My only crime was telling a student to focus on her finals, not her boyfriend. Now, she’s published a trashy roman à clef, claiming I broke them up so I could step in and claim her guy. What she doesn’t know is that the “hero” of her story—the one I was allegedly fighting for—is my own flesh and blood. A mother looking out for her son? That’s not a crime. It’s instinct. St. Jude’s Prep invited one of its most “successful” recent graduates, Olivia Vance, back to campus for a celebratory keynote address. Olivia was my former student. Four years ago, she had graduated at the top of her class and gone on to Eastwood University. In the packed auditorium, she suddenly held up a book—a novel—and began recounting her “journey” to the thousands of students and faculty. “This is my autobiographical novel, Against the Wind and Tide: Our True Romance,” she announced, beaming. “It’s the real story of my high school years. It features the glorious triumph of me and my amazing, straight-A boyfriend, Ryan Beaumont, as the top-two couple who got into Eastwood. And of course…” Olivia paused, her eyes locking onto mine in the front row. A shallow, triumphant smile curled her lips as she raised her voice: “It also details how our former homeroom teacher, Audrey Fang—who you can find right here,” she gestured toward me, “tried to use the ‘no dating policy’ to sabotage true love—and, more shockingly, how she tried to use her position of power to steal my boyfriend for herself.” The sound was a collective intake of breath, a roaring silence. Thousands of eyes swiveled in my direction, impaling me where I sat. 1 Olivia had been a student I’d nearly broken myself for. Her grades were once floundering in the C-range, but after three years of my exhaustive, single-minded focus, I’d managed to drag her to the top twenty. Just before the SATs, I even created a customized practice exam based on her specific weaknesses—a test that, by sheer luck, gave her the exact edge she needed to graduate as class valedictorian. The silhouette of that earnest, slightly overwhelmed girl in my memory shattered, dissolving into the polished, venomous figure now standing on the stage. I couldn’t be mishearing this. The smile I’d worn for the alumni event froze on my face. Olivia saw the shift—my sudden, helpless exposure—and a flash of pure satisfaction crossed her eyes. She leaned back into the microphone. “Ryan and I were deeply, innocently in love in high school, but our homeroom teacher, Audrey Fang, repeatedly tried to drive a wedge between us,” she continued, her voice heavy with manufactured grievance. “Because she was clearly obsessed with Ryan’s youth and looks, she hid behind the ‘no dating’ rule to bully us into breaking up.” “Thankfully,” Olivia chirped, “Ryan’s love was too strong. We encouraged each other, overcame every obstacle, and got into Eastwood together. And now, we’re finally getting married.” She lifted her left hand, showcasing an immense, blinding diamond on her ring finger. A simultaneous burst of applause and fevered murmuring erupted. “Poor Olivia, having to deal with the school’s creepiest teacher, Ms. Fang.” “Ms. Fang is old enough to be Ryan’s mother! Talk about a cougar.” “I can’t believe a woman like that was ever my homeroom teacher. Sickening.” I stared at Olivia. She held her novel to her chest, her expression one of wounded innocence. I pushed myself up from my seat. The low hum of gossip died down as I walked toward the stage, picking up the spare microphone. Everyone held their breath, watching me. I stopped a few feet from Olivia. My voice, surprisingly, was level. “Olivia, your address is… certainly a choice. But I have to ask: What exactly is the problem with a teacher enforcing a ‘no dating’ policy?” The auditorium was deathly quiet, waiting for her counterattack. She adjusted the desk mic, meeting my gaze head-on. “You don’t believe students have a right to a normal, healthy relationship. That’s problem number one.” “And number two? You know exactly what the problem is. It wasn’t about our studies, Ms. Fang. It was about your own predatory, manipulative agenda.” She paused for maximum effect. “You threatened Ryan. You used your status as a teacher to tell him that if he didn’t break up with me—and didn’t comply with your perverse advances—you’d make sure he couldn’t graduate or get into the college he wanted.” Boom. The hall exploded in noise. Thousands of shocked, horrified whispers. My hand tightened around the microphone, my knuckles white, my breath coming fast and shallow. “Do you have any proof for this accusation?” Olivia’s face briefly flickered, but she quickly regained her composure. “You were very careful. You never left a paper trail. If I hadn’t followed Ryan and found out you were constantly forcing him to come to your house, I never would have known he was suffering from your sexual harassment.” The whispers swelled, turning into shouts. “No way! This is the most scandalous thing I’ve ever heard!” “She should be reported to the state board! Sexual harassment of a student!” “Ms. Fang? That old woman? Who knew she was so twisted on the side?” The accusations were a physical wave, threatening to crash over the stage. Principal Miller quickly grabbed his microphone and prematurely ended the assembly. I was escorted out by two security guards, threading my way through a suffocating crowd of glaring faces. In my pocket, my phone vibrated. A new text blinked to the top of my lock screen, from Ryan. [Mom, I’m booked solid here, but I’ll be home in a month. See you then.]

