny arm was taped down where the IV had been, her sleep fitful and uneasy. My phone buzzed again. A credit card payment alert. Minimum payment due: $980. My bank account balance: $122. The nurse walked over, checking the IV drip. “Her second bag is almost done, sweetie. Keep an eye on it and let us know when it finishes.” I nodded, unable to speak. A young mother sitting in the chair next to me quietly handed me a pack of tissues. “You look pale,” she said softly. “Are you alright?” As I took them, I realized my forehead was drenched in a cold sweat. We didn’t get home until 1:00 AM. Greg still wasn’t back. I wiped Zoe down with a warm cloth, gave her her medicine, and tucked her into bed. It was past 2:00 AM when I heard the front door open. Greg walked in, smelling heavily of whiskey. “How’s the baby?” “Her fever is down.” He let out a long breath, loosening his tie. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it. It was Justin’s big night, and Dad got so drunk I had to stay and handle everything.” I sat on the edge of the bed, holding the digital thermometer. “How much did you give them?” He froze. “Why are you asking that?” “I saw your mother’s post.” He hung his suit jacket over the back of a chair. “Fifteen thousand. It’s a standard wedding contribution.” I stared at him. “Zoe’s medical bill was twenty-four hundred dollars, and you told me we had nothing. But you can hand your brother fifteen thousand dollars for a party?” His face darkened. “That was money my dad saved up. I was just handing it over on behalf of the family.” “Where did your dad get that money, Greg?” “Don’t start interrogating me.” I set the thermometer down on the nightstand. “I have one question, Greg. While our daughter was hooked up to an IV in the emergency room, did it ever cross your mind that her father was busy handing out fifteen-thousand-dollar gifts?” He tried to suppress his anger, his jaw clenching. “Lydia, can we please not do this when our kid is sick?” “Where were you when she got sick?” He looked at Zoe’s sleeping form, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “I’m exhausted. We’ll talk tomorrow.” He turned and walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. I sat on the edge of the mattress, wide awake, watching the sky slowly turn from black to a bruised gray. As dawn broke, I opened my laptop and exported my bank statements from the last six years. Spreadsheet after spreadsheet filled the screen. As I scrolled through the cold, hard numbers, something inside me died. Six years. I had paid $182,000 toward our mortgage. I had paid $43,000 for car payments and auto insurance. For Zoe—from formula, diapers, and vaccines to preschool and medical bills—I had spent over $90,000. The rest of our daily living expenses, groceries, repairs, and furniture totaled another $65,000. The grand total: $380,000. Meanwhile, Greg’s after-tax income over those six years was nearly $800,000. Every single cent had gone directly into his father’s account. 04 The final straw came during Preschool Family Field Day. The school had sent out a flyer a week in advance, stating that they hoped both parents could attend. Zoe had been practically vibrating with excitement for three days straight. Every night before bed, she would look up at me and ask, “Is Daddy coming?” I asked Greg. Initially, he said he’d see if his schedule allowed it. The night before, I asked him again. He was sitting on the couch scrolling through his phone, watching a video his father had posted on TikTok. Lately, Richard had become obsessed with social media, posting videos about his “parenting secrets” and his “devoted, successful sons.” The comments were flooded with strangers praising him for raising such a loyal eldest son. Greg read through the comments with a smug smile. I stood directly in front of him. “Daycare Field Day is tomorrow at 2:00 PM. Take a half-day off.” “I have a project meeting tomorrow.” “You promised her last week.” “I said I’d try.” Zoe peeked her head out from her bedroom. “Daddy, you’re not coming?” Greg put his phone face down. “Daddy will do his best, sweetie.” “Do my best.” Adults know what that means. But children don’t. He didn’t show up. During the parent-child relay, every other child was piggybacking on their fathers while their mothers cheered at the finish line. I had to carry Zoe and run the race myself, then scramble to the finish line to hold up her team’s banner. Zoe clung to my neck, her little arms wrapped tightly around me. “Mommy, am I too heavy?” “No, baby. You’re light as a feather.” In reality, my vision was blurring, and my knees were shaking. After the event, the teacher sent out a group photo. Every single child had two parents smiling beside them. Zoe only had me. She was incredibly quiet on the drive home. As we approached our neighborhood, she suddenly spoke up. “Mommy, does Daddy not like me?” I pulled over and turned to face her. “Of course he likes you, sweetie.” “Then why does he never come?” I reached over to brush a damp strand of hair from her forehead. “Daddy is just very busy with work.” She looked down at her lap. “But Tommy’s dad works too, and he was there.” I had no answer for her. When Greg came home that evening, he was holding a box with a shiny new toy. “For Zoe. A little makeup gift.” Zoe looked at it but didn’t touch it. She picked up her stuffed bunny and quietly retreated to her room. Greg stood there awkwardly, placing the box on the coffee table. “What’s wrong with her?” I pulled up the group photo and handed him the phone. “She asked me today if you don’t like her.” His expression stiffened. I swiped to a video the teacher had sent. In the video, I was running with Zoe in my arms. Near the finish line, my foot slipped, and I nearly went down. Zoe had started crying in terror, clinging to me and screaming for her mommy. Greg watched it in silence. I took my phone back. “Greg, I can’t carry this family alone anymore.”

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There was an open secret in the upper-bracket social circles of Chicago. Beckett Shaw, the ruthless heir of Shaw Enterprises, was marrying his kept woman of five years—not out of love, but out of sheer spite toward his first love. In the master bedroom of his Gold Coast penthouse, Beckett wrapped his arms around me from behind. His breath was hot against the crook of my neck, smelling faintly of expensive scotch and cedarwood. “Gwen,” he murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy warmth. “It’s been five years. I can barely even remember what Cynthia looks like.” He turned me around, holding my face in his hands. “Give me a child after the wedding, and we’ll build a real life together. Just you and me.” I looked into his dark eyes, watching the sudden, intense affection swirling in them. My chest tightened, and my eyes stung with a sudden rush of heat. I nodded, leaning into his touch like the obedient girl I had always trained myself to be. I actually believed him. I believed that five years of quiet, devoted companionship had finally thawed the icy edges of Beckett Shaw’s heart. Until the night before the wedding. I was walking down the hallway of our new suburban estate when I heard muffled voices coming from the master suite. Cynthia Ward—his first love, the girl who had left him to marry a European baronet, and who had just returned to the States after a bitter divorce—was standing inside, confronting him. “Are you serious, Beckett?” her voice cut through the heavy oak door, sharp and trembling with indignation. “To force me back to Chicago, you’re really going to marry some cheap escort just to make me suffer?” Inside, there was a long, heavy pause, followed by the low, dragging sound of Beckett exhaling smoke. “Even if she’s just a placeholder,” Beckett said, his tone dripping with a quiet, lethal indifference, “she’s the one I’m putting at the altar. At least Gwen doesn’t pack her bags and run off with another man the second things get difficult. At least she didn’t leave me alone for five years.” The air in the hallway seemed to drop to freezing. … Inside the room, Cynthia’s voice cracked, turning into a frantic, desperate plea. “Beckett, I divorced my husband for you! I came back for you! Are you really going to go through with this tomorrow? Are you really going to marry her?” A dry, rustling silence followed. Then came the sound of Beckett fastening his cufflinks. When he spoke again, his voice had returned to its usual, haughty calm. “Cynthia, you didn’t honestly think that the moment you showed up, I’d just fall back to my knees, did you? The wedding is happening tomorrow. And I want you sitting in the front row, watching me put a ring on Gwen’s finger.” I stood frozen in the dim hallway, my fingers gripping the paper in my pocket—the positive pregnancy scan I had picked up from the clinic only three hours ago. I couldn’t move my feet. I didn’t even have the right to push open the door. The five years of devotion I thought had finally borne fruit were nothing but a weapon. I was just a tool he was using to bleed his ex-wife dry. I didn’t storm in like a madwoman. Instead, I walked down the hall, dropped the ultrasound scan into the silver trash can by the stairs, and stepped out into the freezing Chicago night wind. It was nearly midnight when Beckett returned to our city penthouse. The moment he saw me sitting on the sofa, his eyes lit up. He held out a wrapped bundle of white lisianthus flowers, presenting them to me with a boyish, almost proud grin. “The florist finished setting up the pavilion by Lake Michigan, baby,” he said, pulling me into a tight embrace, burying his face in my hair. “It’s covered in your favorite lisianthus. Tomorrow, you’re going to be the most beautiful bride this city has ever seen.” He held me so tightly I could barely breathe. “It’s only when I’m next to you that I feel grounded. Gwen, you’re never going to leave me, right?” I sat rigid in his arms, my face blank. If I hadn’t heard his conversation with Cynthia, I would have spent the night worrying about his hectic schedule, convincing myself that this was what true love felt like. But as he leaned closer, the heavy, sweet scent of a woman’s expensive French perfume invaded my senses. I had the quiet, practiced dignity of a kept woman. I knew when to look away. But tonight, I couldn’t force myself to play the part. I took a slow step back, slipping out of his embrace. Beckett’s hands remained suspended in the air for a fraction of a second, his posture stiffening. “Where is the silver tie clip I bought you last month?” I asked, looking him dead in the eye. My voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes, but he quickly masked it, reaching out to pinch my earlobe with an easy, patronizing smile. “I must have misplaced it during the dinner meeting tonight. Don’t worry, I’ll have my assistant track it down tomorrow.” I didn’t flinch away from his touch. I just stared into those arrogant, old-money eyes—eyes accustomed to owning everything they looked at. “Beckett,” I said softly, “since Cynthia is back, let’s call off the wedding.” The smile on his face froze. He was so used to my obedience over the last five years that he had never expected me to be the one to rip the curtain down. The warmth in his eyes drained away, replaced by a cold, unfamiliar glare. “Gwen, a wedding of this scale isn’t something you get to cancel,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. He stepped closer, towering over me. “You’ve always been the smart one. There are a thousand women in this city who would crawl through broken glass to be Mrs. Shaw. Don’t lose your head at the finish line.” Beckett once told me that I was the first woman who had ever actively pitched herself to him. Before I met him, I was a struggling actress, suffocating on the fringes of the indie film scene, desperate to avoid the greasy, bloated producers who viewed girls like me as currency. At a high-profile charity gala, I had slipped away during the dinner service, cornering Beckett Shaw outside the private restroom. I didn’t play coy; I laid myself bare and told him exactly what I wanted: protection, stability, and a way out of the meat market. Beckett had looked me up and down, his gaze heavy and assessing, the tip of his cigarette glowing like a dying star in the dark hallway. “You’re very young to bind yourself to a man like me,” he had said, blowing a thin stream of smoke over my head. “Are you sure you’ve thought this through?” After that night, the indie film scene lost a promising face. And the Shaw estate gained a perfectly obedient canary. When his personal assistant handed me the contract, his voice was filled with a strange, quiet envy. “You’re very lucky, Ms. Collins. In all his years, Mr. Shaw has never let a woman stay the night.” I spent the night of my wedding eve dreaming of that first meeting. When I woke up, I was already in my wedding dress, sitting alone in a small, drafty holding room at the luxury hotel. There was no grand motorcade. No family greeting me. The Shaw family’s elderly butler walked in, his eyes carrying that familiar, quiet disdain he had worn for five years. “Ms. Collins, Mrs. Shaw senior had her spiritual adviser run the charts again last night. He claims the alignment today is highly inauspicious. The ceremony has been postponed.” I kept my smile pinned to my face, nodding politely. “I understand.” But we both knew the truth. There was no room for spiritual charts in a family that worshipped compound interest. It was simply a matter of old money drawing its borders. The holding room was freezing, the air conditioning humming loudly in the silence. On the velvet sofa sat my parents, looking small and deeply uncomfortable in their cheap off-the-rack formal wear. Next to them were two of my college friends who had flown in to be my bridesmaids. I forced myself to walk over to them, trying to maintain some shred of dignity. “Mom, Dad… I’m so sorry. There was an issue with the scheduling…” I bowed my head, offering a deep, silent apology to everyone in the room. When I straightened up, my father was rubbing his calloused hands together, his face flushed with embarrassment, while my friends whispered quietly among themselves. In five years, I had never once told them about the nature of my relationship with Beckett. Suddenly, they were told I was marrying a multi-billionaire, only to be left standing in a cold backroom on the morning of the wedding. My pride was ground into dust, scattered across the polished marble floor. Before I could comfort my mother, the heavy double doors were pushed open. Cynthia Ward marched in, wearing a vibrant, custom-tailored red silk dress that practically screamed defiance. She swept her eyes over my family, her lips curling into a smug sneer. “Oh, sweetie, there’s no scheduling error,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial pity. “Beckett’s mother found out I was back in town. She was never going to let a woman with a price tag on her head walk down their aisle.” Seeing the color drain from my face, she stepped closer, leaning in. “Do you want to know what old Mrs. Shaw actually said? She said she’d rather leave the seat empty than let a paid escort play house in her family home.” My mother’s eyes filled with tears. My father’s chest heaved with rage, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. He took a step toward her, but I grabbed his arm, my nails digging deep into my own palms to keep from shaking. Just as I was about to scream at her, a pair of warm, heavy hands settled onto my waist. Beckett had arrived. He pulled me flush against his side, his eyes burning with a dark, lethal intensity as he glared at Cynthia. “Who let her in here?” Beckett’s voice was a low growl. “If you ever show your face near Gwen again, Cynthia, I will personally ensure your family’s firm is run out of this state by Monday morning.” Cynthia’s face went pale. Before she could speak, two of Beckett’s security guards grabbed her by the arms and dragged her out of the room. The silence that followed was suffocating. Beckett turned around and, in front of my trembling parents, took my hand in his. His grip was tight, almost desperate. “I apologize for the distress, everyone,” Beckett said, his voice loud and clear. “The real reason we are postponing the ceremony is because Gwen is in her first trimester. The doctor advised against any unnecessary stress. We’ve decided to postpone the wedding and combine it with our child’s christening.” Once the room cleared, leaving only the two of us in the quiet bridal suite, the silence returned. I slowly placed my hand over my flat stomach, my voice trembling. “Beckett… was any of that true?” The man rubbing his temples paused. He looked down at my hand resting on my stomach, a cold, amused smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Gwen, you didn’t actually think you were going to have my baby, did you?” My heart stopped. Before I could explain that I actually was pregnant, Beckett let out a dry scoff. “If I didn’t tell them you were pregnant, the Shaw Enterprises stock would have plunged five percent by tomorrow morning on rumors of a jilted bride. Besides,” he added, his eyes flashing with a cruel satisfaction, “Cynthia didn’t look miserable enough when she left. I need her to stew in that jealousy for a few more days. It’ll teach her a lesson.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. He looked at my pale face, his expression turning slightly mocking. “Do you really think kept women get to play house with their benefactors? We don’t belong in the same world, Gwen. I pay you for your time, not your feelings.” For the next two weeks, Beckett didn’t come home once. The white lisianthus in the living room withered into brown, crispy husks, their petals scattering across the hardwood floor. I didn’t bother cleaning them up. The next time I saw him was on the television screen during a live broadcast of a Shaw Enterprises press conference. Beckett stood at the podium in a bespoke charcoal suit, his posture impeccable. It was the exact suit I had spent three weeks picking out for our rehearsal dinner. Back then, he had dismissed it as too theatrical. Now, he was wearing it while holding Cynthia’s hand under the flashing lights, his face softened by a warmth I had never seen. “Five years ago, there was a terrible misunderstanding between Ms. Ward and myself,” Beckett said to the crowd of reporters. “Next month, we will be holding a private ceremony on Lake Michigan to celebrate our marriage.” The room erupted into murmurs. A bold reporter stepped forward, raising a microphone. “Mr. Shaw, what about your previous engagement to Gwen Collins? There were rumors of a pregnancy…” The warmth vanished from Beckett’s face instantly. He stared directly into the camera lens, his expression hardening into a wall of cold, professional detachment. “Ms. Collins was well aware of my desire for a family. In a desperate bid to force her way into my family, she went so far as to forge a pregnancy test. I do not tolerate that kind of manipulation in my personal or professional life.” I sat quietly on the sofa, a pair of wooden needles in my hands, slowly knitting a tiny pair of yellow baby booties. My phone began to vibrate violently on the coffee table. When I picked it up, my mother’s sobbing voice filled the quiet room. “Gwen… marrying into that kind of wealth is like swallowing broken glass. I don’t want you to destroy yourself just to keep up with those people. Come home, baby. Please.” My hand slipped. The sharp wooden needle pierced my index finger. A bright bead of crimson blood welled up, dripping onto the soft yellow yarn, blooming like a tiny, violent flower. I quieted my mother with a few soft lies and hung up the phone. With a deep, exhausting weariness, I stood up and walked over to my vanity, pulling open the bottom drawer. Lying right next to the non-disclosure agreement I had signed five years ago was an official ultrasound report from three days prior. The image showed a tiny, dark shadow. The report noted a strong fetal heartbeat and the faint, delicate outline of a spine. That afternoon, I put on a black face mask and drove to the private hospital owned by the Shaw family’s medical group. The chief of obstetrics recognized me instantly, her manner overly deferential. But the moment she looked at the termination consent form in my hand, her face went white. She reached frantically for