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The rule held firm for three years—the length of our marriage and the length of our divorce: Rhys, the acclaimed painter, would not paint me. Not once. Now we were back together. I no longer raised a fuss about entering Rhys’s studio, nor did I care what time he stumbled in at night. When Dahlia—The Muse—showed up at our loft for a modeling session, I even helped Rhys craft a plausible excuse. “I get it,” I said, shrugging. “It’s art.” Rhys froze. He gripped my wrist, his eyes searching my face with an intensity that used to make my stomach clench. 1 Rhys’s expression hardened, and he offered a flat, impatient explanation: “I just had her over to model.” “She’s my inspiration. I can only find my vision with her. Her clothes got wet, so I gave her a clean shirt.” As he spoke, he positioned himself, subtly shielding Dahlia, his eyes brimming with a familiar mix of annoyance and defensiveness. “What we have is a purely artistic relationship, Anya. It’s not the filth you’re imagining.” I glanced past him at Dahlia. She was wearing one of his expensive dress shirts, the hem barely covering her upper thighs, exposing two slender, pale legs. Seeing my silence, Dahlia’s eyes welled up with performative tears. “Anya, please don’t fight with Rhys because of me.” “Maybe… maybe I just shouldn’t come back.” I cut her off, my voice even and calm. “I understand, Dahlia. It’s art, after all. I’m not angry.” Rhys’s face went completely blank. He stared at me for a long, bewildered moment, trying to burn a hole through my calm exterior. “Then why are you dragging a suitcase?” he demanded, his brows furrowed. “The old you—when we fought, you’d always storm out, threatening to leave. How long are you planning to disappear this time?” Ah. I blinked up at him. Rhys’s eyes were already faintly red, and his voice actually held a hint of a tremor. I suppose it made sense. He’d been holed up in his studio with Dahlia for days, completely losing track of time. Fearing I’d interrupt his creation, I hadn’t bothered to tell him I was leaving the city for a week-long business trip. He hadn’t even noticed I’d been gone. I wheeled the luggage into the room, explaining flatly, “I’m dragging a suitcase because I just got back from a work trip.” The tension finally eased from his tightly-knit brow. I caught sight of my guest bedroom. It was cluttered with Dahlia’s things. “She needed to stay here temporarily for convenience,” Rhys mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. I simply nodded, pulling my bag toward the master bedroom. “Oh, and I’m pulling an all-nighter at the office tonight. I won’t be back.” I was creating a perfectly serene environment for their art. I turned to leave, but Rhys suddenly grabbed my hand. “You’ve always wanted me to paint you, right? When the gallery show wraps, I’ll paint you.” “Consider it a birthday gift.” His tone was assured, imbued with the casual condescension of a king bestowing a favor. Rhys was certain I would melt. After all, for the three years we were married, I had begged him to paint me. Each time, he’d dismissed it with the same, cold refusal: “I only paint landscapes. I don’t do portraits.” It wasn’t until I accidentally walked into his studio that I saw the meticulously framed paintings, all featuring the same subject: Dahlia—his unattainable ideal, his Golden Girl. I was young then, desperate, and foolish enough to issue an ultimatum: Choose between me or her paintings. I lost. Instantly. Rhys didn’t hesitate; he chose the latter. His rejection was so quiet, so cold—so cruel. He made it clear I was an insignificant stranger. That relationship ended with my hysterical, tearful divorce petition. I cried myself sick for six months, convinced I would never recover. But hearing the story now, there was nothing but a dull indifference. Time truly is a remarkable thing. “You should go back to your work. Dahlia is waiting.” I gently withdrew my hand from his grip, my voice as unremarkable as if commenting on the weather. Rhys finally let me go. 2 I worked a grueling rotation for a full week to complete the project. Late that night, a text from Rhys arrived. I have more important things tonight. I’ll make up your birthday later. Be good. I wasn’t surprised. Last year, one phone call from Dahlia, and he’d ditched me to fly overseas and watch the sunrise with her. The year before, he was at an international exhibition, with Dahlia, his model, by his side. What was I doing on those birthdays? I cooked a full-course meal and waited—from the time the sun rose until it set, and then again until it rose. I didn’t realize that my partner of many years was, in fact, painting portraits until I saw the headline featuring the beautiful, perfectly-matched pair—Rhys and Dahlia. His paintbrush, it turned out, only moved for Dahlia. She was his only Muse. In those days, blinded by jealousy and a crushing sense of inadequacy, I called him countless times, teetering on the edge of hysteria. He finally answered. On my end, it was a desperate, screaming interrogation. On his, it was tired, dismissive platitudes. “Anya, you’re not a child. Can you stop being so dramatic?” But I couldn’t stop. I was reckless enough to demand a definitive answer. “Rhys, tell me. Who matters more—me or Dahlia?” The silence lasted forever, so long that I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then came his featherlight reply: “Don’t be ridiculous.” “Fine. I’ll burn those paintings.” He lost his composure. His voice, for the first time, was sharp with anger and panic. “Anya, you wouldn’t dare!” “Try me.” I hung up, shaking. But when I burst into the studio with a sledgehammer, I stopped dead in front of the canvases. His paintbrush truly did possess warmth. Dahlia, captured by his hand, was beautiful. Even sitting still, she was vibrant, youthful, and playfully alive. Every stroke was infused with love… That night, I sat alone in the studio, wide awake. And I cried for an entire night. I cried until my tears ran dry, and the reservoir of love in my heart was bone-dry, too. 3 When we reconciled this time, Rhys had been clear: he wasn’t a man to be held back by petty, small emotions. He was an artist who needed to create and had no time to coddle my feelings. I smiled and told him I understood. After all, I was busy now, too. I had a major meeting tomorrow. I needed rest. On the way home, I bought myself a tiny strawberry shortcake from a local bakery. I went to the apartment I’d kept since before we married. As the cake melted in my mouth, I remembered the one birthday Rhys did spend with me. It was ridiculous, but that one birthday landed me in the ER. He came home very late, carrying a cake box. I was as delighted as a child and didn’t look closely at the packaging. I didn’t even mind that a slice had already been cut. But one bite revealed the flavor: pineapple. I’m severely allergic to pineapple. Fearing I would spoil the moment, I forced myself to swallow it. Later that night, I woke up covered in hives, struggling to breathe. As I lay in the hospital, hooked up to an IV, Rhys apologized from the chair beside the bed: “I’m sorry, I mixed it up.” I didn’t press for details then, only accepted the apology. I learned later. That cake he brought home was the slice Dahlia had left over. He hadn’t even remembered my birthday; he was just too lazy to deny it, seeing my excitement. Pineapple cake had always been Dahlia’s favorite. I lit the single candle, blew it out, and silently made a wish. In the past, my wishes were always about him: I wished he would spend more time with me. I wished he would paint me a portrait. I wished he would love me a little. This time, my wish was just for myself. I wished I would focus on my career, live well, and never mourn a worthless person again. Wish made, I took a hot shower and went to sleep. 