the desk phone. “Ms. Collins, I… I have to notify Mr. Shaw immediately.” I reached out, pressing my hand firmly over the receiver. I forced a small, tired smile. “Why? Men are allowed to keep women in the dark. Why can’t a woman keep a secret too?” I leaned in, my voice dropping to a whisper. “Don’t bother calling him. The baby isn’t his.” The doctor froze, staring at me as if I had lost my mind. I could see the frantic calculations running through her head—the assumption of a massive, career-ending scandal. Without another word, she signed her name on the authorization line. I took the paper back, turned around, and walked into the cold prep room. On the line marked Patient Signature, I wrote my name. Loss is a two-way street. If Beckett Shaw was willing to let me go, then I was going to make sure I left nothing of myself behind. Two hours later, my body aching and empty, I walked out of the hospital doors. A sharp spring breeze swept across Lake Michigan, carrying the scent of thawing ice. I looked out over the gray water, feeling an odd, weightless peace for the first time in five years. Standing on the crowded street corner, I dialed an old friend who had moved to Europe years ago. “I need a new identity,” I said, my voice barely carrying over the wind. “As fast as possible.” “I want to go somewhere Beckett Shaw will never find me.” By evening, Beckett was waiting for me at the penthouse. The anesthesia had mostly worn off, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in my lower abdomen. My back was damp with cold sweat. Beckett stood near the glass window, keeping a deliberate, polite distance from me. “The reporter who asked that question at the press conference won’t be working in Chicago anymore,” he said, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. “I’ve settled things with the major networks. You’re getting older, Gwen. It’s time you moved on and lived a normal life.” He lit a cigarette, his eyes lingering on my face with a faint, unspoken regret. We had lived together for five years. We knew each other too well. We both knew this was the end. “Gwen,” he said softly, “if your family had a different name, I really would have made you Mrs. Shaw.” I nodded quietly. “I know.” Seeing my compliance, Beckett pushed two thick leather folders across the marble kitchen island. “You gave me five years of your life. These two lakefront properties are yours. Consider it a parting gift.” He paused. “If you ever run into financial trouble, contact my assistant. He’ll take care of it.” I didn’t look at the deeds. I picked up the pen and signed my name at the bottom of the release form. My hand didn’t shake. I pushed the signed documents back toward him, keeping my eyes on his face, offering him one last, gentle smile. Beckett seemed taken aback by how quickly I had signed. He stared at me, his eyes dark and complicated. “Gwen… is there anything else you want?” Beckett, what else could I possibly ask for? The divide between us was a chasm of old money and power. The more I wanted, the less I would ever have. I looked at the cigarette burning down between his fingers. “You’re getting older, Beckett. You should really smoke less.” Our final dinner ended without another word. I packed my single suitcase and climbed into the back of his Mercedes. The pain in my stomach was so sharp I had to curl into a ball against the leather seat. As the car pulled out of the iron gates, a sleek red sports car passed us, heading toward the house. Cynthia was moving in. I looked through the tinted window, watching the warm lights of the master bedroom flicker on. On the sheer curtains, a slender silhouette reached up to drape her arms around a man’s neck. The driver looked at me through the rearview mirror. “Ms. Collins, Mr. Shaw instructed me to take you to the lakefront property. Shall we head there now?” I pulled my gaze away from the house, looking at the familiar skyline of the city I was leaving behind. “No,” I said quietly. “Take me to O’Hare Airport.” Back at the estate, Beckett was pacing the living room, a strange, suffocating restlessness clawing at his chest. Upstairs, Cynthia was tossing my remaining things out of the closet, her voice carrying down the hall. “Cheap polyester trash. How did you let her keep her things in our room?” With a sharp clatter, a thick manila envelope rolled down the stairs, landing right at Beckett’s feet. A folded piece of thermal paper slid out. Beckett looked down. The moment his eyes registered the black-and-white ultrasound image, his knees buckled. He collapsed onto his knees on the hardwood floor. His fingers shook so violently he could barely pick up the paper. He scrambled for his phone, dialing his driver’s number three times before the call finally went through. “Where is she? Did she get to the penthouse?” he roared, his voice cracking. On the other end, the driver’s voice was trembling. “Mr. Shaw… Ms. Collins didn’t go to the penthouse. She… she had me drop her off at O’Hare.” Realizing what was happening, Beckett tore off his tie, bolted out the front door, and scrambled into his car. “Stop her! Block the terminal! Don’t let her plane take off! Now!” “It’s too late, Mr. Shaw,” the driver whispered. “She’s already cleared security. But before she left… she told me to give you a message.”

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The day I caught Beckett cheating, I lost my mind. I smashed everything in sight. The hysteria took over, and my body simply gave out. By the time I blacked out, I was bleeding out on the hardwood floor. Panic-stricken, he carried me to the emergency room. At my bedside, Beckett wept, clutching my cold hands. “Aurora, I’m so sorry. Just get better,” he begged. “I’ll do anything. I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you. I will never, ever leave your side.” Be careful what you wish for. In his frantic rush to get my prescription filled, he ran out of the hospital lobby and was hit by an oncoming SUV. Both of his legs were crushed. I survived, but the trauma of that day took our baby and left me barren, trapped in a heavy, suffocating depression. From then on, he became his own jailer. He locked himself to his wheelchair with a heavy iron chain, refusing to ever be out of my sight. Whenever he felt the urge to stray, he would prick his own skin with sewing needles, leaving a map of tiny, weeping scars across his arms to punish himself. Until today. I pushed the door open to find Hailey, our young live-in maid, kneeling before his wheelchair, her head buried deeply between his thighs. I broke. But instead of apologizing, his face contorted in anger, and he shouted at me: “Aurora, for God’s sake, I made one mistake years ago! Am I always going to be filthy in your eyes?” “Hailey was just cleaning my scarred legs. I gave up my goddamn legs to pay you back—isn’t that enough?” “We lost one baby, and you act like the sky has permanently fallen! How long are you going to hold this over my head?” One baby. The child we had tried to conceive for five long years, reduced to a mere inconvenience in his narrative. Looking at his snarling, bitter face, a strange, hollow quiet suddenly washed over me. I realized, in that quiet moment, that there was absolutely nothing left in this marriage worth saving. … I unclipped the heavy iron chain from his belt and let it clatter to the floor. “I’m done holding on, Beckett.” He froze, kicking the chain aside, his eyes boring into mine. “Aurora, what do you want from me? For five years, I’ve given you my life. I haven’t left your side.” “But the second things don’t go your way, you threaten to pack up and leave. What is it going to take to make you happy?” His voice cracked as he fell into a coughing fit. Hailey immediately rushed forward, rubbing his back to soothe him. Looking at his frail, bitter state, my mind drifted back to five years ago. Back then, Beckett was radiant, full of ambition. On the night his startup went public, he held me tight and promised me a brilliant, glittering future. But at the very peak of his success, I walked in on his betrayal. Now, staring at the man confined to this wheelchair, I realized the bitter truth: I could never truly forgive him. Hailey wrapped her arms around him, her eyes shining with tears. “Beckett, please, don’t get upset. You’ll hurt yourself.” The intimacy of their embrace sent a sharp, dull ache through my chest. Once, in a freezing basement apartment in Brooklyn, sharing a single bowl of instant ramen under a thin blanket, we had held each other just like that. I forced a dry, joyless smile. Hailey looked up at me, her expression dripping with victimhood. “Aurora, why do you always have to hurt him? Don’t you know how much he loves you? He whispers your name every single night.” My brow furrowed. “How would you know that?” Her cheeks flushed, and she looked at Beckett with a soft, adoring gaze. “After you fall asleep, I go to his room to help ease his physical tension. When he… finds relief, it’s always your name he calls.” The words hung in the air. For a moment, I thought I had misheard. I stood frozen, my mind going completely blank. No wonder he had made such a sacred ritual of tucking me in every night, murmuring sweet promises until I fell asleep. It wasn’t love. It was just to clear the path for another woman. I looked at Beckett, biting my lip so hard I tasted copper. “Beckett, how desperate are you? Even losing your legs couldn’t stop you? What is it about betraying me that makes you feel so alive?” Seeing my agitation, he instinctively shielded Hailey behind his chair and let out a long, weary sigh. “Aurora, it’s not cheating. You haven’t let me touch you in years.” “I’m a man. I have physical needs. Hailey was just… maintenance. I love you. You are the only Mrs. Ward.” I love you. He had whispered those words on the Ferris wheel when he proposed. He had sobbed those words by my hospital bed five years ago, begging me not to leave. And now, caught in the act once more, he shielded another woman and said them again. He wore his devotion like a badge of honor, yet happily surrendered his body to anyone else. Staring at the man I had loved for five years, my heart went entirely cold. “Let her take care of you for the rest of your life,” I whispered. “I’m not cut out for this.” I turned to leave, but Hailey lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. Her eyes welled with tears as she sobbed, “Aurora, why are you doing this to me? I was just doing my job, taking care of Beckett. Why do you have to paint me as some homewrecking whore? Am I really that cheap to you?” She wept, looking up at Beckett for protection. That was the spark. Beckett pulled her close, looking at me with a cold, biting disgust I had never seen before. “Aurora, have you had enough?” “This is between us. Why are you dragging her into it?” “And let’s be honest—how clean are your hands? You cry over that miscarriage every single day, but have you ever stopped to think about why you became barren? If you hadn’t been ruined by those men back then, would one miscarriage have ruined your body?” I went rigid. I couldn’t breathe. That was the deepest, darkest trauma of my life. It was the one scar we had tacitly agreed never to touch. Now, for Hailey’s sake, he tore it wide open without a second thought. Our move out of that freezing Brooklyn basement had happened right after I landed my first corporate job. I remember running home, waving the offer letter in his face, crying tears of joy because we were finally going to make it. But that job became a living nightmare. My boss drugged my drink at a client dinner and offered me up to his wealthy associates. In my final moments of consciousness, I managed to speed-dial Beckett. He had arrived like a madman, his eyes wild and bloodshot, beating those men until his knuckles fractured and his hands deformed. He had knelt before me, crying harder than I was, whispering over and over that none of it was my fault. That was the night I decided I would love him forever. But the trauma left me with severe PTSD. For years, any physical intimacy triggered a visceral, nauseating panic. Beckett had held me through those dark nights, promising he would wait, promising we would get through it together. But he was the first to break that promise. Now, Beckett stared at me with complete indifference. “If you hadn’t played the frigid saint for years, I wouldn’t have strayed five years ago.” “Aurora, because of you, our entire social circle laughs at me. They say I chained myself like a dog to a damaged, dirty woman.” He reached down, taking Hailey’s hand. The tenderness in his eyes was something I hadn’t seen in years. “You can call me a bastard, but Hailey is a good girl. If it weren’t for her, I probably would have ended my life long ago.” “Aurora, I can’t live without her anymore. Why don’t the three of us just live together? I’ll make you lobster, she’ll crack the shells for you, and you’ll still be my wife.” My hands shook uncontrollably. I spat out three words: “In your dreams.” Fragments of the past came rushing back, crashing over me. I remembered the day Beckett excitedly told me he wanted to get a cat. I had laughed, telling him he’d lose interest in a week. But he had researched breeds and premium food for days, eventually buying a beautiful, soft ragdoll. On weekends, he insisted on taking me to trendy cafes he found on social media, plotting out the best angles for photos. I had teased him for being so vain. And yet, in five years of marriage, he had never realized that I am deathly allergic to shellfish. Now, the picture was clear. He wasn’t incapable of care; he just didn’t care about me. He did all of those things because they were Hailey’s favorite things. Why was I still standing here, humiliating myself? I forced my breathing to slow, and in a quiet, steady voice, I said, “Beckett, let’s get a divorce. We’re done.” Without waiting for his response, I walked into the bedroom and began packing. Five years of my life fit easily into a single suitcase. There was a soft knock on the door. Without looking up, I said, “Don’t bother, Beckett. I’m leaving.” But it was Hailey who stepped inside. With lingering tear-tracks on her face, she whispered meekly, “Aurora, I wanted to apologize…” I frowned, disgusted by the performance. Then, my eyes fell on her finger. She was wearing a custom-designed platinum band—the one I had custom-ordered for Beckett years ago. We had promised it would only go to the love of our lives. Now, it sat on her ring finger. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Hailey’s meek expression vanished. “Aurora, I’m glad you finally got the message and decided to drag your pathetic self out of here,” she sneered. “He always told me you were like sleeping with a piece of wood. Honestly, he enjoys me so much more.” I closed my suitcase and looked at her coldly. “Save the drama. You can have him. I don’t fight over garbage.” Seeing that her words hadn’t broken me, her eyes narrowed. She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen, turning it toward me. It was a video. The footage was shaky and intimate. In it, Beckett was pinning Hailey down, his breath heavy and ragged. They were tangled in the sheets, flushed and desperate. I clenched my fists, maintaining a neutral face. “You think a sex tape is going to break me?” Hailey’s smile widened into something cruel. “Look closer, Aurora.” I forced myself to look at the screen again. My heart stopped. In the video, Beckett’s legs were perfectly fine. He was standing, moving, strong. The timestamp in the corner of the video read: Five years ago. The exact date I had caught him cheating the first time. The blood rushed out of my face, and a deafening ring filled my ears. She was the first woman. The one who had caused our screaming fight, the one who had driven me to collapse in a pool of blood and lose our child. And Beckett had kept her close all these years, claiming she was just “hired help.” Thinking of the baby I had lost, something in me snapped. Losing all control, I lunged forward, grabbed her collar, and slapped her across the face with everything I had. The blow was loud and heavy, leaving a bright red mark on her neck and cheek. Hailey’s lip split, but a twisted, triumphant smile flashed across her face. She threw herself backward, crashing dramatically onto the hardwood floor. “Aurora, please! I just wanted to apologize… why are you doing this to me?” she sobbed, her voice echoing loudly. “Is there really no room in your heart to forgive me?” Outside, the frantic whirring of wheelchair wheels grew louder. The door burst open, and Beckett charged in. Seeing Hailey sobbing on the floor, his eyes turned bloodshot with rage. He lunged forward, pushing me away with immense force. I lost my balance, crashing hard against the sharp corner of the bedside table. A sickening, sharp pain exploded in my lower abdomen. He scooped Hailey into his arms, glaring at me with venomous hatred. “Aurora, are you insane? Why the hell did you hit her?” “Just because your own body is ruined and you can’t have kids, you have to destroy her too?” “Honestly, back then… maybe your boss targeted you because of your own twisted, miserable attitude.” It felt like a physical blade piercing my chest, a freezing coldness spreading through my veins. “A toxic, bitter woman like you—I should have just let them ruin you,” he spat. He carried Hailey out, slamming the door behind them. I lay on the floor for a long time, unable to stand. Even though I knew my body was barren, seeing the dark smear of fresh blood on the floor beneath me made my chest tighten in agony. Five years of devotion, ending in a pool of blood. Using the last of my strength, I dragged myself up, took out my phone, and booked the earliest flight out of the country. By the time Beckett was checking Hailey into the hospital, I was already boarding a flight to Switzerland. At three in the morning, looking out the cabin window, the glittering lights of the city stretched out below me. But there was no longer any place for me down there. I pulled out my old phone, ready to erase the past. The screen lit up with dozens of missed calls and texts from Beckett. Aurora, where the hell did you run off to? Get back here right now and apologize to Hailey. If you don’t show your face in an hour, I’m freezing your bank cards. Without my money, you won’t survive a day out there. Don’t come crawling back to me. Beneath those threats, a few frantic messages appeared from later in the night: Why is there blood on the floor? Are you hurt? Where are you? Why aren’t you picking up? It’s freezing outside. Come home right now, or don’t bother coming back at all! I let out a soft, dry laugh. He was right about one thing: I was never coming back. He had gotten his wish. He and Hailey could live out their days in peace. He had known me for five years; he knew exactly how much I loved him. He was so certain I would never leave, so sure I would always bow my head and forgive him, that he felt entirely comfortable flaunting his betrayal in my face. Beckett was a smart man. He probably knew Hailey’s dramatic falls were mostly an act. But he wanted to test me. He wanted to see just how far he could push me before I broke. He believed that because he had rescued me once, and because he had sacrificed his legs, I owed him my absolute submission. He thought a few sweet words could erase any betrayal. But I was done drowning in his abyss. A lifetime is too short to waste on another five years of misery. … By the early hours of the morning, panic finally began to claw at Beckett’s chest. In all our years of fighting, I had never gone completely silent like this. He sent another flurry of texts, his tone softening with every message: You don’t have any money on you. Don’t wander the streets. Just come home. I unblocked your cards. Stop playing games, Aurora. Come home. My phone remained silent. An hour later, Beckett was pacing in his chair, consumed by anxiety. He checked the bank records—no transactions. He checked the security cameras at our front gate; there was no sign of me leaving after my initial departure. When his eyes fell on the dark, dried bloodstain on the floor, his heart hammered against his ribs. Then, a notification popped up on his phone from our linked travel account. It was a real-time flight tracker. Beckett’s pupils dilated as he stared at the screen. It was a one-way ticket to Zurich, Switzerland.