4 I was woken up in the middle of the night by an insistent ringing. It was Toby, Rhys’s friend—the same one who once called me Rhys’s doormat. “Anya, Rhys got into a fight, and his right hand was cut with a knife. Get to the hospital!” His voice was frantic. After a pause, he hesitated, then added sheepishly, “It was for Dahlia, but don’t freak out, okay, sis?” I replied, “Got it.” The voice on the other end went still. “Anya, you—” I hung up before he could finish. I felt nothing but the sheer annoyance of having my sleep interrupted. I slowly, deliberately changed my clothes before finally leaving the apartment. I used to cherish those hands more than he did. I wouldn’t let him cook, terrified he’d injure himself. I hand-knitted gloves for him every winter to protect him from the cold. If he got a papercut, I’d panic for half an hour. I went to the hospital. Not out of concern. Just because, with the title of “reconciled couple” still hanging over us, not showing up would be harder to explain. As I reached the room, I heard Rhys’s friends talking. “Remember? Three years ago, when Dahlia announced her new boyfriend overseas, Rhys went absolutely insane. He was speeding, then crashed his car. Ended up in a wreck.” “But that’s Dahlia we’re talking about. Rhys is usually so cold, so rational, but for her, he’s broken every rule. The only fool who thought he actually cared about her was Anya.” “Tell me about it. When he crashed, Anya dove across the car to protect his drawing hand. She got several stitches on her forehead. When he woke up, he just proposed to her to piss Dahlia off.” They were right. I’d chased Rhys for years. Since college. He was the popular, handsome, and talented senior. I joined the art club for him, brought him coffee every morning, and organized his supplies. I even threw myself in front of him during the crash, protecting his livelihood. I thought, when he finally said, “Let’s try,” he had seen my good heart. I never imagined it was just a spiteful reaction to Dahlia’s official announcement. “Anya… Anya’s here.” Someone saw me. The group flinched, their faces sheepish. “We were just kidding, Anya. All that stuff is in the past.” I walked past them without a word, nodding as I entered the room. Rhys, lying in the bed, immediately scanned my empty hands. As if to remind me, he exposed his bandaged right hand. “Anya, I’m hurt.” Seeing no reaction, he explained, defensively, “Dahlia and I grew up together. I couldn’t just stand by while she was harassed. Anya, stop being so petty. Don’t obsess over small things.” I looked up at him, my expression perfectly serene. “I’m not being petty. If you’re injured, call a doctor and change the dressing on time. It’s your hand. I have no authority over it.” He froze, blinking, confusion flickering in his eyes. Then annoyance. He seemed unable to comprehend why I wasn’t falling apart, weeping with fear, as I used to. 5 As we stood in awkward silence, the door swung open. Dahlia rushed in, eyes red, and flew into Rhys’s arms, ignoring me completely. She was sobbing. “Rhys, it’s all my fault. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be hurt.” Rhys’s face softened. He gently patted her back, soothing her. “It’s not your fault, I wanted to help you.” “I brought you bone broth. Try it.” They leaned into each other, intimate, like a real couple. I was the superfluous outsider, standing awkwardly in the corner. While comforting Dahlia, Rhys kept glancing at me, checking my reaction. He was waiting for the familiar storm—the jealousy, the temper tantrum, the tears. Instead, I took out my phone and checked the time. Tomorrow’s meeting starts at eight. It’s a forty-minute drive from the hospital to the office. Accounting for time for a shower and breakfast, I needed to wake up by six-thirty. It was best to leave now and rest. In my peripheral vision, Rhys took the thermos. He took a sip and frowned instantly. “Rhys, I’ll stay the night to take care of you,” Dahlia offered gently. Perfect. I was about to suggest I leave. Rhys, however, pulled his arm away from Dahlia, his face suddenly stern. “Go home, Dahlia. You’ve had a long day. Anya can take care of me.” Dahlia looked stunned but nodded. After she left, silence descended. Rhys watched me for a long time, then spoke: “Anya, I want your soup.” He was particular about his food. The rich, complicated broths he liked took me a dozen hours to simmer over a carefully controlled flame. Even a slight deviation in the seasoning would be instantly rejected. The year I graduated college, I had a job opportunity in Hong Kong—excellent pay, a great position. But he said, “I don’t want a long-distance relationship. Anya, don’t leave me.” I gave it up without a second thought, staying behind to cater to his every need. I left a light on for him every night for three years. I cooked meals, reheated them, and reheated them again. Even though he rarely came home, I persisted. On the rare occasion he returned, he’d barely look at the food. Then he’d frown and ask, “Are you this bored all the time? Is all you do wait for me and cook?” Now, I stepped back, avoiding his outstretched hand. “I don’t have time to cook.” “I have an important meeting tomorrow. I have work to focus on.” Rhys’s expression instantly darkened. This was the prelude to his familiar, cold rage. I ignored his reaction, turned, and walked out the door.

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When my little brother, Liam, drowned trying to save a man who’d slipped into the river, the rescue team demanded fifty thousand dollars upfront just to recover his body. It took every ounce of courage I had left to call my secret boyfriend of ten years, the man worth hundreds of millions of dollars, and ask him to lend me the money. His voice, already distant, felt glacial through the phone. “Are you under the impression that my money grows on trees, Delaney? You think you can just snap your fingers and I’ll hand over twenty grand?” He didn’t even bother to use the correct amount, dismissing the devastation that fifty thousand represented. “I have a meeting in a minute. I don’t have time to discuss your—trivial—sum.” Then he hung up. A moment later, his female assistant, Genevieve, messaged me. Attached was the electronic file I dreaded: the latest draft of the ‘Girlfriend Operations Manual.’ Staring at the PDF icon in my text thread, I let out a soundless, bitter laugh. My fingers, trembling with a cold I hadn’t felt since Liam’s body was recovered, dialed another number. “The offer you made,” I whispered to the man on the other end. “The one where you said you’d give me your entire life savings if I married you? Does it still stand?” 1 At the funeral, staring at Liam’s black-and-white portrait on the wall, I looked with deep, raw gratitude at the man who was keeping vigil beside me. “Thank you, Finn. Thank you for making sure I got Liam’s body back.” “Don’t worry. In seven days, after I finish dealing with the funeral, I’ll come home and marry you.” A flicker of genuine pain crossed Finn’s face. “If you don’t want to, we don’t have to go through with it…” I quickly cut him off. “No. I want to.” What reason did I have left not to? It had been three days since the sudden, tragic death of the only family I had left. I’d been inconsolable for seventy-two hours. The whole world knew my brother was gone. The only person who didn’t was Grayson, my boyfriend of ten years. Our social media profiles didn’t overlap. He had never introduced me to his friends, and he certainly never cared to meet mine. Given that Grayson was worth a fortune, with every minute of his time calculated in thousands of dollars, he never bothered to scroll through my life. He not only didn’t know that the brother I’d raised and loved was dead, but he also didn’t know I had nearly failed to retrieve Liam’s body because I couldn’t afford the rescue and recovery fee. My chest ached with a shivering pain. But thankfully, Grayson and I were about to be strangers. The moment the funeral concluded, I sent Grayson a text message ending our relationship. The response was instantaneous. “Ms. Delaney, Mr. Grayson is traveling tomorrow. Please ensure two pairs of Oxfords, three suits, and appropriate shirts have been pressed and packed.” Staring at the utterly irrelevant reply, the acid in my throat rose. The feeling was like punching a giant cotton pillow—dull, sickeningly empty, and frustratingly ineffective. The text wasn’t from Grayson, but from Genevieve, his executive assistant. In the decade Gray and I had been together, Genevieve had been a silent, efficient partner in our relationship. In her first year as Gray’s assistant, she personally drafted the infamous ‘Girlfriend Operations Manual.’ She stated that for maximum efficiency, she needed my relationship with Gray to be as structured and professional as the rest of his work. The manual clearly stated: I didn’t need to remind Gray about our anniversary—Genevieve would personally handle the gift selection and delivery. I didn’t need to bother Gray with household items—she would manage all arrangements. Even if I wanted to see Gray, I didn’t approach him; I submitted a “Date Request Application” to her, and she would schedule me in. Beyond that, Genny handled everything from buying groceries and new clothes to ordering our brand of preferred condoms. I had fought Gray countless times over these ridiculous rules. But every time, he’d just look at me with that calm, dispassionate expression. “Delaney. Genevieve manages my entire professional and personal life. She handles half the firm’s administration. She simply doesn’t have the time for your drama or your baseless arguments.” In the past, his words would always silence me. But now, I surrendered. He was right. Genevieve was his right hand—Ivy League, sharp in negotiations, capable of managing his company, his home, and his girlfriend. And what was I? A decade-long, low-level employee in the marketing department of his company, utterly forgettable. A girlfriend for ten years that no one, outside of us, knew existed. Since Grayson admired Genevieve so much, I would just give him to her. After all, my little brother was dead, his body nearly lost, and when I, his secret, long-term partner, begged the man worth hundreds of millions for fifty thousand dollars, he suggested I file an internal loan request through Genevieve. 2 A fresh wave of shuddering pain seized my chest, but I steadied my finger and typed a reply to Genevieve. “Assistant Genevieve, I won’t be able to prepare Mr. Grayson’s clothes. If you don’t mind, you’re welcome to go to the penthouse and prepare them yourself.” “Also, per the ‘Operations Manual,’ I am formally submitting my seven-day notice of termination. Please log this and inform Mr. Grayson immediately that we are done.” We are done. The words hit the send button with a violence that felt like my teeth were cutting through my lip. Genevieve’s reply was, as always, immediate. “Duly noted, Ms. Delaney. The termination has been logged.” A cold, hollow ache spread through my heart. If my ride-share hadn’t arrived exactly on time, I would have burst into tears right there in the downpour. This feeling of hitting a cotton pillow, of generating no reaction, had become my life, and I was utterly sick of it. I spent the next two days cleaning out Liam’s apartment and taking his belongings back to our hometown. Only then did I return to the city and the penthouse I shared with Grayson. The moment I stepped inside, I saw him. He was stretched out on the sofa, looking relaxed, his hair damp, water still rolling down his chest beneath his open-V silk robe. This was the Gray I had once adored, utterly disarming in his natural state. I instinctively pressed my lips together and almost walked toward him. Then, a smooth, seductive voice drifted from the master bathroom. “Mr. Grayson, may I dry your hair for you now?” Genevieve emerged, a slim, scarlet silhouette. My eyes locked with hers, and then—horrified—with the outfit she was wearing: a flimsy, deep-red slip. It was the only piece of lingerie Gray had ever bought me, a gift I treasured and had worn only once because I found it too revealing. Now, Genevieve was wearing it. I drew a sharp, shaky breath. “My apologies. I seem to have interrupted a moment. I’ll see myself out.” I grabbed my suitcase and turned to leave. Suddenly, Gray was on his feet, grabbing my arm, his face twisted in anger. “Delaney, what drama are you stirring up now? Genevieve and I were doing an on-site inspection for a new project, and we were caught in the rain. She only came back here to dry off.” I truly wanted to hold my peace. After all, I was four days away from marrying another man. My only purpose in returning was to resign from the company and finalize the breakup. I didn’t care what he and Genevieve did outside of this penthouse. But I could not stomach her wearing my gift, in what was still, technically, my home. “So you’re saying the hickeys on her neck aren’t yours, then?” The red silk was designed for intimacy; it was sheer and low-cut. I couldn’t miss the angry, red marks peaking above the neckline, barely covered by the thin fabric. A flash of genuine panic crossed Gray’s face. Genevieve stepped in perfectly. “Ms. Delaney, my private affairs are not your concern. You have no right to comment.” “If my presence is upsetting you, I can certainly leave the residence. But I wish you would stop running away every time you throw a fit. Mr. Grayson is very busy. You can’t put him through this constant drama. He’s human; he gets exhausted.” Genevieve was the Ivy League graduate, alright. In three short sentences, she had perfectly framed me as the irrational, exhausting party. Fighting back the sickening pain, I was about to unleash a furious retort when Gray’s cold voice cut through. “Delaney. You will apologize to Genevieve immediately. She is my assistant, not your emotional punching bag. I won’t let you challenge my boundaries again and again.” My face went white as I stared at Gray. Just as always, no matter the circumstance, Grayson would always defend Genevieve first. My throat tightened, but I managed to speak, each word coated in venom. “Grayson, you want me to apologize to her? You can go to hell.”

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Three years after I filed for divorce, I ran into Rhys Ashworth in a cathedral abroad. He was celebrating a lavish, solemn wedding with his new love, Taylor. I was there to offer a silent prayer for the child I’d never had the chance to hold. The moment our eyes finally met, his immediate instinct was to pull Taylor protectively behind him. I just smiled. I looked at the wedding dress—the one I had painstakingly designed for myself years ago—and offered a sincere, hollow blessing. His brow furrowed into a cold sneer. “What game are you playing now, Avery? Haven’t you learned your lesson?” My smile held, but my hand instinctively went to the scarred corner of my eye. No more, Rhys Ashworth. There is only hate where there is love. Now that I don’t love you, I have nothing left to hate. 1 Every eye in the cathedral had turned toward me. Among them were my former friends, their faces stiff with alarm, as if they expected me to charge the altar and tear the ceremony apart. Taylor, her face a chilling, seven-tenths echo of mine, stepped out, biting her lip in feigned distress. “Avery, please don’t be mad at Rhys. I didn’t have time to get a new dress made, so I just wore this one. If you’re upset, I’ll take it off right now.” Three years of self-imposed exile and brutal self-reflection must have given me a new kind of steel. I simply gave a slight nod in response to her blatant provocation. “It’s just a dress. It’s lucky to be worn.” A wave of confusion rippled through the onlookers. They were just noticing my plain clothes, the lack of any decent jewelry—a stark contrast to the spoiled heiress they remembered. Rhys’s voice softened slightly. “It’s good that you’re finally being sensible. If you hadn’t been so extreme back then, I wouldn’t have…” He saw the utter lack of concern in my eyes and swallowed the rest of the sentence. “Forget it. Just head back to the estate, and I’ll come to see you later tonight.” I nodded. As I stepped out of the church, Max, Rhys’s executive assistant, hurried after me. “Mrs. Ashworth, Mr. Ashworth said it’s not safe for you to be out alone. He wants me to drive you back personally.” I was about to refuse, but I noticed