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The Volvo wagon I had driven for over twelve years was finally on its last legs. I wanted to send it to the mechanic, but my wife, the CEO of our company, had shut me down with characteristic coldness. “We’re supposed to be in this together, Thomas,” Georgia had snapped, her eyes sharp over her designer coffee. “But you choose the exact week of our company’s IPO to throw a tantrum over a rusted piece of junk. Have some perspective!” “The budget is tight. We don’t have the cash to waste on a dead engine. Would it kill you to take a Lime bike to work?” Yet, the very next morning—Valentine’s Day—she bought her newly hired, twenty-something personal driver a top-of-the-line, custom-spec Rolls-Royce Ghost. As I watched them through the tinted windows of that leather-scented cocoon of luxury, lost in their own private world of tangled limbs and whispered secrets, I slowly crushed the printed bank statement in my fist. Ten years of starving together, of building an empire from a drafty basement. And in the end, the harvest of our shared success was nothing but a cruel joke. If that was the case, it was time for this fool to step off their stage. … 1 “Georgia, if you give me such an expensive gift, won’t Thomas be upset?” Isaac, her newly minted driver, held the key fob in his palm as if it were a fragile bird, his youthful, handsome face a mask of worry. Georgia’s expression darkened instantly. “This is my company, and it’s my money. He doesn’t get a say in how I spend it.” She pulled Isaac into the passenger cabin, guiding his hands over the pristine leather steering wheel and pointing out the custom settings. And I, the husband she claimed had no right to speak, stood a few yards away in the freezing wind, watching their bodies lean closer and closer. My knuckles turned white inside my coat pockets. The edge of the bank invoice bit into my palm, tearing into damp scraps. Perhaps sensing my gaze, Georgia looked up. Her eyes locked onto mine. Her face fell into an immediate scowl. Pushing the heavy door open, she marched toward me, her heels clicking sharply against the asphalt. “What is with the miserable face, Thomas? We’re meeting our largest distributor today to sign the spring contract, and you’re standing here acting like a child. What are you trying to pull?” I didn’t answer her. My eyes shifted to the gleaming hood of the Rolls-Royce, and then to Isaac as he stepped out of the vehicle. He was wearing a bespoke cashmere overcoat Georgia had purchased for him last week. He looked less like a driver and more like an heir. I looked down at myself—my coat was a cheap, generic wool blend Georgia had grabbed off a rack at a local department store. Isaac walked over, his head lowered in a show of submissive anxiety. “It’s my fault, Georgia. I’ve upset Thomas. I shouldn’t have accepted such a generous gift. Someone from my background… I don’t deserve something this beautiful.” But behind Georgia’s shoulder, where she couldn’t see, his eyes met mine. The anxiety vanished, replaced by a cold, mocking smirk. That was all it took to set Georgia off. Her face flushed with anger, and she pointed a finger directly at my face. “You are unbelievably petty, Thomas. I spent my own hard-earned money to buy Isaac a tool for his job. What does that have to do with you?” “Just because you managed to close a few deals doesn’t mean you run this place. You think you can look down on everyone? Isaac is young and still learning, but he has ten times the drive you do. I am investing in his potential, and there is nothing you can do about it.” She shielded Isaac with her body, like a mother hen protecting her chick. I checked my watch. The meeting was in an hour. I didn’t have the energy to argue. I tossed the crumpled paper ball of the invoice at her feet, turned around, and walked toward my faded white Volvo. Two weeks ago, the car had started stalling at intersections. When I told Georgia it needed a major transmission overhaul, she told me we couldn’t afford it. Then she turned around and spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on a luxury vehicle for her young favorite, registering the title entirely in his name. I got in, turned the key, and the engine gave a dry, wheezing cough. Nothing. The twenty-year-old battery had finally given up. With the minutes ticking away, I swallowed my pride, got out of the Volvo, and tapped on the window of the Rolls-Royce. The glass rolled down, revealing Georgia’s deeply annoyed face. “What now? Haven’t you caused enough of a scene?” “My car is dead,” I said, keeping my voice flat. “We can’t be late for this meeting. Let me drive us—” “No,” Georgia cut me off instantly. “Take an Uber.” I looked at her, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat. “An Uber? Out here in this industrial park? It’ll take forty minutes for a car to reach us. Beatrice is already on her way to our office. Let me in.” As we stood in a tense deadlock, Isaac unlocked the doors from the driver’s seat. He turned to Georgia with a look of quiet sacrifice. “Georgia, business comes first. It’s enough for me just to know in my heart that this was meant to be my car. I don’t mind.” Georgia’s expression softened with pity, and when she looked back at me, the disgust in her eyes had doubled. But just as I reached for the door handle, Isaac let out a sudden, sharp gasp of pain. Georgia flinched. “What’s wrong?” Isaac’s pale face went lighter. He bit his lower lip and shook his head. “It’s nothing, Georgia. I think… my wrist is just flaring up again from those long driving shifts. It’s fine. I can push through it.” The next second, Georgia shoved me hard toward the driver’s side door. “You! Drive!” I stumbled back, barely catching my balance on the icy pavement. Georgia didn’t care. She shoved me again, her voice rising to a harsh shriek. “Move! Didn’t you say the client was waiting? Get behind the wheel!” 2 In the rearview mirror, I watched Georgia cradling Isaac’s hand in hers as if it were made of spun glass. “Does it hurt badly? I told you we should have hired an assistant driver for you. You shouldn’t be straining yourself.” Isaac’s eyes welled with tears. “I’m just a high school graduate. I don’t know how to do anything else. If I can’t even drive for you, Georgia… am I just useless to you?” “Don’t say that,” Georgia murmured, her voice thick with tenderness. I let out a cold, involuntary laugh. Georgia rarely kept a demanding schedule; her total weekly drive time was under five hours. To suggest Isaac needed a driving assistant to ease his “strain” was absurd. Hearing my laugh, Georgia’s face hardened. But before she could speak, Isaac suddenly pressed a hand to his forehead. “Oh… the car feels like it’s spinning. I feel a little sick…” “Thomas, how are you driving?” Georgia yelled from the back. “You’re doing this on purpose!” My patience snapped. “If he’s that fragile, he belongs in a hospital, not pretending to be a executive’s driver on a business trip.” “I…” Isaac’s eyes went wide, and his chest heaved with a quiet sob. “Thomas is right. I’m useless. I’m sorry. Just let me out of the car…” Georgia’s face turned purple with rage. “Pull over right now! Thomas, get out!” I ignored her, keeping my eyes locked on the road, my hands tight on the wheel. All I cared about was reaching the office before Beatrice did. This contract was worth millions; it was the lifeblood of our upcoming quarter. When Isaac’s first tear fell, Georgia went entirely feral. She leaned forward, lunging across the console to grab the steering wheel. “Let go!” I barked, fighting her weight. For the sake of safety, I slammed on the brakes, pulling the heavy car to a halt by the curb. The moment the vehicle stopped, I turned around to yell at her, but a sharp, stinging pain cut me short. Slap. The force of her palm across my cheek echoed in the quiet cabin. “Get the hell out of my car,” Georgia hissed. I stood on the side of the road, the winter wind biting into my burning cheek. Isaac got out of the passenger side, offering me a polite, pitying smile. “Georgia says we can’t afford to delay the meeting any longer. She wants you to take a shared bike back to the office.” With a practiced movement, he tapped his phone against a green Lime bike parked nearby, unlocking it for me. Then he walked to the driver’s side of the Rolls-Royce, slipped behind the wheel, and pressed the accelerator. The luxury car roared to life, kicking up a spray of dirty slush that covered my jeans, before disappearing down the avenue. I reached into my pockets. My phone was still sitting on the center console of the Rolls-Royce. I couldn’t even call a cab. The damp, freezing wind whipped against my face, but the cold of the weather was nothing compared to the sudden, hollow stillness inside my chest. By the time I pedeled back to the corporate headquarters, shivering and covered in road grime, I found a change of clothes and my phone sitting on my office desk. I unlocked the screen. A text from Georgia sat at the top of my notifications: I was too stressed earlier. Sorry. Don’t get sick. Meet me at the old studio at 10 PM tonight. A dull, familiar ache throbbed in my chest. My heart, which had been broken into pieces, felt a foolish, desperate urge to mend itself. The “old studio” was the drafty, one-room brick loft where we had started our jewelry line, Lumina. It sat directly across the street from our current twenty-story glass headquarters. That tiny space represented ten years of late nights, shared bowls of instant ramen, and dreams of a future we were finally living. I worked through the pain, spent the afternoon in meetings, and successfully finalized the multi-million-dollar deal with Beatrice. When 10 PM approached, I retrieved a small, midnight-blue velvet box from the office safe and walked across the street to the old loft. Thirty minutes passed. Georgia didn’t show. I pulled back the dusty curtains of the loft and looked across the street. The lights in the executive suite of the Lumina building were still blazing. I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. As the line began to ring, a shadow moved against the floor-to-ceiling windows of the executive office opposite me. It wasn’t just Georgia. Isaac was there. He lifted her onto the edge of the mahogany desk, and they fell into each other. The smart-glass partition of her office had been switched to entirely transparent. Every movement, every touch, was perfectly visible across the narrow street. He pressed her against the glass, his face buried in her neck. Georgia’s head was tilted back, her eyes glassy and unfocused as she held onto his shoulders. It was a beautiful, cinematic display of passion, and it tore whatever was left of my soul to ribbons. In the middle of their embrace, Isaac slowly opened his eyes. He looked directly across the street, targeting the exact window where I stood in the dark. A slow, victorious grin spread across his face. Then, he looked back down, capturing Georgia’s mouth in another deep kiss, dismissing my existence entirely. My hand shook so violently that the phone slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. The line went dead, leaving only a mocking silence. If this story no longer had room for my name, then it was time for me to write myself out of it. 3 On Valentine’s Day night, Georgia did not come home. The next morning, I took half a day off to meet with a divorce attorney. Once the paperwork was drafted, I drove straight to the office and walked into Georgia’s suite. Georgia was sitting in her high-backed leather chair, her skin flushed and healthy. A silk scarf was tied high around her neck, but it wasn’t quite high enough to cover the dark, bruised mark blooming near her collarbone. My breath caught. Even though I had prepared myself, the sight of it felt like a physical blow. “I told you not to bother me unless it’s—” She looked up, her brow furrowed in irritation, but stopped mid-sentence. As if remembering something, her expression shifted into a practiced, bright smile. She pointed toward a white gift box sitting on the corner of her desk. “I got so caught up in the IPO meetings yesterday that I forgot the date. Here. A little Valentine’s Day peace offering.” I stared at the box, then opened it. Inside was a simple ceramic mug. I knew the brand. It was a complimentary promotional item given to customers who spent over ten thousand dollars at a boutique jeweler down the street—the same jeweler where Georgia had spent a small fortune on custom pieces for Isaac over the past month. I looked at the mug and let out a dry, quiet laugh, mocking myself for expecting anything else. Georgia didn’t seem to notice my reaction. The moment I set the box down, she slid a manila folder across the desk. “Sign this. We need to begin the transition immediately.” I opened the folder. It was an internal transfer of authority. It demanded my resignation as VP of Business Operations. And my designated successor was Isaac. I laughed again, the sound sharp and ugly. “You want to hand our entire supply chain and a twenty-million-dollar distribution network to a driver who didn’t even finish high school?” Georgia’s smile vanished, her hand slamming onto the desk. “Watch your mouth, Thomas! Isaac only missed college because his family fell on hard times. He is smarter than you, he’s younger, and he has a natural instinct for this market. You’re just bitter and jealous of him!” “Oh, he’s smart,” I agreed, leaning over the desk. “You don’t get into the CEO’s bed by being stupid, do you?” “The money you waste on him is one thing—I’ll write it off as the cost of keeping a pet. But Lumina is my life’s work. I will not let him touch it.” In a fit of rage, Georgia grabbed a heavy crystal paperweight from her desk and hurled it at me. I ducked, and the crystal shattered against the wall behind me. The glass frame of our wedding photo, which hung on the wall, cracked down the center, slicing through our smiling faces. “Don’t you dare insult him!” Georgia screamed, her chest heaving. “You disgust me, Thomas. This company has no place for someone so small-minded. As of this moment, you are suspended. Get out of my sight!” I looked at the shattered glass on the floor, seeing the perfect metaphor for our ten-year marriage. Why was I still trying to salvage something so thoroughly broken? I picked up the transfer document, pulled my own pen from my pocket, and signed it. Then, I pulled a second set of documents from my briefcase and laid them on her desk. “I’ll give him the position,” I said softly. “You sign your name, and I’ll hand over the keys.” Georgia glanced down at the paper, her anger freezing into confusion. “Separation and Dissolution Agreement?”

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My mother always called me a dead weight. A girl who would sleep through her own funeral. I’d fall asleep in the middle of a class, halfway through a forkful of dinner, even standing at a busy crosswalk. My homeroom teacher eventually pulled my mother aside and suggested we see a specialist. But my mother just sneered. “It’s that damn phone of hers,” she’d say. “Up all night scrolling.” After that, my phone was confiscated. She took the lock off my bedroom door so I could never hide. Every time she caught my eyelids drooping, her palm met my cheek. I didn’t want to get hit, and more than anything, I didn’t want to make her angry. So I started finding ways to fight the heavy haze. I pinched my thighs until they bruised. I pulled out my own hair. I dabbed burning peppermint oil directly onto my skin. But when that heavy, suffocating wave of exhaustion hit, nothing could stop it. On the day of the algebra final, my mother happened to be proctoring my hall. I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted metal, begging myself: Just this once. Just hold on for two hours. But the darkness came anyway. A sudden crash shattered the quiet of the room. My desk was flipped over. I went down with the chair, my temple slamming hard against the metal edge of the desk. Everything went black. My mother stood over me, her face twisted with disgust. “Grace Adler, do you care so little about your future that you’d sleep through a final?” “If you’re going to be this lazy, fine. Stay on the floor and sleep!” I lay slumped over my half-blank scantron, the light in my eyes fading to a pinprick. Mom, I think this time, I’m actually going to sleep for a very long time. 1 “How long are you going to play dead, Grace?” My mother’s voice bounced off the cinderblock walls of the silent classroom. I heard the sharp, rhythmic clack-clack of her heels as she marched over to where I lay. My cheek was pressed against the cold linoleum floor. Right at my temple, where I’d hit the desk, a warm, thick trickle of blood was beginning to pool. “Mrs. Adler, I think Grace really fainted,” a boy in the front row whispered, his voice trembling. “Fainted? She’s just throwing a tantrum because she’s lazy!” With a rough jerk, my mother grabbed the collar of my sweater. She possessed an terrifying strength when she was angry, dragging me off the floor. My head lolled uselessly back, my hand scraping against the abrasive floor, leaving a streak of red. “You sleep through class, you sleep at the dinner table, and now you’re sleeping through your finals?” Her voice was a venomous whisper. “You might not care about your dignity, Grace, but I am the Vice Principal of this school. I have a reputation to maintain.” She dragged me toward the door, my sneakers leaving long, dusty scuff marks on the floor. “Mrs. Adler, shouldn’t we take her to the nurse’s office?” Miss Collins, the young proctor, stood up, her face pale with worry. “The nurse? Miss Collins, don’t let her fool you,” my mother retorted, not even turning around. “She was probably up until three in the morning scrolling on her phone, and now she’s putting on a show.” “But she’s so pale. Something is seriously wrong.” Miss Collins hurried down from the podium, trying to block her path. “She’s acting. I know my own daughter.” My mother yanked open the classroom door. “Get back to your tests, everyone. Anyone caught looking out the window gets an automatic zero.” The room went dead silent. My mother dragged me down the hallway to the old storage room at the very end. It was filled with broken desks, dusty filing cabinets, and the suffocating smell of mildew. She threw me onto the floor. My head hit the bottom of a wooden cabinet with a dull, sickening thud. And in that exact moment, the weight vanished. I felt myself floating up, hovering near the water-stained ceiling tiles. I looked down at my own body. Grace was crumpled on the floor like a discarded rag doll, her eyes closed, her face a ghostly, translucent white. My mother knelt down and grabbed my chin, shaking my head violently. “Open your eyes, Grace. Enough is enough.” The girl on the floor didn’t move. My mother’s chest heaved with anger. Then, her eyes fell on the dark stain near my ear. It was blood, seeping from my temple and pooling in the hollow of my collarbone. She sneered, reaching into her pocket for a tissue. “You even brought fake blood? How pathetic.” She wiped hard at my ear, the rough paper scraping the delicate skin, only smearing the fresh, warm blood further across my jaw. “Disgusting. You’re just like your useless father. Always playing dirty tricks instead of doing real work.” She balled up the bloody tissue and threw it in my face. “Fine. Stay here. Let’s see how long you can keep this little act up.” She stood, brushed the dust off her slacks, and walked out. Floating near the ceiling, I screamed after her. Mom, that’s not fake. It’s my blood. My head hurts so bad, Mom, please look at me. But she couldn’t hear me. She only left me with the cold, unyielding sight of her back. A flurry of footsteps hurried down the hall. It was Miss Collins. She held a stack of scratch paper as an excuse, pausing outside the storage room door. She peered through the small wire-glass window, her brow furrowed. “Grace? Can you hear me?” Miss Collins tapped gently on the glass. The girl on the floor remained perfectly still. The blood that had been wiped away was slow to stop, a fresh bead dripping onto the collar of my school sweater. Miss Collins’s face went white. She reached for the brass doorknob. “Miss Collins, what do you think you’re doing?” My mother’s cold voice echoed from the other end of the hall. Miss Collins flinched, pulling her hand back as if she’d been burned. “Mrs. Adler… I… I really don’t think Grace looks well.” “She is perfectly fine,” my mother said, marching over and brushing past her. “Trust me, Miss Collins. The only way to cure this girl’s laziness is a little tough love. A couple of missed meals will do her wonders.” She pulled a heavy brass ring of school keys from her belt. “But Mrs. Adler, it’s December. There’s no heating in that room,” Miss Collins pleaded. The key turned in the lock with a heavy, final click. “Once she gets cold enough, she’ll find the energy to stand up and finish her exam.” 2 The final bell rang, signaling the end of midterm week. The hallways erupted into a chaotic symphony of slamming lockers and teenagers arguing over test answers. My spirit drifted out of the storage room, watching my mother stand outside the main office. My younger sister, Hailey, walked up, offering her a steaming paper cup. “Here, Mom. You’ve been on your feet all day. Drink something warm.” Hailey smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. My mother took the coffee, the harsh lines on her face instantly softening. “Thank you, sweetie. How did the advanced calculus section go?” “I got the last proof! I checked it twice, so it should be a perfect score.” Hailey wrapped her arm around my mother’s, gently swaying. “Good. At least I have one daughter who understands the value of hard work,” my mother said, casting a sharp, resentful glance toward the far end of the hallway. “Unlike the disappointment in the storage room, pretending to faint the moment the test starts.” Hailey followed her gaze, a fleeting, ugly spark of satisfaction dancing in her eyes before she masked it with a sigh. “Mom, don’t be too hard on her.” Her voice was soft, dripping with performative concern. “She probably just didn’t sleep. I’ve seen her huddled under her blankets with her phone late at night. I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen.” The lie was lightweight, but it landed with the precision of a scalpel. My mother’s face darkened instantly. “I knew it. Those dark circles under her eyes weren’t from studying.” She slammed her coffee cup onto the desk nearby. “I took the lock off her door, and she still finds ways to sneak around my back. Unbelievable.” Standing beside them, my spirit felt a cold, hollow ache. I remembered the night my mother took the lock off my door. She had just lost a promotion at school, and she came home looking for a target. She kicked open my slightly ajar door and found me slumped over my desk, fast asleep. Without a word, she grabbed a screwdriver and dismantled the lock right in front of me. “You don’t get privacy in this house anymore,” she’d screamed, throwing the metal lock at my feet. “Let’s see you try to slack off behind closed doors now.” I hadn’t cried that night. I had just stared blankly down at the inside of my thighs. They were covered in tiny, neat punctures from the sharp metal tip of my drafting compass. Some had scabbed over; others were still oozing. I had started dabbing peppermint oil on the raw skin to drown out the faint, metallic smell of blood. But when my mother smelled the sharp herbal scent, she assumed I was vaping. “Using cheap vapes to hide the smell of whatever you’re doing, are you?” she had screamed, slapping me hard across the face before taking my phone. After that, I lost the right to even set an alarm to wake myself up. I had to plunge the compass needle deeper. And deeper. But even now, in death, I couldn’t bring myself to hate her. I knew how hard it was for her, raising two kids alone after my father left, carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. I was just sad. Sad that I would never get the chance to prove to her that I hadn’t been lazy. The intercom crackled, announcing that the building was closing for winter break. The last of the students filed out, leaving the school wrapped in a heavy, tomb-like silence. In the unheated storage room, my body had gone completely rigid. The sun reached its peak in the winter sky, but it couldn’t penetrate the dirt-caked window. My spirit kept track of the time. Four hours since I fell. The golden hour for treating a brain bleed had long since passed. The beam of a heavy flashlight swept across the hallway floor. The elderly night guard, Mr. Henderson, was doing his final sweep. The light caught the glass of the storage room, reflecting off something pale on the floor. My hand. White, cold, my fingers frozen in a deathly spasm around a torn piece of my exam permit. Mr. Henderson stopped, leaning in to squint through the glass. “Hello? Is someone in there?” He tapped on the pane and unclipped his radio from his belt. “Main office, this is Henderson. I’ve got a student lying on the floor in the third-floor storage room. She isn’t moving.” My spirit lunged at the window, screaming at the radio. Please open the door. Help me. The radio crackled with static, and then my mother’s voice came through, cool and authoritative. “Don’t worry about it, Henderson. I locked her in there for detention. Leave her be.” Mr. Henderson hesitated. “But Mrs. Adler, she’s in a really awkward position. Should I go in and check?” “I said leave her,” my mother snapped, her tone leaving no room for argument. “She needs to learn her lesson. A few hours in the cold won’t kill her.” Mr. Henderson sighed and turned off his flashlight. “Alright, Mrs. Adler. You’re the boss.” 3 Across the street, the local diner was warm and bustling. To celebrate the end of finals, my mother had reserved a booth. The table was piled high with Hailey’s favorites: mac and cheese, garlic shrimp, and glazed ribs. There was nothing I liked on the table. “Here, Hailey, eat up. You need to replenish your energy after all that studying,” my mother said, peeling a shrimp and placing it lovingly on Hailey’s plate. “Thanks, Mom,” Hailey beamed, putting a rib onto my mother’s plate. “You should eat too. You worked so hard proctoring today.” “As long as you get that top rank, every bit of hard work is worth it.” My mother looked at Hailey with pure pride. “Once the report cards come out, if you’re number one, I’ll take you anywhere you want. What do you say?” Hailey tapped her chin. “I want to go to Disney World. All my friends have been.” “Done,” my mother agreed instantly, her smile smoothing out the deep lines of stress on her face. My spirit stood in the corner of the vinyl booth, watching them laugh. A cold chill washed over me. I remembered the folded piece of paper in my school jacket pocket. It was a contract I had written the night before, my hand shaking with exhaustion: If I place in the top fifty this term, Mom will let me put the lock back on my door. That paper was currently soaked in my blood, the ink smeared into illegible blue shadows. I would never get to show it to her. After lunch, my mother returned to the school to grade the finals. The teachers’ lounge was silent save for the furious scraping of red pens on paper. My mother graded quickly, her pen slashing checkmarks across the pages. Until she reached a completely blank answer sheet. At the top, the name was written in shaky, desperate handwriting: Grace Adler. I had written my name with the last ounce of my strength before the dark took me. My mother stared at the blank paper, the muscles in her jaw twitching violently. “Not only is she lazy, but now she’s handing in blank papers just to spite me.” Her grip on the red pen was so tight her knuckles turned white. “Diane, is everything alright?” the head of the English department asked, leaning over. “Oh, whose paper is that? Leaving the essay completely blank? That’s just disrespectful.” “Whose do you think?” my mother sneered, slamming her red pen down to draw a massive, jagged ‘X’ across the entire page. The paper nearly tore under the force. “My ungrateful, lazy daughter.” She stood up, her chair screeching against the floor. “I am going to deal with her once and for all.” Clutching the zero-grade paper, she marched out of the lounge, her coat billowing behind her like a dark cloud. By four in the afternoon, the winter sun was beginning to dip, casting long, bruised shadows down the hallway. My mother’s heels clicked sharply against the tiles. She stopped at the storage door, not bothering to reach for her keys, and kicked the wood. “Grace! The sun is setting. Have you slept enough?” No sound came from inside. My mother muttered a curse, jammed the brass key into the lock, and swung the door open. A wave of freezing, musty air hit her. She stepped into the room, holding the paper with the red ‘X’ aloft. “Grace, get your lazy ass up and look at this disgrace of a grade.” Her voice died in her throat. The girl on the floor was in the exact same position she had been in four hours ago. 4 The dim winter light sliced through the dirty storage room window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. I lay curled in an unnatural, rigid heap on the floor. My fingers were clamped tight around the torn exam permit, my nails a deep, bruising plum color. The blood from my temple had dried into a dark, crusty halo on the concrete. My mother walked over, her face twisted in annoyance. She nudged my stiff shoulder with the toe of her designer heel. “What kind of performance art is this?” She rolled the zero-grade exam into a tube and tapped my shoulder sharply. “Do you honestly think that faking some dramatic illness is going to get you out of rewriting this test a hundred times?” Silence. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t breathe. “Grace, my patience is wearing thin,” my mother said, her voice rising with a dangerous, quiet heat. “Get up right now and go to my office to redo this.” She reached down to grab my arm. The moment her fingers brushed my skin, she froze. “Are you seriously still playing this game?”