the sky was already shedding a light drizzle, threatening to open up into a downpour. With a sigh, I followed him to the car. The silence on the ride was thick. Max kept glancing at me nervously in the rearview mirror. It was almost funny. Was he worried I would suddenly have a change of heart and decide to cause a scene? He was overthinking it. Just as Rhys said, the past three years had taught me to behave. You lose a layer of skin accepting the departure of someone who once loved you deeply. I got smart. Love is gone. Hating him is pointless now. Kicking up a fuss changes nothing. Finally, we reached the estate. Max looked visibly relieved as he rushed to open the car door. Just then, little Lily ran up, her face bright with joy. “Mommy! Lots of people are here at the house! Are we finally going back home?” Before I could speak, Max gaped. “Mrs. Ashworth, you and Mr. Ashworth have a child?” My smile dimmed. “I haven’t been Rhys Ashworth’s wife for a long time, and this child has nothing to do with him.” Max looked troubled. “Ma’am, Mr. Ashworth has actually been missing you terribly these last two years. You two grew up together. If you would just humble yourself, he’ll take you back.” I gave a bitter laugh. “It’s his wedding day. Say things like that again, and you’ll get your wages docked. As for the divorce settlement, please hand this over to him.” When I was first confined here, Rhys would send me divorce papers every month. I tore up every single one, vowing that he’d have to kill me before he could marry Taylor. But later, staring at the perpetually locked door and the subtle chain on my ankle, I suddenly saw the clarity of it all. What was the point? So, I had proactively sent him a signed copy of the settlement. But it was as if Rhys wanted to torment me; my letters were met with silence. Even my legal actions were useless; he simply refused to budge. Until today, when he finally made it official with Taylor, in the grand cathedral we’d once chosen together. My words made Max’s face freeze. “Ma’am, you absolutely cannot say that in front of Mr. Ashworth.” I dismissed his fear. “It’s fine. If you’re uncomfortable, I’ll give it to him myself.” “Ma’am, actually, the reason Mr. Ashworth is at the estate today is specifically…” Lily interrupted him, waving her small hands. “Mommy! Lots of people came to the house today. They were looking for you and asking how old I am.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Mommy, is that man my daddy?” Max looked at me, a silent plea for me to stop denying it. “You look unfamiliar,” I told Max with a sigh. “You must have joined Mr. Ashworth after I left.” Max nodded. “I’m Max, ma’am. As for the child’s parentage, if you don’t tell me, Mr. Ashworth will demand to know when he returns.” Reluctantly, I began to tell him the story. Rhys and I were childhood friends, yes. But when I was twenty-three, my parents died in a car crash. Mrs. Ashworth, who had always been kind to me, immediately tried to break the engagement. The Beaumont Group, my family’s company, was left leaderless. My relatives saw me as vulnerable and tried to marry me off to grab my parents’ estate. It was Rhys who rushed into his mother’s office and publicly ripped up the annulment contract. “I said I love Avery! Not her social standing!” His father was furious, declaring that the Ashworth family did not need an heir who lacked judgment. Rhys just laughed. “Perfect. I’ve always wanted to marry into the Beaumonts anyway. Let’s go get the license right now.” He was his usual reckless self, pulling me by the hand and running. We ended up at my parents’ graves. He knelt, his posture unusually serious. “Aunt and Uncle, don’t worry. With me here, no one will hurt Avery. I swear I will be good to her for the rest of my life.” My vision blurred with tears. When the entire world had abandoned me, he was the one who chose me, steadfastly. At twenty-three, Rhys Ashworth’s love was a banner. A sheltered heir who had never known hardship humbled himself to save the Beaumont Group. He worked relentlessly, downing entire bottles of liquor without flinching just to secure a single contract. He cleared every hurdle, helping me regain control of the company. When people laughed at him for being a kept man, he’d just shrug. “My wife spoils me. You don’t have that, so you’re just jealous.” He stayed by my side for six years, until finally, his parents relented. Mrs. Ashworth put the heirloom jade bracelet on my wrist. “Falling in love is easy; staying in love is hard. You two are too alike in temperament. You risk tearing each other apart.” I didn’t understand the pity in her eyes then. I thought she was just being snobbish toward the orphaned girl who no longer held any alliance value. It wasn’t until the second year of our marriage that I found a pregnancy test result in Rhys’s pocket. “A pregnancy test?” Max was stunned. “You two finally got together, and Mr. Ashworth had a child with another woman? And one who looks a lot like you?” I nodded calmly. Max was aghast. “Ma’am, you’re not angry at all?” Angry? I was furious then. I stormed to the company without even changing, trashing Rhys’s office completely. He was dismissive. “A little girl is throwing a tantrum. Do you have to be like this? Don’t worry. She won’t come near you. You will always be Mrs. Ashworth.” “What if I demand to make an issue of it?” I pulled out my phone, ready to expose the woman. Rhys’s face turned instantly dark. He grabbed my throat, his grip tight. “I’m warning you, Avery. Don’t go near her. She’s pregnant and can’t handle stress right now.” He spat out the next line, the words hitting me like a physical blow: “You can’t have children. Am I supposed to live the rest of my life alone because of you?” I went instantly silent. I had a congenital defect that made it nearly impossible for me to carry a child. He’d once told me he only needed me, that he didn’t want me to suffer the pain of childbirth. Now, the man who feared my pain was choking me for another woman. The raw disappointment on my face must have been too much. Rhys immediately released me, a flicker of regret in his eyes. “Avery, I didn’t mean that.” He reached out to check my throat, but his phone rang—and he turned and left without a second thought, leaving me alone to face the shocked and mocking stares of his staff. Rhys hid the girl well. If she hadn’t proactively challenged me, I might never have found out. But once I dug up every piece of information on Taylor, I didn’t hesitate. I leaked every rotten detail of their affair to the press and called an emergency board meeting to kick Rhys out of the company. Within hours, they were front-page news. Rhys’s call came in immediately. “Are you insane? Pull the reports now! Do you know people are harassing Taylor at her house? How scared must she be, she’s just a girl!” I laughed coldly. “If you’re bold enough to do it, why are you afraid of people talking about it?” It had been years since I had acted so wildly. He was silent for a moment. “Avery, you forced my hand.” The call ended, and I sat there all night. By dawn, Rhys’s revenge had arrived. Taylor’s news was scrubbed from the internet in a matter of hours. Then, every contract the Beaumont Group had came to an abrupt, forced halt. The partners sweated nervously. “Ms. Beaumont, we’re small-time. We can’t get involved in a feud between you and Mr. Ashworth. Honestly, you should be more understanding. A man having a few women is normal.” The sudden cut in the cash flow drove the company to the brink of bankruptcy. It was then I realized that Rhys was no longer the man who stood behind me. He knew me too well, and he knew exactly where to stick the knife. To save my parents’ legacy, I had to humble myself. I found them in the hospital. Taylor was in a VIP suite, sobbing and pounding Rhys’s chest. “You’re a liar! You don’t love me! I’m just that woman’s stand-in, aren’t I?” Rhys gently held her hands. “Sweetheart, what nonsense did you read in the papers? There are plenty of people who look alike in the world. Am I supposed to love all of them? I’m only with Avery out of