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Today was day 362 of sending my girlfriend the exact same photo of my dinner as a daily check-in. She still hadn’t noticed. Before long, our group chat notifications buried the image I had just sent. My roommate leaned over, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Is she blind? You’ve sent her the exact same photo of a turkey club for almost a year, and she hasn’t clicked on it once?” A year ago, Julia had asked me what I had for dinner. I snapped a quick photo of my plate and sent it to her. She told me to do it every day from then on—a little daily check-in to prove I was thinking of her. But I had sent the same image 362 times, and she had never once tapped to enlarge it. I typed out another message to her: Out for dinner with Logan tonight. She replied instantly: Logan hates onions. Did you make sure they took them out of his order? Classic. I knew that as long as I mentioned Logan, she would care about every minor detail. We had been together for a year, yet she knew my best friend’s preferences better than my own. Every time we planned a trip or a night out, she would only agree to go if Logan was joining us. Even at the college career fair, she had gone out of her way to hand Logan’s resume directly to her cousin, a VP at a prestigious firm. “Logan’s portfolio isn’t as strong as yours,” she’d told me back then, her voice soft but dismissive. “With your grades, you’ll find a job anywhere on your own. He actually needs the help.” Logan got the job. He ended up at her company, working in the same building, sharing the same daily commute. I was rejected. I took a position at a firm on the other side of the city, where seeing her required a two-hour train ride. I’m putting together a dinner with some of our old college friends this weekend. Can you make it? I texted her. Can’t, she shot back. It’s Logan’s birthday this weekend. why would you even schedule it for that day? She had completely forgotten. This weekend was our one-year anniversary. It was also the day my bet with Logan was set to end—the day I would finally leave her. 1 Another text from Julia buzzed on my screen. You’re supposed to be Logan’s best friend. How do you forget his birthday? Reschedule your friends. We’re celebrating Logan this weekend. I couldn’t reschedule. This dinner wasn’t just a casual get-together; it was my farewell party. I had accepted a three-year transfer to our firm’s London office. A major promotion waited for me on the other side of that stint. I remembered Logan’s birthday a year ago. We were sitting on my porch, the glow of the candles reflecting in the dark. He’d had too much to drink, his eyes red and watery as he asked me why I had to ask Julia out first. I had no idea we were both in love with the same girl. The guilt had eaten me alive. Then, Logan had pointed at my phone. “If you send her the exact same check-in photo every day for a year and she never notices… you let her go. You let me have a shot. Deal?” I had laughed. It sounded absurd. Who wouldn’t notice the same photo sent daily for a whole year? So, I nodded. I agreed to the bet. But I had been too confident. Julia had let me lose, thoroughly and quietly. I went back to packing my suitcase when my phone buzzed again. It was Logan. Three days left on our bet! He didn’t need to remind me. I already knew I’d lost. In fact, I hadn’t even invited him to my farewell dinner. Our friendship, once so solid, had decayed into something tense and unrecognizable. I didn’t know how to look him in the eye anymore. Julia, annoyed by my silence, called me. “What are you doing? Why aren’t you answering my texts?” Her voice held that familiar sharp, impatient edge. She didn’t actually care what I was doing; she was just angry that I wasn’t at her beck and call. Without waiting for an answer, she kept talking. “You can see your college friends anytime. We all live in the same city. But Logan only has one birthday a year.” I looked at the flight confirmation on my laptop. Even though we lived in the same city, it had been three months since Julia and I last saw each other. She always claimed she was too busy, too exhausted from working overtime, too focused on climbing the corporate ladder. “I’m doing this for our future, so we can get married,” she’d say. A hollow promise, used to dodge a simple train ride to see me. Yet, she always found the energy to travel to out-of-town conferences with Logan for “market research.” I knew the answer, but the desperate, foolish part of me still had to ask. “Do you know what day it is in three days?” 2 “It’s Logan’s birthday. What else would it be?” She dismissed my question instantly, moving on to her checklist. “Just make sure you buy him a decent gift. I’ve already booked the restaurant and ordered the cake.” “You’re his best friend, but you’re so incredibly thoughtless. Honestly, thank God I’m here to handle these things for you.” I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth. On my birthday, Julia told me she had to pull an all-nighter at the office. I had booked a nice Italian place near her building, waiting alone at a table for hours until she finally showed up late. She’d forgotten to order a cake, so she grabbed a stale, generic cupcake from a bakery on her way over. I had been visibly upset, and we didn’t speak for three days afterward. She complained that I was being needy and unsupportive of her career. Yet, for Logan, she remembered every detail. She hand-selected everything. “I’ll have his gift ready,” I murmured. Satisfied, Julia hung up without another word. I stared at the call log. Her name barely appeared in it anymore. The last time we had a real phone call was over a month ago. Logan had fainted from exhaustion after a long shift, and she had panicked, rushing him to the ER in a frantic state, only for it to be a minor issue. She had called me, sobbing, asking what medication Logan usually took when he was sick. I had never heard her sound so terrified. A few weeks before that, I had fallen off a ladder while cleaning the windows and fractured my leg, spending a week in the hospital. Julia didn’t show up until the second day. “How do you manage to land yourself in the hospital just from cleaning a window? You’re so clumsy,” she’d sighed, staying for barely thirty minutes before rushing off because Logan needed help with a client proposal. She never visited me again during my recovery. I reached for the wrapped box sitting next to my suitcase. I did have a gift for Logan. We had been brothers for over a decade. We grew up on the same block, went to the same schools. I once believed our bond was unbreakable. I used to start planning his birthday gifts six months in advance. I thought we would be in each other’s lives forever. I didn’t realize this would be my last gift to him. My transfer paperwork was complete. I didn’t even have to go into my office this week. My phone rang. It was Mark, our old college class president. “Hey Lucas, Julia called me saying we need to cancel the dinner this weekend? Are you staying in town? Did you guys finally decide to tie the knot instead of you moving abroad?” Mark’s tone was teasing, but there was a hint of relief. Back in college, I had the highest GPA in our department. Everyone assumed I’d land the coveted analyst role at the top firm alongside Julia. When I didn’t, people were stunned. But since Julia’s uncle was a senior partner there, no one questioned it too loudly. We all grow up and realize the real world doesn’t run on merit alone. I had accepted it, kept my head down, and built a successful track record at my current firm. But I hadn’t expected Julia to take it upon herself to cancel my farewell dinner. 3 I forced down the lump in my throat. “No, she’s just not coming. The dinner is still on. My flight is booked.” Mark sounded confused, but he didn’t pry. He promised he’d be there. I went to the mall to pick up the final pieces of Logan’s gift. While paying at the register, a familiar silhouette caught my eye. The sales associate cleared her throat. “Will that be all for today, sir?” I snapped out of it. Julia was across the store, trailing after Logan, carrying several shopping bags. What a rare sight. In our entire year of dating, I could count the number of times she’d gone shopping with me on one hand. And every time, she’d set a strict timer. Twenty minutes, max. “Just pick something. What is the point of walking around in circles?” she’d snap. Yet, her patience for Logan was limitless. I took my bags and headed toward the elevators, wanting to slip away unnoticed. “Lucas!” Logan’s voice echoed across the open atrium. A few shoppers turned to look. Julia’s eyes drifted to the bag in my hand. “Is that Logan’s birthday present?” she asked. I shook my head. Her brow furrowed. “I told you to get him something. Instead, you’re out here buying things for yourself.” The casual sting of her voice made my chest tighten. She seemed to have completely forgotten whose girlfriend she actually was. Logan gave her a playful nudge. “Oh, come on, Julia. Lucas probably got me something amazing and is just keeping it a surprise, right?” He gave me a knowing, conspiratorial wink, acting as though he were diffusing the tension. Julia sighed, her expression softening. “You always defend him. You’re too nice, Logan. Meanwhile, he can’t even remember your birthday.” “How could I forget a day this important?” I said quietly. The day I asked her out. Our first anniversary. The day my bet ended. But to Julia, the only significant date on the calendar was Logan’s birthday. She let out a cold laugh. “Sure you didn’t forget. If I hadn’t called you, you would have skipped his birthday entirely for some random college reunion.” Logan looked surprised. “A reunion? Why didn’t you tell me, Lucas?” He looked at me with a kicked-puppy expression. “Are you mad at me? I feel like you’ve been so distant lately. You never have time for me anymore. Julia’s the only one who hangs out with me.” “I’ve been busy,” I replied, my voice flat. “And I’m going to be even busier from now on.” You don’t need my company anymore anyway, I thought. Seeing Logan’s downcast face, Julia quickly chimed in. “Well, his office is practically on the other side of town. It’s obviously not as convenient for him as it is for me.” Logan smiled, his mood instantly recovering. “True.” I watched them. Even though I had spent months preparing myself for this, a cold, hollow ache opened up in my chest. I stood there, utterly helpless, watching the wind sweep away the remnants of my friendship and my love. My phone buzzed with a flight confirmation notification. Julia caught a glimpse of the screen. “Are you traveling for work?” I didn’t answer, letting the silence serve as confirmation. She didn’t press the issue; she never actually waited for my answers anyway. As I walked out of the mall, the sky opened up into a torrential downpour. Suddenly, Julia’s car pulled up right in front of me. “Get in,” she said, rolling down the window. “We’ll give you a ride. It’s on our way.” Logan sat in the passenger seat, offering me a warm, pitying smile. On our way. The words stung. But what made me freeze entirely was the custom decal on the passenger side dashboard: Reserved for Boyfriend. I stared at it, paralyzed. Behind Julia, a car honked loudly. She glared at me, losing her patience. “Come on, Lucas. You’re blocking traffic. Get in.” “I’m fine,” I said. I turned on my heel and ran through the rain toward a waiting taxi at the curb. 4 The rain left me with a raging fever. My mom called me on FaceTime, asking about my move to London. When she saw my pale face, her expression shifted to deep worry. “You’re burning up, Lucas. Where’s your girlfriend? Why isn’t she taking care of you?” She hesitated, then added gently, “Is she upset that you’re leaving for three years? Does she think it’s over between you two?” When Julia first agreed to be my girlfriend, I had called my mother immediately, ecstatic. I had harbored a crush on Julia throughout college, never dreaming those three years of quiet longing would actually lead to something. I had been so naive, believing we were meant for the long haul. I shook my head slowly. “We broke up, Mom.” My mom sighed, a soft look of sympathy crossing her face. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You’re young. There will be someone better out there for you.” I offered a weak smile. Maybe there would be. But this relationship had cost me both my love and my best friend at the exact same time. Part of me wished I could go back to the day I confessed to her, to remain silent, to keep things the way they were. But regret is a useless thing. I opened my laptop to review some transition documents sent by the London team, but my head was throbbing so violently the words blurred together. Then came a knock at the door. Assuming it was the drugstore delivery with my medicine, I dragged myself out of bed and pulled the door open. Julia stood on the threshold, carrying a bag of groceries. She pushed past me into the apartment. “I knew you were acting weird lately. If Logan hadn’t reminded me, I completely would have missed it.” “Our anniversary is this weekend. If you wanted to celebrate, you should have just said so instead of playing these passive-aggressive games.” “Logan told me he didn’t care about his birthday anymore. He wanted me to spend the weekend with you. I figured, since it’s only a one-day difference, I’d come over and celebrate our anniversary early.” I stood frozen by the door. “Why didn’t you celebrate his birthday early instead?” She paused, her hands stalling over the grocery bag. When she spoke, her voice was strained. “You don’t celebrate birthdays early; it’s bad luck. Besides, an anniversary is just a date. What does it matter which day we celebrate, as long as I’m here with you?” The difference was immense. She could be with Logan every single day, while our anniversary required my best friend’s permission to even exist in her schedule. I held the door open. “I don’t want to celebrate. You should leave.” Julia walked over, reaching out to wrap her arms around my waist. I stepped back, avoiding her touch. Her tone softened into a cajoling murmur. “Come on, stop being dramatic. If I actually leave, you’re just going to pout.” I looked down. The one who pouted, the one who cried to get his way, was Logan. I had never shed a tear in front of Julia. Perhaps she assumed I was strong enough to handle everything on my own, that I didn’t need comforting. The truth was, whenever I wanted to cry, she was never there to see it. “Julia,” I said, looking straight into her eyes. “Do you ever regret saying yes when I asked you out?” If she had said no, Logan would have confessed to her. If she were Logan’s girlfriend, she probably wouldn’t treat him the way she treated me. Julia knit her brows, genuinely contemplating the question. After a long silence, she shook her head. “When you handed me those flowers, I thought you were really sweet.” “Now, stop overthinking things.” She unpacked a small cake and placed a single candle on top. “You complained last year that I didn’t get you a cake. Look, this time I brought flowers and a cake.” I looked at them. The cake was strawberry—Logan’s favorite. The flowers were pink roses—Logan’s favorite. A wave of nausea hit me, and my head felt as if it were splitting open. As she lit the candle, Julia took out her phone, snapped a photo, and sent it. Mission accomplished, she typed. I saw the screen. She attached a cute puppy emoji. She was texting Logan. Celebrating our anniversary was nothing more than a task he had assigned her. “If Logan asked you to break up with me, would you do that too?” I asked. 5 Julia looked at me, her eyes wide with disbelief. “How can you think so poorly of Logan? He’s constantly telling me to pay more attention to you. He remembered our anniversary better than I did, and he was the one who told me to get you the flowers and the cake. He cares so much about you, and you treat him like an enemy.” I let out a tired, empty laugh. “Maybe I’m just petty.” The doorbell rang again. This time, it was the delivery driver with my medicine. I took the bag. Julia finally noticed the flush on my face and reached out to touch my forehead. I stepped back, dodging her hand, and gently but firmly pushed her out of the apartment. “Your boyfriend has a raging fever and you didn’t even notice,” the delivery guy muttered, shaking his head as he walked down the hall. “Some partner.” Julia’s face flushed with embarrassment. She knocked on the door for a few minutes, but when I didn’t answer, her patience evaporated. “Just take your medicine,” she called out through the wood. “And don’t forget Logan’s dinner tomorrow.” Then, silence. I picked up the strawberry cake and the pink roses and threw them directly into the trash can. The next morning, my phone buzzed with a text from Julia. The Grandview Hotel, Private Room 203. Don’t be late. I stared at the screen, letting out a dry laugh. It felt like a sick joke from the universe. The room she booked was directly adjacent to the one I had reserved for my farewell dinner. I arrived at the hotel early, carrying my suitcase and Logan’s gift. My friends knew I was leaving for London, and seeing me arrive without Julia, they kept their questions to themselves, maintaining a tactful silence. My phone buzzed repeatedly with texts from Julia. I ignored them all. Mark looked at the wrapped box sitting next to my chair. “Hey, didn’t we already exchange farewell gifts? Who’s that one for?” I waved down a waiter. “Could you deliver this to the party in Room 203 next door? Tell them it’s from Lucas, and that I hope they have a wonderful night.” The waiter nodded and took the box. Mark nudged my shoulder. “You and Julia having a rough patch?” “We’re done,” I said. From the other side of the wall, I could hear the muffled strains of “Happy Birthday” and Logan’s delighted laughter. They didn’t need me there. They never had. As our dinner wrapped up and we walked out of the private dining room, several of my friends stopped in the hallway. “Wait, isn’t that Julia and Logan?” one of them whispered. We all looked through the glass partition of Room 203. “Weren’t you and Logan incredibly close?” another friend muttered, looking between me and the room. “I thought he couldn’t make it tonight because of some emergency. Why is he…” The question trailed off. The reality of the situation was painfully clear to everyone. “It’s in the past,” I said quietly. My relationship with Julia, my friendship with Logan—all of it belonged to a life I was leaving behind. I said my goodbyes, took my luggage, and hailed a cab to JFK. After passing through security, I sat at the gate and pulled out my phone. I sent one final text to Julia: We’re over. Then, I popped out the SIM card, walked over to a trash bin, and threw it away—along with the expensive designer watch she had given me for our first Christmas.

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My daughter’s ballet slippers had three holes worn straight through the toes, yet she refused to let me bring a new pair to her school. She kept her head low, her voice barely a whisper. “Mom, all the other girls’ moms wear haute couture when they come to our shows.” “Your hands are covered in chilblains and grease. Please, just don’t come.” Later, she received her acceptance letter from the elite academy of dance. I practically jumped for joy, but she threw the envelope straight into my face, her eyes rimmed with angry red. We couldn’t afford the tuition. “Mom, I wish you were like other moms. Just a gentle push from them, and their kids are flying high in the clouds.” “But with you? We fight with everything we have, and we still end up suffocating in the mud.” I stared at her scarred, calloused toes, my chest aching as if a dull blade were carving through my heart. I didn’t have the courage to tell her that the chronic headaches I’d been suffering from had finally been diagnosed the day before. A brain tumor. Terminal. Quietly, I pulled out that old, dust-covered organ donor agreement and my high-payout accidental death insurance policy. Evie, sweetheart. Your mom doesn’t have much to offer. But I can give you my life to buy you a ticket to a bigger stage. … 1 “You’ve flipped that damn fish eight hundred times! Are you going to buy it or are we just wasting my time here?” The fishmonger’s sharp, grating voice snapped me out of the blinding pain in my temples. I forced a polite, pleading smile, holding back the throbbing agony of the tumor. “I’ll take it, I’ll take it,” I murmured. “Could you maybe give me a small discount on this one, Lou?” “My daughter has her preliminary ballet showcase today. I wanted to make her some fish soup to keep her strength up.” “A discount? I have bills to pay too, Helen! Look at you—living on pennies, and your kid is doing ballet? You sure she isn’t just taking you for a ride?” Her eyes swept over me with pure disdain. I squeezed the crumpled diagnosis slip tucked deep inside my pocket and handed over the cash. “Just this one, please.” The tumor in my brain was a ticking time bomb. I didn’t know when it would finally go off. But before it did, I had to pave the way for my Evelyn. Taking the meager change, I hurried home first, then carefully packed a pair of pristine, snow-white ballet slippers. I made my way to the theater, keeping out of sight. Evelyn never wanted me near her school, and she certainly didn’t want me delivering shoes. She said it was humiliating. But today, I just wanted to steal a single glimpse of my beautiful daughter—my graceful swan—from the lobby doors. Just one look. But the moment I reached the backstage entrance, a security guard stepped in my way. “Whoa, hold on. Where do you think you’re going? No unauthorized personnel back here.” “I… I’m looking for my daughter, Evelyn. Evelyn Davies—she’s in the showcase.” “Families belong in the audience seats!” “And what is that smell on you? Step back, lady.” He pinched his nose, grimacing. The smell of raw fish was a permanent fixture on my skin, baked in from years of working the docks and fish markets. Once, that smell had been my badge of honor—the proof that I could pay for her classes. Now, it was the barrier keeping me from her. As we argued, a group of young girls in beautiful, matching leotards walked out. Right in the center was Evelyn’s classmate, Chelsea. She spotted me immediately. Covering her nose, she let out an exaggerated gasp. “Oh my god, Evelyn, is that your mom?” “Why does she smell like a rotting pier? Did she come backstage to scale some fish for us?” Dozens of eyes locked onto me instantly. I watched the color completely drain from Evelyn’s face. She stared at me. It wasn’t sadness in her eyes; it was raw, burning humiliation. I stood frozen, clutching the cardboard box with the new slippers to my chest. “Evie…” “What are you doing here?! Who told you to come?!” She lunged forward, her voice shrill and trembling. “I… I was worried your old shoes would tear. I brought you a new pair.” I held out the box, hoping she’d take it. She didn’t even look at it. Instead, she shoved me away with a violent push. “I don’t have a mother like you! Haven’t you embarrassed me enough?!” The shove caught me off guard. My foot slipped, and I crashed hard onto the concrete. The shoe box flew out of my hands, landing right in a murky, oil-slicked puddle nearby. Water seeped through the cardboard caught in the puddle, ruining the pristine white satin. Evelyn stared at the ruined slippers, the disgust in her eyes intensifying. “You can’t even hold a shoe box straight. Is there anything you can do?” Sprawled on the freezing ground, the blinding pain in my head flared up again. But it was nothing compared to the agony in my chest. The hallway erupted in snickers, Chelsea’s laughter ringing loudest. “Wow. Such a beautiful family moment.” Evelyn’s face burned crimson. She didn’t help me up. She didn’t even look at me again. She just turned around and ran back into the theater. I struggled to push myself up from the cold floor. Under the mocking stares of strangers, I gathered the wet, muddy box. These slippers had cost four figures. It was more than I made in an entire month of scaling and gutting fish in the freezing market. They were dirty, yes. But maybe I could wash them. Maybe they were still salvageable. 2 That evening, I prepared a feast of all her favorites. Roasted pork ribs, garlic bread, corn cream soup… “Evie, honey, wash your hands. I made everything you like…” Before I could even finish, she violently slapped my hand away. “Are you trying to ruin my body with this garbage? As if you didn’t humiliate me enough today!” She grabbed the plate of pork belly and dumped it straight into the trash can. Then the ribs, then the fish… plate after plate, gone. “What are you doing?!” I couldn’t hold it back anymore. My voice shook with exhaustion. “What does it look like? I’m throwing out the trash!” With a bitter sneer, she pulled a document from her bag and flung it directly at my face. “Look at it. The acceptance letter from the Royal Ballet Academy. Happy now?” My hands shook as I smoothed out the paper. “You got in? Evie, you actually got in!” “What is there to be happy about? Look at the tuition!” She pointed a trembling finger at the exorbitant figures listed at the bottom, her voice rising to a scream. “Fifty thousand dollars! Where are you going to get fifty thousand dollars?!” “Do you think I’m like Chelsea? Her mom can write a check with a single phone call!” “And what about you?” “What can you do besides make a fool out of me?!” My head felt like it was splitting in two. I leaned heavily against the dining table, barely able to keep my balance. “Evie, listen to me. Your mom…” I wanted to tell her. I wanted to say I was sick—terribly, desperately sick. “All you ever do is cry! All you ever do is play the victim!” She cut me off, her eyes dripping with pure contempt. “If you couldn’t afford to raise me, why did you even have me? Why don’t you just die?” “Why don’t you sell your life to get me the money?!” Sell your life to get me the money. Those words were like a key turning in a lock, releasing the final chain in my heart. She slammed her bedroom door shut, leaving me standing alone in the ruins of the dinner I had spent hours preparing. A sudden wave of warmth rushed up my throat. I covered my mouth, coughing violently. When I pulled my hand away, my palm was smeared with bright, crimson blood. I stared at the blood, then looked toward my bedroom where the terminal brain tumor diagnosis lay in a drawer. A strange, quiet smile crept onto my face. Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? My life could buy her future. Evelyn’s father had walked out before she was even born; I had never been able to give her a proper family or a comfortable life. But now, I could give her this one final gift. I walked over to the old chest of drawers, unlocked the bottom panel, and pulled out the accidental death insurance policy alongside my organ donor registry form. On the policy, the sole beneficiary was listed in clear print: Evelyn Davies. I didn’t sleep at all that night. I gathered every single dollar of cash I had hidden around the house. Bill by bill, I smoothed them out and stuffed them deep into her old, torn ballet slippers. She always called those shoes her ultimate shame. But I knew they were where her dream began. She would never throw them away. The next morning, Evelyn dragged her suitcase toward the door, ignoring me entirely. “I’m leaving. I’m staying at Chelsea’s place for a few days.” “Her house has a private dance studio. It’s infinitely better than this dump.” I held a warm bowl of oatmeal, my hands trembling. “Evie, don’t go. Eat some breakfast first.” “I’m not eating that. Just looking at your cooking makes me sick.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust. “And don’t you dare show up at my school again. If you embarrass me one more time, I swear I will never call you my mother again!” The front door slammed shut. I slowly finished the bowl of oatmeal by myself, then walked out into the cold morning toward the fish market. “Lou… could you… is there any way I could get a three-month advance on my pay?” I kept my head down, unable to meet her gaze. “An advance? Are you out of your mind, Helen?” Lou shoved my shoulder roughly. “You’ve been getting slower and slower lately. I was actually thinking of cutting your hours!” The shove sent me stumbling back, nearly losing my footing. Right then, a cold, horribly familiar voice cut through the noise of the market. “Mom? What the hell are you doing here?” “Do you have no shame at all?!” I spun around. Evelyn and Chelsea were standing just a few feet away. Chelsea had a smug, mocking smirk plastered across her face. “Oh, wow. If my mom hadn’t insisted we get fresh king crab for the party tonight, we would have missed this little performance.” Evelyn’s face burned a dark, furious red as she marched over. “Are you trying to make sure everyone knows my mother is a beggar at a fish market?” “No, Evie, that’s not it. I was just…” I reached out, desperate to grab her hand and explain. 3 “Don’t touch me!” She violently slapped my hand away, her eyes flashing with pure revulsion. “Your hands are filthy. It’s disgusting!” A small crowd began to gather, whispering and pointing at us. With every word she spoke, my heart was slowly torn to shreds. Chelsea crossed her arms, taking a slow step forward. “Honestly, Evelyn, don’t be too hard on her. People from her class just don’t know any better.” “Unlike my mom—she gives me a credit card, and the pocket change on it is more than your mom could make gutting fish for a lifetime.” Evelyn’s expression grew even more humiliated. She leaned in close, her voice a harsh, venomous whisper. “Are you happy now?” “Do you only get off on stripping away every shred of dignity I have in front of my friends?!” Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed Chelsea’s arm and walked away. I was left standing alone, surrounded by the quiet murmurs and mocking snickers of the crowd. … It took me a long time to gather the strength to walk back to that silent, empty apartment. I pulled out the insurance policy. With a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking, I traced my finger over the letters of her name in the beneficiary column: Evelyn Davies. Then, I carefully tucked the document into her bedroom drawer. Once that was done, I picked up my phone and sent her one last text message. My sweet girl, Mom is finally going to give you those wings to fly. The screen lit up almost instantly with her reply. What kind of dramatic nonsense is this now? I’m telling you, I am sick of your guilt trips. They don’t work on me anymore! I didn’t reply. I just stared at the text as tears blurred my vision, spilling over my cheeks. Then, another soft chime echoed in the quiet room. For a brief, foolish second, my heart leaped, hoping she was checking on me. But when I opened the message, a single line stared back at me: Unless you die, I will never be able to stand on the same level as Chelsea. I stared at the cold words on the screen until a hollow, breathless laugh broke from my throat, tears streaming down my face. So, that was her final wish. Then I would grant it. I wiped my face, changed into my cleanest outfit, and walked out the door. The fish market at night was much quieter than during the day, smelling heavily of damp concrete, salt, and raw scale. I walked all the way to the back of the facility, stopping in front of the massive, decommissioned industrial freezer unit. The iron door was incredibly thick. Once locked from the inside, it couldn’t be opened from the outside even with a key. It would require a heavy-duty circular saw to cut through. I took a deep breath. The sharp, cold scent of the fish market suddenly felt like the scent of freedom. I stepped inside, grabbed the heavy iron latch, and pulled it shut. Click. Locked from the inside. “Evie, Mom is going to make sure you fly high.” The temperature inside the freezer began to plummet rapidly. I shook violently, my teeth clicking together. The blinding pain of the tumor flared in tandem with the biting, razor-sharp cold. I curled into a tight ball in the corner, my consciousness slowly slipping away. Just when I thought my body was finally giving up, I felt a strange lightness. It was as if my physical form no longer held me down, and I began to drift upward. I floated right through the heavy iron door, past the darkened streets, until I came to a halt outside a magnificent, brilliantly lit estate. The thumping bass of music and the sound of laughter spilled out from the windows. I drifted through the walls, and there she was. My daughter, Evelyn. She was wearing an exquisite white cocktail dress—one I had never seen before. A group of teenagers had gathered around her, hanging onto her every word. She looked beautiful. “Evelyn, you look like an actual princess tonight.” “That routine you showed us was incredible! You’re going to dominate at the academy!” Evelyn smiled modestly, basking in the warmth of their praise. Just then, her phone vibrated in her hand. She glanced at the caller ID, her brows knitting together in irritation. She stepped into a quiet hallway to answer. “What do you want?” she snapped. On the other end, Lou’s voice sounded panicked and breathless. “Evelyn! Have you seen your mother?” “I was doing inventory, and someone turned on the main breaker to the abandoned freezer. The door is locked from the inside, and no one is answering when I knock!” “Is your mother in there?!” My spirit form tensed, hovering close to her face. Evelyn, please. Come save me. But in the next second, a mocking, cold laugh slipped from my daughter’s lips. “Lou, don’t let her fool you.” “She’s just putting on another one of her pathetic guilt shows. She’ll say anything to force me to come home.” “No, I’m serious! I think I heard a faint scratching sound from inside!” “You need to get down here. If she’s actually in there…” “Let her scratch,” Evelyn cut her off, her voice dripping with ice. “When she gets tired, she’ll come out on her own.” “I’ve dealt with her manipulation my entire life. I’m sick of it.” 4 She hung up the phone without another word, immediately blocking Lou’s number. Hovering in the air, my soul watched as she severed my very last lifeline. My heart died in that moment. She adjusted her dress, painted a perfect, dazzling smile back onto her face, and walked back into the center of the party. Chelsea strolled over, holding a glass of champagne, raising her voice so everyone could hear. “Evelyn, it’s such a great party. Why didn’t you invite your mom to come see how the other half lives?” I saw Evelyn’s shoulders stiffen for a fraction of a second. Then, she casually tossed her hair back and laughed. “Oh, you mean Helen, our housekeeper?” “Her family had an emergency today, so she couldn’t make it.” “My actual mom is overseas most of the year managing her international business. She’s so busy we barely see each other.” Our housekeeper. Even though I knew she was only trying to save face in front of her wealthy classmates, the words cut like a knife. To her, I wasn’t even worthy of being called her mother. Slowly, my spirit form began to turn translucent, drifting away. … The next morning, Evelyn woke up in a guest room at Chelsea’s mansion. She reached for her phone, habitually checking to see if I had sent any more pathetic messages. Nothing. Not a single text. She smirked, thinking I had finally learned my lesson. Ding. An automated notification popped up. It was a tuition reminder from the ballet academy. Staring at the cold, clinical demand for fifty thousand dollars, Evelyn felt a wave of frustration. She opened our chat and began typing furiously. Where’s the money? Did you get the fifty thousand dollars yet? Don’t play dead with me. If I don’t have the tuition by the end of the day, I am cutting you out of my life for good! She hit send, expecting me to immediately beg for her forgiveness as I always did. But minutes turned into hours, and the screen remained blank. Are you dead? Answer me! I’m counting to three. If you don’t reply, don’t ever expect to see me again! Helen, I am warning you! Her messages vanished into a silent void. Evelyn’s patience finally snapped. A blind fury took over. She threw herself out of bed, determined to go back to the apartment and tear into me in person. She kicked the front door open. “Helen! Get your ass out here right now!” The apartment was freezing. The stove was cold; there was no smell of food, no sign of life. “Where are you hiding? Do you think hiding means you don’t have to take responsibility?!” She began tearing the place apart, throwing water glasses against the wall and throwing cushions onto the floor to vent her rage. In the middle of her tantrum, a heavy knock sounded at the door. Thinking I had finally crept back home, she lunged at the door and ripped it open, her face twisted in anger. But standing on the threshold were two solemn-faced police officers. “Are you Evelyn Davies?” the older officer asked. “Yes. What do you want?” Evelyn snapped. The officer verified her ID, his expression turning grim. “Miss Davies, we are very sorry to inform you, but your mother, Helen Davies, has passed away.” Evelyn froze for a second. Then, a sharp, cynical laugh escaped her lips as she crossed her arms. “Officers, you must have the wrong person.” “My mother is fine. Did she hire you to play along with her little act?” “I’ve seen her sob stories my whole life. I know exactly what she’s doing.” The older officer’s jaw clenched, his eyes burning with a quiet, suppressed fury. His younger partner, unable to maintain the same restraint, reached into an evidence bag and held an item out to her. It was a pair of old, worn ballet slippers. I had hand-stitched the tears in them multiple times; the satin at the toes was worn down to a dull grey. “This was recovered next to your mother’s body.” Looking at those slippers, Evelyn’s laugh withered on her face. Her hands began to tremble uncontrollably. But she kept pushing. “She really went all out this time, didn’t she? Even got the props right.” “Where is she? Is she waiting around the corner to see my reaction?” “That is enough!” the older officer barked, his voice echoing in the small hallway. “Evelyn, your mother was trapped in a sub-zero industrial freezer for over eight hours!” “The metal door was covered in her blood where she clawed at it with her bare fingernails!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “457774”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