obligation. The marriage was a promise I had to keep.” I froze in the doorway. Six years of fighting for my marriage, and it was nothing more than an obligation. He had been tired of me for so long. But for my parents’ company, I pushed the door open and walked in. Taylor immediately threw a ceramic cup at me. “Are you here to force me to get an abortion? You failure who can’t keep your own husband, don’t come here acting like the wronged wife!” I gave a pained, internal smile. She wasn’t just my physical echo; she had the same spoiled, arrogant temper I’d had when I was younger. Rhys, even I don’t know who you love now—her, or the past version of me. Blood ran slowly down my forehead. Rhys looked furious. “Are you an idiot? Couldn’t you dodge a cup?” He took out a cartoon-printed band-aid and moved to treat my wound, an irony, as he’d always hated frivolous things. I stubbornly flinched away. “What do I have to do for you to leave my parents’ company alone?” Rhys’s hand froze mid-air, then he regained his indifferent posture. “You’ll have to ask Taylor. You shouldn’t have picked a fight with her. Now she’s overthinking things.” Taylor’s eyes were fixed on my face. “I don’t like her eyes.” Rhys chuckled softly. “It’s just her face. I can have her altered to look completely different.” I looked up in shock. “Rhys Ashworth, must you humiliate me like this?” He frowned. “It’s just a shape change. Aren’t women your age always going under the knife? Relax, it’s a minor procedure.” Taylor giggled. “She is getting old. A little lift will make her look younger.” Ignoring my screams, Rhys’s bodyguards forcibly strapped me to a surgical table. Taylor stood watching the show. “Anyone with an ounce of dignity would have run the minute they saw the pregnancy test. But you’re so thick-skinned, you cling to Rhys like a leech! Don’t even bother with the anesthesia, Doctor. Just do it.” The doctor, already bribed, immediately muffled my mouth. The cold scalpel dug into my flesh. The pain was so intense I nearly passed out, but the doctor injected me with something to keep me agonizingly conscious. Two hours later, when I was pushed out of the operating room, Rhys had already left with Taylor. After that ordeal, Rhys seemed to believe I had finally been tamed. He halted the attack on the Beaumont Group and moved Taylor into our house. He came to check on me, his eyes widening in alarm when he saw the obvious, grotesque distortion of my eye area. The next second, Taylor blocked his view. “Rhys, you don’t understand. This is just the recovery period after surgery. And why aren’t you covering it with gauze, Avery? Are you trying to guilt-trip him? You’ll get an infection playing the victim like that.” She laughed with malicious glee. Rhys’s worried brow returned to a frown. “What is the point of this? You’ll have a scar and then you’ll complain!” He ran his hands frustratedly through his hair. “It’s like I asked you to die, not get a simple cosmetic change! Fine. I’ll hire the best nurses for your recovery. Stop trying to mess up your own face.” Max couldn’t help but interrupt. “Ma’am, so your scar wasn’t an accident after all.” “What happened next? Didn’t Mr. Ashworth ever notice?” Of course not. He was completely focused on Taylor. How could he notice anything about me? Rhys moved out of our master bedroom that day, claiming Taylor was delicate and needed his attention. The promise of maintaining my dignity evaporated. His love was always loud and passionate; he would never allow his ‘little girl’ to suffer. Rhys began openly taking Taylor to social events and introducing her to all of our mutual friends. When someone whispered that Taylor was just a stand-in, he ruined that person until they begged on their knees. “I was blind! Ms. Taylor is the one worthy of you, and who is that Avery anyway?” Rhys merely raised an eyebrow, said nothing, and stopped targeting them. From then on, everyone in the city knew the CEO had a new flame. He spent fortunes on her, lighting up half the city with fireworks in her honor. When the last firework faded, Rhys came home. He looked at my ugly, newly scarred eye area. He lit a cigarette. “Why is it that everyone else gets pretty after plastic surgery, but you look worse?” I slammed my phone into his face, demanding an explanation for the news. “You said you wouldn’t parade Taylor in public! What am I to you?” Rhys offered no defense. Instead, he used the cigarette end to burn every single one of our framed photos. “You don’t look like this anymore, anyway. When your face heals, we’ll take new ones. Taylor gets sad when she sees these pictures.” Then, against my desperate pleas, he replaced all the portraits of me in our home with large-scale oil paintings of Taylor. During this period, Mrs. Ashworth came to see me. She spotted the massive portrait in the living room and sighed, pushing a passport toward me. “It’s not too late to change your mind. If you want a divorce, I can help you leave the country.” But I was still stubborn. “Impossible. I’ll die before I divorce him.” That night, I set fire to the mansion. It was our marital home, the keeper of our ten years of history. I would not allow another mistress to preside over it. As the roof beams began to crash down, Rhys grabbed Taylor and ran, without looking back. I thought I would die. But as a falling wardrobe struck me, a gush of warm blood poured from between my legs. I realized with a shock that I was pregnant. My two months of insomnia and loss of appetite suddenly made terrible sense. I had been ready to embrace death, but at that moment, a ferocious survival instinct flared up. I crawled with all my strength toward the open space of the garden. Rhys stood there, watching me passively. It was then, seeing the naked contempt in his eyes, that he truly abandoned me. “You’re completely insane. Trying to burn everyone alive.” My heart twisted in pain, but I begged him anyway. “Rhys, please, my stomach…” Before I could finish, Taylor shrieked. “Rhys! My baby!” Rhys instantly panicked. Ignoring my bleeding and desperate plea, he scooped her up and rushed away. I was left on the lawn, the blood streaming out of me, watching helplessly as I lost the baby. When Rhys finally returned, his eyes were bloodshot. He pressed a gun against my forehead. “Taylor lost the baby. You’re happy now, aren’t you? Why wasn’t it you who died?” My heart had already died. I remember thinking it would be a kindness to die by his hand. But he couldn’t pull the trigger. Instead, he sent me abroad and kept me captive here. Max’s face was pale. “I am so sorry, Ma’am. I didn’t know any of this. Mr. Ashworth mentioned you often over the years. He must not have known you were pregnant.” I waved a hand dismissively. “Taylor didn’t lose her child. I brought this on myself. No one else is to blame. And Lily is an adopted child. If you don’t believe me, you’re welcome to investigate.” Max hesitated, then spoke in a low voice. “Ma’am, actually, Ms. Taylor was never pregnant.” “What? We had a child?” Two voices spoke at once. I looked up and saw Rhys standing in the doorway, his face ashen. He was still wearing his wedding suit, having clearly rushed over the minute the ceremony ended. I froze for a second, then gave a relieved smile. “I see. It’s wonderful that Ms. Taylor didn’t lose her child.” I had carried a deep guilt all these years, believing her child was innocent, even if she deserved punishment. Knowing the truth only brought relief. Rhys, however, didn’t look relieved. “How is that possible? How could you have a child?” He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly remembering all my strange behavior during that time. He had always tracked my cycle, but he’d been so distracted by Taylor that he hadn’t noticed I, a woman who suffered agonizing cramps, had stopped drinking my herbal teas. His eyes turned bloodshot, as if he were about to shatter. He looked at Lily, forcing out a trembling smile. “This is our child, isn’t she? She’s three years old, right?” I pushed the signed divorce papers toward him. “Lily is a child I adopted from the convent. Don’t