A spring trek through the rugged Wyoming backcountry. The moment we touched down, my boyfriend’s toxic “girl-bro” insisted on heading straight to the deep woods of the back mountain to shoot grizzly bears. She claimed she wanted to film a viral clickbait video—something along the lines of LexieWildlife Interaction Meets Wilderness Survival GuideLexie. What she didn’t know was that the grizzlies in these mountains right now were fresh out of hibernation. They weren’t majestic forest dwellers; they were starving, hyper-aggressive man-eaters. Even if you went in packed to the gills with tactical gear, surviving them was a roll of the dice. In my past life, I reported her plans to our local trail guide. Threatened with the forfeiture of their steep security deposit, the guide kept a tight lock on the camp. But she snuck out in the dead of night anyway. By the time they found her, two starving grizzlies had left nothing of her but a single, blood-soaked hiking boot. When my boyfriend found out, his face remained flat and indifferent. Yet, the night before we were set to leave, he snapped. “You had to open your fat mouth!” he’d screamed, pinning me down. “If I had gone with her, we would’ve gotten a viral hit, and she’d still be alive!” He tied me to a lodgepole pine. The grizzlies found me, and they tore me open from chest to groin. When I opened my eyes again, the phantom sensation of my own wet, warm intestines spilling onto the pine needles was still burning in my gut. I was back at the campsite, listening to them argue about heading into the back mountain to find the bears. 1 “Come on, Darcy. Don’t tell me you’re actually chickening out?” Lexie twirled my expensive carbon-fiber trekking pole between her fingers. The sharp carbide tip scraped against the gravel with a grating, metallic screech. She looked at me, her eyes wide with that practiced, delicate innocence that made my stomach turn. “The internet says grizzlies are practically docile this time of year,” she purred, flashing a smug, dimpled smile. “If you toss them some food, they’ll roll over on their backs and play like oversized golden retrievers. Zach’s channel is practically dead right now. He needs a hook. As his girlfriend, shouldn’t you be supporting him instead of pulling the emergency brake?” I stared at her smooth, sun-kissed face. My stomach rolled with violent nausea. The memory of teeth ripping through my flesh, of cold mountain air hitting my exposed organs, was so visceral I had to squeeze my hands into fists to keep from shaking. I didn’t say a word. Standing right beside her, Zach immediately scowled. He stepped forward, defensively pulling Lexie behind his shoulder. “What’s with the attitude, Darcy?” Zach snapped. “Lexie flew all the way out to the Rockies just to help me shoot content. She pushed through altitude sickness to be here. And you? Since we landed, you’ve done nothing but throw cold water on every single idea.” “We’re trying to build a business here,” he continued, his voice rising, practically vibrating with self-righteous anger. “You don’t get views without taking risks. Do you even understand how the algorithm works? Or do you just want to see me fail?” A few other hikers from our group drifted over to watch the drama unfold. Dave, a guy in his fifties holding a stainless-steel thermos of rehydrated soup, chimed in. “Honestly, Darcy, the kid has a point. Young people need that drive. I looked at the map earlier; that back trail is barely a mile from the camp line. What’s the worst that could happen? You’re twice her size, but you don’t have half the grit of little Lexie here.” Luke, another guy from the group, nodded in agreement. “Yeah, Zach is busting his ass to secure a future for the two of you. You’re holding the girlfriend title, but you’re just dead weight on this trip.” I looked at them. A slow, cold smile crept onto my face. In my past life, these were the exact same people who took fifty thousand dollars in hush money from Zach’s family. They had stood before the sheriff and sworn up and down that I must have sleepwalked into the deep woods of my own accord. “You guys are entirely right,” I said. My voice was quiet, incredibly calm. Zach blinked, caught off guard. He clearly hadn’t expected me to roll over so easily. “Since it’s for your career, of course I support it,” I added, looking Zach dead in the eye. “The landscape back there is stunning. The footage will be spectacular.” Lexie’s eyes lit up instantly. “Really? You mean it?” She took an eager step toward me. “Great! Let me borrow your DJI Mavic drone then.” Before I could answer, a gravelly, furious roar cut through the camp. “Like hell you will!” Jed, our local guide, came marching out from behind the supply tents. His face was weathered and dark red from years of mountain wind, his heavy flannel shirt billowing as he strode over. “Who the hell thinks they’re going into the back mountain?” Jed snarled, pointing a thick, calloused finger at Lexie. “Those aren’t ‘docile’ bears. Those are starving grizzlies. They’ve been asleep all winter, and they will chew your bones to splinters the second they smell you. You go back there, you’re suicide bait.” Jed glared at the group. “If you want to die, don’t do it on my permit. As long as I’m the registered guide for this sector, no one steps a foot past the camp boundary. Try me, and I’ll have the sheriff haul your asses down the mountain before sunset.” The atmosphere went ice-cold. Lexie shrunk back, tucking her head into her shoulders, looking up at Zach with watery, helpless eyes. Zach’s face flushed a deep, angry crimson. “Jed, stop trying to scare everyone. We have bear spray. Besides, we’re only shooting at the tree line. We’ll be back in thirty minutes. You don’t own the national forest.” Jed’s eyes bulged. “I own the liability for your pathetic lives!” Seeing them on the verge of a fistfight, I stepped forward and gently patted Jed’s arm. “Jed, take it easy,” I said, pulling a notepad and a sharpie from my tactical jacket pocket. “They’re grown adults. They have the right to make their own choices. If you’re worried about the liability, we can just write up a waiver.” Jed stared at me, dumbfounded. Zach looked equally stunned. I popped the cap off the pen and quickly scribbled a few lines on the paper. LexieWe, Lexie Vance and Zachary Thorne, hereby choose to enter the restricted back mountain area of our own free will. We fully acknowledge the high risk of wild predators in this sector. Any injury, death, or accident occurring during this excursion is solely our responsibility and is entirely unrelated to guide Jed or fellow hiker Darcy Rollins. We assume all risks.Lexie I handed the pen and paper to Zach. “Sign it,” I said. “Once you sign, Jed won’t have to worry about losing his license. And you two can go get your viral masterpiece.” I looked at Lexie, the corner of my lips turning up in a shadow of a smile. 2 Zach stared at the paper. His eyes flickered with a brief, uneasy hesitation. “Darcy, what is this?” he muttered. “Drawing lines like this… are you seriously still pretending to be my girlfriend?” I shrugged. “Even married couples keep their finances separate these days, Zach. Jed has a family to feed. It’s not fair to ruin his livelihood just because you guys want to play National Geographic.” Dave scoffed from the sidelines, taking a noisy sip of his soup. “Man, Darcy, you really know how to play the accountant, don’t you? Just looking out for your own skin and your own wallet, huh?” Luke let out a dry laugh. “Modern romance. Zach, looks like your girl doesn’t want to carry even an ounce of risk for you.” Lexie’s eyes darted between us, her expression shifting instantly into one of deep, wounded victimization. “Darcy, if you’re still mad at me, just say so,” she whimpered, her voice trembling. “If you don’t want to lend us the drone, you don’t have to make this passive-aggressive point to humiliate Zach. Forget it. I won’t go.” She made a show of turning around to walk back to her tent. Zach caught her by the wrist. “No, we’re going.” He whipped around, glaring at me with pure venom, and snatched the paper and pen from my hand. “You want a waiver? Fine! I’ll sign the damn thing!” He scribbled his signature with aggressive, slashing strokes. Then he shoved the pen into Lexie’s hand. “Sign it, Lexie. When this video hits a million views, she isn’t getting a single cent of the ad revenue.” Lexie hesitated for a fraction of a second. But with Zach pressuring her and the rest of the hikers watching, she had no choice but to bite her lip and sign her name. I took the paper back, satisfied. I folded it carefully and slid it deep into the zippered inner pocket of my sports bra. Jed looked at me, slowly shaking his head. “Kid, you’re playing with fire,” he muttered, turning on his heel to check the guylines on the cook tent. Since the liability waiver was signed, he wasn’t going to waste his breath. If these city slickers wanted to serve themselves up as grizzly chow, let them. “Well, the paperwork’s done,” Lexie said, her meek, fragile persona evaporating the second Jed walked away. She strutted over to me, her eyes scanning me from head to toe. “Since you’re being so LexiesupportiveLexie now, Darcy, a drone isn’t going to be enough.” She pointed directly at my Arc’teryx alpine parka. “The wind is picking up, and my jacket is way too thin. Let me wear yours.” I raised an eyebrow. The parka was a top-tier mountaineering shell I’d bought specifically for this trip. It had cost me nearly a thousand dollars. Zach immediately chimed in. “Yeah, Darcy, you’ve got a thick build anyway. You’re just staying in camp; you won’t freeze. Lexie has asthma; she can’t handle the cold. Take it off and give it to her.” He reached out his hand, entirely entitled, as if demanding a tax payment. “And give us your satellite phone, too. Just in case there’s no service back there and we need to check in.” I looked at the two of them. In my chest, there wasn’t even a spark of anger left. Just a cold, dead vacuum. “Sure,” I said. I unzipped the parka, slipped it off, and handed it over along with the Garmin inReach satellite communicator from the sleeve pocket. Lexie couldn’t grab them fast enough. She threw the parka over her shoulders. The sleeves were a bit too long for her petite frame, so she rolled up the cuffs with a smug little giggle. “Thanks, babe,” she chirped, before turning her attention to my heavy-duty Osprey pack resting on the camp table. “Let me see what else you’ve got in here.” She unzipped the main compartment without asking, rummaging through my personal belongings like she was picking through a thrift store bin. Zach stood beside her, watching with quiet approval. Suddenly, Lexie’s hand paused. She pulled a heavy, matte-black aluminum canister from the side sleeve. It was emblazoned with a bright orange safety label. “Ooh, what’s this?” Lexie tossed it lightly in the air. “Bear spray?” She let out a loud, mocking laugh. “Darcy, you actually believed that old mountain man’s garbage? Who even carries this junk? You think spraying some hot sauce in a grizzly’s face is going to stop it? You think they’re vegan?” Before I could stop her, she flicked off the plastic safety clip and pressed down on the nozzle. A sharp, orange cloud of aerosolized capsaicin burst into the air. “Cough—cough!” The wind caught the edge of the mist, blowing it right back into Lexie’s face. She gagged, her eyes watering instantly as she fell into a violent coughing fit. Zach rushed to her side, frantically patting her back. “Lexie! Are you okay?” He whipped his head around to glare at me, his face twisted in fury. “Darcy, are you insane? Why do you have hazardous materials just sitting in your bag? Are you trying to kill her?” Lexie was hacking so hard tears streamed down her cheeks. Humiliated and furious, she snatched the canister from the table and slammed it onto the gravel. She lifted her heavy hiking boot and brought it down hard on the plastic nozzle mechanism. LexieCrack.Lexie The plastic collar shattered. The pressurized canister hissed weakly, venting its chemical load into the dirt until it went completely flat. “Trash,” Lexie wheezed, spitting on the ground. “Taking up space for nothing.” I looked down at the ruined canister of bear spray. It was the only thing standing between them and a violent death. And she had just crushed it under her own heel. “Good call,” I said, looking at Lexie. My voice was entirely sincere. “It was taking up space anyway.” 3 As twilight crept in, the sky turned a bruised, heavy purple. The wind carried the sharp, icy sting of an impending storm. Zach and Lexie were packing their gear, eager to get into the tree line before the last of the light faded completely. “Darcy, hand over your honey jar,” Zach demanded, walking up to my chair with his hand outstretched. I was sitting by the portable fire pit, holding a mug of hot water. I looked up. “The honey?” “Yeah,” Zach said impatiently. “Lexie said she saw signs of wild beehives on the lower trail yesterday. We’re going to shoot a ‘man versus nature’ bit. We’ll smear the raw honey on a pine trunk and film her pretending to harvest it. It’ll look amazing on camera.” My fingers tightened around my mug. The memories rushed back, cold and suffocating. In my past life, that rough lodgepole pine bark had scraped against my back. The sticky, sweet honey had been smeared all over my throat and chest. I remembered the heavy, wet hot breath of the grizzly against my face just before its jaws closed around my shoulder. The utter, paralyzing despair of that moment flashed like a spark of white-hot lightning behind my eyes. “What? You’re going to be stingy over a jar of honey now?” Zach sneered, taking my silence for defiance. “It’s a twenty-dollar jar of raw honey, Darcy. When the video blows up, I’ll buy you ten of them.” Dave, who was swapping out a propane canister nearby, let out a loud grunt. “Honestly, Darcy, your pettiness is something else. Your guy is trying to build a brand, and you won’t even chip in a jar of honey. You’re a pretty lousy partner, you know that?” A couple of other hikers chuckled. I ignored them. I took a slow sip of my water, set the mug down, and walked over to my tent. I reached into the gear crate and pulled out the large glass jar of high-viscosity, organic wild honey. “Here,” I said, handing it to Zach. “Take the whole thing.” Zach snatched it, grunting as he glanced at the dried dirt on the glass. “Finally.” He stuffed it into Lexie’s pack, then pulled two printed sheets of paper from his own pocket and slapped them onto the camp table. “Since you’re so determined to play the victim,” Zach said, his voice dripping with condescension, “let’s put it in writing.” He tapped the papers. “This is an official Disassociation and Revenue Waiver. It states that you have no part in this production, and you have zero claim to any intellectual property or financial returns from the footage we shoot today. Sign it.” He stared at me, his eyes full of cheap calculation. He truly believed he was protecting his future empire from a greedy girlfriend. Lexie hovered by his shoulder, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Zach, maybe we shouldn’t… I mean, I’m sure Darcy doesn’t mean to be a drag. But I guess if we make real money, it’s safer to have it in writing so she doesn’t try to sue us later.” I looked at the documents and had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud. They were so blinded by the mirage of internet fame that they were systematically cutting off every single cord that tied them to me. They were legally locking their own trap from the inside. “Sure,” I said. I picked up the pen and signed both documents without a second thought. I even pressed my thumb onto the ink pad from my journal kit and left a bright red print next to my name. “All yours,” I said, sliding the papers back. “I hope you get exactly what you deserve.” Zach checked the signatures, satisfied, and slid them into a waterproof ziplock bag. “Good. At least you have some common sense left.” He hoisted his pack and called out, “Lexie, let’s go!” Lexie, clad in my expensive Arc’teryx parka, carrying my drone, and carrying my honey, sauntered past me. She paused, turned back, and flashed me a vulgar middle finger. “Have fun playing housewife at the camp, Darcy! We’ll show you the footage when we get back!” I sat back down in my folding chair. I watched their silhouettes shrink into the dark, jagged line of the pine forest until they were swallowed by the shadows. They looked exactly like walking corpses. The wind howled louder now, carrying the faint, distant echo of a low rumble from the deep valley. I pulled my fleece jacket tighter around myself, finished my water, and waited for the show to start. 4 By eleven o’clock that night, the wind outside was screaming like a banshee. I lay flat on my cot inside the tent, my eyes wide open. My phone was gripped in my hand, its screen glowing in the dark, displaying a high-definition infrared live feed. I had paid a premium for a cellular-linked, night-vision trail camera and set it up on the perimeter of the back-mountain trail before we arrived. I had bought it to keep an eye out for gear thieves. Now, it was my front-row ticket to the main event. Suddenly, a blood-curdling shriek pierced through the roar of the wind. It was a sound of absolute, primitive terror—so warped and shrill it didn’t even sound human. Immediately after came the sound of snapping timber and a deep, guttural roar that vibrated through the floor of my tent. The entire camp erupted. Zippers hissed open as flashlights cut through the dark. Dave threw his tent flap open, stumbling out into the cold in his long underwear. “What the hell was that? Was that a wolf?” Jed ran out of his tent holding a high-lumen spotlight, his face pale. “That’s no wolf. That’s a grizzly. A big one.” About thirty minutes later, the brush at the edge of the camp rattled violently. A shadow stumbled out, falling face-first into the dirt. It was Zach. He was coated in black mud and pine needles. His jacket was shredded down the back, exposing raw, bloody gouges across his shoulders. His hair was wild, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Help… please, God, help me!” he shrieked, his entire body convulsing with dry heaves. Jed ran over, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Where is she? Where is the girl?!” At the mention of Lexie’s name, Zach let out a horrific, high-pitched scream, covering his ears and thrashing in the dirt. “The bear… it was huge! It took her! There was so much blood!” The camp fell into a horrified silence, broken only by the howling wind and Zach’s hysterical sobbing. Jed didn’t waste a second. He ran to his cabin tent, grabbed his sat phone, and dialed search and rescue. Two hours later, three search and rescue deputies and a local ranger arrived at the camp, their spotlights cutting through the swirling snow. The lead deputy, a burly, stern man named Deputy Briggs, took one look at Zach’s shock-induced state. “What happened here?” Briggs demanded, his voice dropping like an anvil. “Didn’t you people see the warning signs posted at the trailhead?” Zach slowly raised his head. His vacant, bloodshot eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on me. In an instant, his grief turned into a feral, rabid hatred. He dragged himself across the gravel, grabbing the cuff of my pants. “It was her!” Zach roared, pointing a trembling, muddy finger at my face. “Officer, she killed Lexie! She forced Lexie to go out there!” He was screaming so hard spit flew from his lips. “She was jealous of Lexie! She refused to give us our safety gear! She poisoned that honey to attract the bears! It was a setup!” Every eye in the camp locked onto me. Dave, looking terrified but eager to shift blame, jumped in. “Officer, I saw it! Darcy was egging them on all afternoon! She even made them sign a waiver just to wash her hands of it!” Luke chimed in. “Yeah! And she broke their bear spray! We saw her stomp on it!” Zach wept hysterically, clutching the deputy’s jacket. “She’s a murderer! You have to lock her up! She killed Lexie!” Deputy Briggs frowned, his gaze shifting to me, hard and suspicious. “Is this true, ma’am?” He reached for the heavy steel handcuffs on his utility belt. “I’m going to need you to step forward and cooperate with our investigation.” Zach stared at the handcuffs, his lips twitching into a tiny, sick grimace of triumph. He thought he had won. Just like in my past life, he thought he could use his tears and lies to bury me under the weight of public outrage. I looked at him. I felt no anger. No panic. I calmly pulled my phone from my pocket and unlocked the screen, opening the cloud-synced security app. The blue light cast a cool glow over my face. “Are you sure I’m the one who forced her to go, Zach?” I pressed play.