misunderstand. Sign this. I promise I will never appear in front of you again.” Rhys recoiled as if burned, staggering back two steps right into a distraught Taylor, who had just rushed up the stairs. “Rhys! Why are you here with this bitch? The guests downstairs are waiting! Do you know how humiliating this is for me?” Rhys roughly shoved her away and hurried down the stairs. I knew he was going back to investigate the past. That was his nature; he never trusted words, only proof. Taylor glared at me. “You disgusting woman! You’re locked up here and still causing trouble! Don’t think I don’t know you’ve been secretly contacting Rhys for the last three years, begging him to look at you!” I recalled the early days of my captivity, when I called and wrote letters daily, cursing Rhys, wishing him a terrible, childless end. Later, the number was blocked, but I still wrote venomous letters. Taylor, it seemed, had only seen these as pleas for mercy. I turned my head, unwilling to look at the face that was a mirror of my own. “Believe what you want. But I am genuinely letting go now. If you can get Rhys to sign those papers, I’ll thank you.” Taylor shrieked. “Don’t look so smug! Don’t think Rhys choosing this cathedral had anything to do with you! So what if you were pregnant? Rhys knew I wasn’t, and he still treated me the same! I am the one he loves now. I have him, and I have this dress!” I smiled. “You truly haven’t changed. Still so obsessed with erasing my shadow. You should go downstairs and soothe your guests instead of arguing with me.” Taylor’s face twisted several times before she spun and left. Max wiped sweat from his brow. “Please don’t take it to heart, Ma’am. Ms. Taylor’s temper has gotten much worse these last two years.” Max seemed intent on purging all his accumulated frustration. He explained that after I left, Taylor saw herself as the lady of the house, inserting her family and trusted employees into the Ashworth Group. Her cousins were arrogant and self-serving, and they plunged the company into chaos. Mr. Ashworth Sr. fell ill several times and had to personally clear out the mess, but Rhys still saw it as minor. “It’s just a few slackers on the payroll, Mom and Dad. You’re overreacting.” The result was a twenty percent shrinkage of the Ashworth Group’s assets over three years. Rhys’s trip abroad was for more than the wedding; it was to expand overseas business. But today’s incident would surely derail that. I listened quietly. After Max left, I called Mrs. Ashworth. “Does your promise from back then still stand?” I sighed in relief when I received an affirmative answer. I had secretly re-established contact with my associates a year ago, preparing to transfer the Beaumont assets overseas. I had no head for business; Rhys had managed the company while I focused on being the chief designer. Now, without him, I saw that my parents had already paved the way for me. The long-term executives who had worked with my parents immediately agreed to my plan. Our family business was jewelry design, and we had significant connections abroad. The only obstacle was Rhys. I used to think he wouldn’t let me go because I’d caused him to lose Taylor’s baby. But today, seeing his reaction, he must have known Taylor was never pregnant. Why then did he still refuse to release me? I couldn’t figure it out, and I decided to stop trying. Rhys was no longer the man of my memories. The next morning, I went to the cathedral for my usual prayer, then went to my studio to work on an existing order: an engagement ring. Though inexpensive, it held the beautiful promise of a young couple’s future. Days passed. Rhys seemed to have vanished from my life again. Half a month later, he finally appeared, unshaven and exhausted. He stared at my profile in the daylight for a long time before he spoke. “Why are you making these trinkets? The Ashworth family can afford to keep you.” I laughed internally. When he had locked me up on the estate, he’d frozen all my assets. I was deprived of medicine and nearly died. The bodyguards wouldn’t let me leave, and the one maid only brought me food to ensure I didn’t starve. I truly thought I wouldn’t survive those first six months. Once Rhys was convinced I was no longer a threat, he loosened the restrictions. But I still had no income. To survive, I started doing piecework, using my small savings to build this tiny studio. Seeing my hands still moving, he impatiently called Max. “Double the limit on Mrs. Ashworth’s black card.” “Mr. Ashworth, you forgot. Mrs. Ashworth’s black card was canceled a long time ago…” Rhys’s look of aggressive challenge shifted to surprise. “I wasn’t informed. I thought you were…” “You thought I was playing the victim? Trying to use retreat as a strategy?” I finally looked up. “Mr. Ashworth, is playing the victim even useful to me anymore?”

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My brother-in-law was trapped deep in the abandoned quarry pit. I was the one who volunteered to go down, the rope chafing my hands as I descended into the earth. I’d just managed to loop the safety line around his waist when the tension above snapped. The rope went slack, and we both slammed hard against the jagged, sandy bottom. My eyes shot up. Standing at the rim, under the blazing Nevada sun, was my wife. Vivian Shaw. She was looking down at us, holding a wicked-looking utility knife, the rope ends dangling beside her. Her high school sweetheart, Rhys Beckett, laughed—a sharp, triumphant sound that echoed off the rock face. “Do it!” he screamed. Black-suited security guards instantly swarmed the rim, shoveling loose, silty earth and sand into the deep excavation. It wasn’t just dirt; it was the kind of quick-clogging loam that could swallow a man whole. They were trying to bury us alive. I grabbed the two-way radio clipped to my belt. “Vivian! It’s me and your brother down here!” Vivian scoffed, her voice crackling over the tiny speaker, devoid of warmth. “Three years ago, during the quake, you put your rescue work before Rhys’s brother. You left him trapped in the rubble for five days, remember? It’s time to pay the debt, Ethan Cole.” Beside her, Rhys instantly squeezed out a tear. “Vivian—thank you. My brother’s death is finally avenged.” The sand was already past my ankles. I tore at my throat, yelling into the radio. “Vivian! This is your actual brother! Liam is down here!” 1 A harsh, cold laugh was the only response. “You’ll say anything to survive, won’t you, Ethan Cole?” she continued. “My brother and his girlfriend are at Disneyland today. I looked up their itinerary last night. Next time you lie, write a better script.” Rhys’s voice cut in, low and venomous. “Ethan, what goes around comes around. You’ll die the exact way you killed my brother, right here, together!” I tried to pull back from my brother-in-law, Liam, hoping to give Vivian a better view of him. Liam had been trapped down here for over twenty-four hours, and his face was already cut and bruised. But it was too late. He was unrecognizable. “Vivian, you will regret this!” I spat, then immediately clicked the radio off. There was no time for useless pleas. If we didn’t get out before the sand reached our chest, we were dead. Liam was panting, clutching my hand, his grip terrified. “Ethan, what’s wrong with her? She can’t actually want to kill me—I’m her little brother!” His voice finally cracked, dissolving into sobs. My heart ached, but I couldn’t stop. Every second of hesitation meant certain death for both of us. The sand crept higher, now covering our ankles. “Hold on tight. Don’t let go!” I said, my voice strained. I looped a secondary line around both our waists, linking us together, then pulled a small, tactical shovel from my pack. I started digging footholds into the sandy wall, hoping to use my decade of mountain-climbing experience to claw our way out. The next second, a softball-sized rock whizzed past my ear, striking the wall with a sickening thud. Liam screamed up, his voice raw. “Vivian! Are you crazy? What are you doing? Why are you throwing rocks at your husband?” I pressed a cloth to my ear to