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Dr. Diane Mercer, one of the country’s leading cardiothoracic surgeons, was hosting her first public seminar. She was widely regarded as a savior for heart patients, having maintained a legendary zero-mortality record throughout her long career. During the Q&A session, a student stood up and asked, “Dr. Mercer, how do you avoid losing a patient on the table?” She closed her eyes, a look of profound sorrow crossing her face. “In my entire career, I have only had one failed surgery. It was my resident, my apprentice. She secretly donated her heart to her boyfriend under a pseudonym, and I couldn’t save her.” The lecture hall erupted into whispers. “Oh my god! That is so tragic. He must carry that guilt forever, right?” Dr. Mercer opened her eyes, tears brimming. “No. He mistook someone else for his savior. Instead, he treated the girl who gave him life as the monster who killed his mother.” She paused, hardening her resolve. “I promised her I would keep her secret. But my conscience won’t let me remain silent anymore.” “I want him to know that his rise to become a titan of Wall Street was built entirely on his ex-girlfriend’s sacrifice.” “And his current fiancée is the very person who murdered both his mother and the woman who saved him.” The clip exploded online, shooting to the top of every social media feed. The public quickly pieced together the identity of the mysterious billionaire. But Daniel Foster knew nothing of this. He had just spent the entire night finalizing wedding plans, and he was about to take his beloved fiancée to try on her wedding dress. … Chelsea Price sat in the passenger seat, her makeup flawless, practically buzzing with excitement. “It feels like a dream. I can’t believe we’re finally getting married.” Daniel’s bloodshot eyes shone with intense warmth. “I wanted to take our engagement photos on our three-year anniversary for a reason. I want us to have nothing but beautiful memories going forward.” “You’re the reason I’m alive, Chelsea. I will spend the rest of my life making sure you’re cherished.” Chelsea suddenly pouted. “Are you sure none of those beautiful memories still belong to Paige?” Daniel’s hands stiffened on the steering wheel, his smile freezing. “Of course not. I only have room in my heart to hate her.” He spat the word hate. But there was a tremor in his voice—a tiny, flickering hesitation he didn’t even notice. He was so distracted he didn’t realize the light had turned green. In my phantom chest, my empty heart began to ache all over again. He still believed the beautiful, rotten lie. The lie that I had maliciously leaked fake stock market tips, causing the ruined investors to target and murder his mother. The lie that I had embezzled every single cent from his startup and run away. While the true architect of his ruin became his sole anchor. Suddenly, Daniel’s phone buzzed on the dashboard. It was Dr. Mercer. “Mr. Foster, do you have time to come in for a follow-up appointment today?” Ever since the transplant, Daniel’s heart had been incredibly stable. He was about to decline, but he caught Chelsea’s suddenly tense expression out of the corner of his eye. He immediately spun the wheel. “Actually, yes. I’ll bring Chelsea in for a checkup right now.” In the narrative Chelsea had spun four years ago, she was the one who had donated her heart to save him. Daniel was obsessively protective of Chelsea’s health. If she so much as sneezed, he would panic and rush her to the ER. So, whatever protest Chelsea wanted to voice died in her throat. When they arrived at Dr. Mercer’s office, Daniel walked in with a familiar ease, though his chest was hammering with a strange, unaccountable rhythm. He had always wondered why seeing Dr. Mercer brought on this overwhelming sense of familiarity. “I suppose I’m just deeply connected to the person who gave me this heart,” Daniel murmured, a faint smile touching his lips. “Thanks to you, Chelsea has been in perfect health. We’re planning our wedding for this winter, and you absolutely must attend.” Dr. Mercer froze, staring at him. She carefully weighed her words. “Actually, about Paige Evans…” “Dan! I’m all done. The doctor said all my vitals are perfect.” Chelsea swept into the office with a clipboard, her bright laugh cutting through the room. She stepped closer to Dr. Mercer, dropping her voice to a lethal whisper only the doctor could hear. “Dr. Mercer, you wouldn’t want to ruin your perfect reputation, would you?” Dr. Mercer stared at her, her lips pressed into a hard, thin line. Chelsea immediately turned back to Daniel, wrapping her arms around his sleeve. “Let’s go, babe. We’re going to miss our fitting appointment.” As they reached the door, Daniel hesitated, turning back. “What about Paige?” he asked, unable to let it go. Before Dr. Mercer could speak, a swarm of reporters suddenly burst through the hallway, thrusting microphones into Daniel’s face. “Mr. Foster! How do you respond to the viral video regarding your ex-girlfriend’s murder?” Daniel’s brow furrowed into a deep scowl, his voice instantly turning icy. “What are you talking about?” Chelsea frantically tugged at his sleeve, clutching her chest and whimpering in pain. Daniel shoved past the reporters, shouting for a nurse. But one persistent journalist held up a phone, playing the video right in front of his face. “Miss Price never had heart surgery! The donor was Paige Evans!” Daniel whipped around, his eyes wild with fury. The reporter, desperate for an exclusive, didn’t back down. “Are you refusing to admit that your current fiancée murdered Paige Evans, Mr. Foster?” The air in the corridor seemed to solidify. The shock in Daniel’s eyes curdled into pure, unadulterated rage. He practically roared: “Don’t you dare mention that piece of trash’s name in front of me!” “If you vultures keep spreading these sick rumors for clicks, I will sue every last one of your networks into bankruptcy!” He scooped Chelsea up, begging Dr. Mercer to save her. But Dr. Mercer didn’t move. She just stared at him, her voice dead-calm and heavy. “The reporter is telling the truth. The heart beating in your chest belonged to Paige Evans. I performed the surgery myself.” During every single checkup over the past three years, Daniel would unconsciously ask about his donor. He did it with a quiet, desperate obsession he didn’t even understand. Dr. Mercer had wanted to keep her promise to me—to let him live his life in peace. But seeing Chelsea parading around in her stolen happiness, while I had died in agonizing pain, rejected by my own body’s defense systems, unable to even rest in peace… It wasn’t fair. Daniel’s arms went stiff around Chelsea. His voice was cold, rigid. “What did you say? Since when do you play along with these sick jokes?” Dr. Mercer shook her head, her eyes filled with profound grief. “To keep you alive while we waited for a real donor, she wore a mechanical heart. The side effects were brutal.” “I could have saved her. But Chelsea…” Before she could finish, Chelsea conveniently fainted, her head lolling back. Daniel’s attention was instantly pulled back to her. Dr. Mercer threw her professional dignity aside, physically blocking his path. “Chelsea is perfectly fine! She has been lying to you—” “Enough!” Daniel’s knuckles turned white as he yelled, cutting her off. “Dr. Mercer, I don’t know what kind of sick game Paige is paying you to play.” “But I don’t believe a single word out of your mouth.” “If Paige wants to clear her name, tell her to show her face and confess to my face. Otherwise, I will make sure she never finds peace in this lifetime!” ——– On the very day Daniel achieved everything he had ever dreamed of in his career, he spent hours dialing my old, deactivated number. His assistants searched every corner of the city. But they found nothing. No trace of Paige Evans. Chelsea then staged a series of fake threats, pretending I was stalking and blackmailing her. Daniel’s remaining sympathy for me withered away. He leaked my personal information to the darkest corners of the internet. Slanderous videos circulated. Uncensored photos of me were pasted on street corners. Even though my parents had passed away years ago, internet vigilantes tracked down their graves. They desecrated the headstones, scattering my parents’ ashes and spraying vulgar graffiti across the marble. Our old family photos were turned into cruel memes. My remaining relatives were harassed. Red paint was splashed across their front doors. My elderly aunt knelt on the pavement, crying, begging Daniel to show mercy. But Daniel only watched from the tinted window of his sedan, his eyes cold and detached. “I want to see just how long Paige Evans can hide,” he muttered. He put a five-million-dollar bounty on my head. I hovered beside him, watching this horrific farce drag on for a year. Of course, no one would ever find me. They didn’t know I had already become a “silent teacher”—a willed body donor in the anatomy lab of Hudson University. He didn’t know that Chelsea had intercepted every attempt I made to contact him. Dr. Mercer slowly let go of his arm, letting out a long, hollow sigh. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe me. I am going to release the records. I will expose the truth.” “I only hope you don’t regret this when it’s too late.” Daniel’s toe tapped against the floor—a nervous habit he only did when his mind was spinning. Chelsea whimpered, feigning a tremor. Without another word, Daniel turned and carried her away. Dr. Mercer faced the reporters’ cameras, her voice cracking with exhaustion. “Paige Evans’s body is currently at the Hudson University School of Medicine.” Daniel had always been a man who only believed what he chose to believe. Back in college, when a classmate maliciously accused me of cheating on an exam, Daniel was the first one to stand up in front of the dean’s office. “I don’t believe it,” he had said, completely ignoring the fabricated evidence. He spent three sleepless days tracking down witnesses to clear my name, eventually helping me secure my scholarship. On the night I cleared my name, I asked him, “What if I really did cheat?” He looked at me under the streetlights, his eyes bright and clear, a slow smile spreading across his face. He reached out and gently ruffled my hair. “I know you, Paige. You wouldn’t.” An orphan and a boy from a broken home—we were both bruised by the world, clinging to each other for warmth until graduation. We had a shared dream: Hudson University’s finance program. I remember him looking up at the night sky, vowing to build a financial empire. “We’re going to make so much money, Paige. So much that no one will ever be able to hurt us again.” And for a while, the story went exactly as planned. We lived in drafty basements, split cold sandwiches, and drank ourselves to the point of stomach ulcers at corporate dinners just to secure clients. Finally, the company began to take off. But Daniel’s heart began to fail. During the hardest months of my life, Chelsea arrived with an impressive resume. She was brilliant. She helped scale our operations. But her intentions were as old and tired as time itself. She wanted Daniel. When Daniel turned her down and threatened to fire her, his condition took a nosebleed plunge. The doctors issued a terminal prognosis. Every venture capitalist rejected my pleas for funding; we didn’t have a fraction of the money needed for his transplant. That was when Dr. Mercer contacted me. There was a clinical trial for an advanced, fully bio-compatible mechanical heart. It was fully funded, experimental, but promised to sustain life. I remembered Daniel’s mother weeping by his bedside: “What is my boy going to do? He is so young…” So, I decided to give Daniel my heart. I was healthy, I was young, and I had no family left to grieve me. That was the first time I ever lied to him. I told him his name had magically cleared the national transplant donor registry. Before he went into the operating room, we both smiled, believing this was just another temporary hurdle we would clear together. But everything spiraled out of control. I didn’t wake up from my own surgery until three months later. By then, Chelsea had already painted me as a thief who had embezzled the company’s funds and abandoned him on his deathbed. I dragged my frail, mechanical-hearted body to the office and slapped her across the face in front of everyone. I screamed every ugly word I knew. But Chelsea just sank to the floor like a broken, fragile doll, weeping silently. When Daniel walked in, the way he looked at me was terrifying. It was the look you give a mortal enemy. “Paige Evans. You actually have the nerve to show your face here?” I tried to tell him the truth, but a sudden, blinding pain flared in my chest. I coughed, spitting blood onto the pristine floor. For a split second, his cold expression softened with panic. But Chelsea chose that exact moment to faint. Daniel’s concern vanished. He kicked my hands away from his shoes. “Stop acting. For the sake of what we used to be, I won’t call the police on you.” “But if you ever touch Chelsea again, I will make sure you pay with your life.” I don’t remember how I got back to the hospital. Dr. Mercer told me that Chelsea had become his entire reason for fighting to live. They were all over the business news—the brilliant young CEO and his beautiful savior. I was cast as the villain who used and discarded him. Daniel used the public sympathy to secure millions in venture capital. As his new firm soared, my body underwent five agonizing episodes of transplant rejection. Suddenly, I didn’t want to fight anymore. The mechanical heart was tearing my body apart. If I couldn’t find a matching human donor within two years, I would die anyway. What was the point of telling him the truth? To shatter the life he had finally rebuilt? Perhaps God had a twisted sense of humor. On the day Daniel proposed to Chelsea, I finally got the call: a perfect donor heart was available. I wanted to live. I truly did. But then I heard that Daniel was planning to sign over all his company shares to Chelsea. I was terrified she would ruin him. I tried to reach him, but before I could, Chelsea’s hired thugs cornered me and dragged me to an abandoned warehouse on the edge of town. The blows rained down on me. My chest felt like it was imploding. Chelsea knelt beside me, forcing a handful of incompatible medications down my throat. “Just lie here and die quietly, Paige. I’ll make sure Daniel thinks you took your own life out of guilt.” With my last ounce of strength, I dialed Daniel’s number. “Daniel… I’m dying… don’t trust Chelsea…” He was with Chelsea. I could hear their breathing, the rustle of sheets. There was a long silence before his voice came through the line, dripping with mockery. “Then congratulations. I hope you enjoy hell.” To the sound of their soft laughter, my world went black. If Chelsea hadn’t intercepted the donor heart meant for me, the paramedics might have saved me. In the final second of my life, I heard Daniel’s voice through the thin drywall of the adjacent hospital wing where they had eventually dumped me. “Doctor! Please, save my fiancée! She’s having chest pains!” When my body was wheeled out under a white sheet, we crossed paths in the corridor. He seemed to feel something. He glanced back at the gurney. But a second later, he muttered, “What a nuisance,” and turned away. In the high-rise boardroom, the atmosphere was suffocating. The viral video of Dr. Mercer’s seminar was already tanking the company’s stock. Daniel sat at the head of the table, his face grim. “Do whatever it takes to kill the story,” he ordered the PR team. “Chelsea’s name must remain clear.” “Get the car ready. I’m going to Hudson University.” When he stormed into the anatomy lab, I was lying silently on the stainless steel table, my cold, preserved body surrounded by medical students. Dr. Mercer walked in right behind him. “According to her final wishes, all her viable tissues were donated,” she said softly. “She served as a silent teacher here for three years. Her body is beginning to show wear, and the department is preparing for her burial. I wanted to ensure she finally rests in peace.” I hovered right beside her, reaching out to comfort her, but my ghostly fingers slipped right through her shoulder. Dr. Mercer was the only person who had stood by me. She wasn’t just my doctor; she was my mentor, my protector. During those endless nights when the pain of rejection kept me awake, she had stayed by my bedside, holding my hand. I felt so guilty. She had given me five chances at life, but my foolish decisions had ruined her flawless surgical record. Daniel’s presence was like a dark cloud in the room. His sharp, hollow eyes stared at my bloated, formalin-soaked face. The professor quietly dismissed the students. As they filed out, I heard one whisper, “Hey, isn’t that the donor the senior was messing around with? Is the CEO here to investigate?” Daniel’s brow furrowed deeper. “You must have gone to a lot of trouble to find a corpse that looks this much like her,” he sneered, looking at Dr. Mercer. “Has she been stalking me for the last three years? What is this, another one of her sick plays?” “I’m marrying Chelsea. Even if Paige pretends to be dead, I will never forgive her.” Dr. Mercer gently drew the white sheet over my face. “Today is the third anniversary of Paige’s death, Daniel.” “Her last phone call was to you, begging for help. But you hung up and let her die.” “Chelsea never had a heart condition. The donor heart you hijacked in the next ward that night? It was supposed to go to Paige.” Daniel’s fists clenched so hard the veins in his forearms bulged. He took a step back, a mocking laugh escaping his lips. “How long are you going to keep playing along with her theater?” Dr. Mercer pulled a thick, faded medical file from her bag and slapped it onto the metal table. “See for yourself. Look at who actually gave you your life.” Daniel’s eyes fell on the signature page. My name was written there in my neat, familiar handwriting. He flinched as if he had touched hot iron, dropping the papers. “You’re a doctor! You could easily forge a medical file!” he snarled, his voice cracking. “If Chelsea’s heart was fine, why didn’t any other doctor say anything?” “Because she paid them off!” Dr. Mercer’s chest heaved with heavy, ragged breaths. Her eyes were rimmed with red. She thrust my death certificate directly in front of his face. “Look at it! Paige Evans died three years ago!” “Do you think I would destroy my entire medical career to tell a lie?” Daniel froze. “She was thinking of you until the very moment her heart stopped,” Dr. Mercer choked out. “She was terrified the truth would break you, so she begged me to keep it a secret.” “And what did you do? For three years, you’ve been parading around with her killer, ruining Paige’s innocent family in the process.” “Your new heart is perfectly healthy now, Daniel. But it’s time you face the truth.” Daniel’s face was completely rigid. A cold, hollow laugh bubbled up from his throat. “Beautiful. Quite a performance. All this just to turn me against Chelsea?” “Do me a favor and tell Paige that Chelsea is the love of my life. Even if she made mistakes, it was Paige who drove her to it.” Dr. Mercer closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and pulled out her phone. She hit play on a video and handed it to him. “Watch this. And then tell me if you still feel the same way.”

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