stem the blood flow. Vivian’s voice boomed through a megaphone, completely arrogant. “Still running your mouth when you’re about to die? You’re really asking for it!” A storm of rocks followed, forcing us to stop digging and huddle against the wall. The quicksand-loam was building fast, swallowing my shins completely. Suddenly, the guards stopped shoveling. A small package was tossed into the pit. I ripped it open. Inside was a phone on a video call—Veronica Shaw, Vivian’s older sister, was on the line—and a sealed folder. “You can surrender now,” Vivian’s voice returned to the radio. “Agree to the terms in that document, and I’ll have you pulled out immediately.” I flipped open the folder, my eyes scanning the pages. I needed to know what could possibly drive her to this calculated murder. I went numb. The document was a confession: I was to take the fall for the corporate structural collapse during the earthquake, confessing that my negligence had led to Rhys’s brother’s death and the resulting casualties. I was climbing a mountain on the other side of the country that day. Vivian had been left in charge of the construction project. It was her corner-cutting that led to the deaths. Now, she wanted me to be her scapegoat, sign away my life to prison, and transfer all my company shares to Rhys. Liam read the document over my shoulder, his face a mask of rage. He tore the paper into shreds. “Vivian Shaw, you despicable bitch!” He snatched the phone, holding it up to the camera, tears streaming down his face. “Vivian! Open your eyes! It’s me, your brother! You promised to take care of me forever! Get down here and save me! I won’t let Ethan sign that!” A wave of bitter sadness washed over me. In the five years of my marriage, Liam and I had become closer than brothers. He was the only good part of this family. Vivian spat into the radio. “You look like a freak show and you’re trying to impersonate my brother? Pathetic. My brother is tall and handsome. You’re a wreck, and you can’t compare.” She paused. “Ethan Cole, my patience is gone. Sign it, or you die!” The guards began shoveling with renewed force. A set of keys, mixed in the dirt, sliced open Liam’s arm. “Make a decision! Next time, it’s a knife!” “Liam!” I tore off a piece of my shirt and wrapped the gash, then glared up at my wife. “Do you really think this plan is flawless?” I asked, my voice dangerously calm. Vivian chuckled. “And if it is? Nobody can save you now.” I pointed to Rhys, standing smugly next to her. “Someone’s borrowing your rage to settle their score. You think you’re a warrior fighting for love, but you’re just a dog on his leash.” “Who are you calling a murderer?” Rhys snapped. “You know damn well who. You keep this up, and you’ll regret everything.” Rhys didn’t hesitate. He grabbed another stone and hurled it at us. “Vivian, don’t listen to his bullsh—he’s just stalling for time until backup arrives! Bury him!” Vivian instantly lost her focus and her temper. “Didn’t you eat this morning? Shovel harder, damn it!” The guards went into a frenzy. The quicksand was past our thighs. I reached into my pack and pulled out a small aerosol can. I threw it up with every ounce of strength I had left. It arced perfectly, landing just at the feet of the lead guard. Vivian burst into laughter. “Bear spray? Really? Ethan Cole, you’re a genius with a degree, but can one canister stop ten men?” The sand was now covering my stomach. Liam was pressed against my waist, his tears soaking the back of my shirt. The nozzle on the canister automatically deployed, releasing a powerful, concentrated jet of chemical agent. “Vivian,” I gasped, “do you know how much concentrated military-grade pepper extract I put in that thing?” Vivian’s brow furrowed, but before she could speak, the ten guards at the rim were collapsing, convulsing and screaming, two of them plummeting into the pit. Rhys was now coughing uncontrollably. The smoke was a weapon I hadn’t expected to use, but it had bought us precious time. I seized the moment, hoisting Liam onto my back and scrambling up the wall. Ten years of dedicated climbing made the ascent difficult, but possible. But the furious sound of Vivian’s voice was back on the radio. “Ethan Cole, are you so arrogant you think that’s enough?” The video feed shook as she pulled a heavy-duty entrenching tool from her car. She raised the shovel high over her head and brought it down, aiming directly at us. I couldn’t let go. If I fell, Liam would be crushed. He was tied to my back. The shovel slammed directly into Liam’s shoulder. His scream was a terrible, wet sound of flesh tearing. He went instantly unconscious. “You bastard!” Vivian shrieked. “Don’t tell him not to sign! See how many more hits you can take!” She swung twice more. I screamed through the agony, narrowly dodging the blows with my forearm. Liam’s attempt to stabilize the company, to soothe the angry victims, had led him here, a sacrificial lamb in this brutal family feud. I roared into the phone. “Vivian! Your brother is dying!” She lit a cigarette, slowly exhaling a cloud of smoke. “Still lying in the face of death. If you really want to save him, sign the documents.” “Fine! I’ll sign it! It was all my fault!” Without hesitation, I scrambled down just far enough to retrieve the documents and the pen she tossed down. I signed the confession. “It’s signed! Now get us out!” Liam roused slightly with the jostling, saw the signature, and choked out a cry. “You’re not human, Vivian! I’m your brother!” Vivian reeled in the document with a thin cord and inspected it. Satisfied, she pulled a small, custom-made throwing knife from her belt. “You still have the nerve to insult me? You need to be taught a lesson.” She took aim at my head. We were exhausted, our guard down. She flicked her wrist. Liam, behind me, saw the flash. He threw his good arm forward to intercept the blade. “Agh!” The knife went clean through his wrist, severing the hand in a sickening, muffled snap. “NO!” I went berserk, pulling out a tourniquet and emergency medical supplies from my pack, working desperately to stem the blood flow. “It’s okay. It’s okay…” “Keep begging, Ethan,” Rhys’s voice was back, high with excitement. “Where was all this panic when I was begging you to save my brother?” “Vivian, hurry! Finish them! Kill them both!” Liam was completely numb from the pain. He could only stare at his detached arm, unable to even cry. But Vivian was not done. She and Rhys started shoveling again, tossing the sand directly onto us. I tied Liam tighter to my back. I had to reach the top. I climbed, step by agonizing step, trying to match their filling speed. Vivian suddenly stopped. “Ethan Cole, I’m tired of playing with you.” She pulled out a handful of throwing knives from a duffel bag and took aim. Rhys tossed his shovel and settled in to watch, rubbing her shoulders. “Go, Vivian! Stick both those bastards!” There was a small ledge about halfway up. If we could reach it, we would have some cover. Just one more step… A terrible, sharp pain tore through my back. I bit down, shoved Liam onto the ledge, and then lost my footing, falling hard, allowing the sand to immediately swallow my torso. “Ethan!” Liam, despite his injuries, didn’t think twice. He jumped back down. With his one remaining hand, he frantically clawed the sand away from my face, forcing me upright to keep me from suffocating. I was done. I couldn’t climb again. “Liam, I’m not going to make it,” I choked out. “Stay behind me. You live. You go find Veronica. She can clear my name.” Liam clung to me with his good arm. “No, Ethan! We die together! I don’t want to look at that animal again!” Even injured, I was stronger. Ignoring his cries, I tied him firmly to my chest. If only one of us could live, it had to be him. He stopped struggling, a terrible look of surrender in his eyes. “It’s alright, Ethan. I still have one hand. I can use it to block anything else she throws.” I didn’t contradict his foolish bravery. I felt only a self-mocking pity. I had worked for this family for years, only to be murdered by my own wife. Vivian stood directly over us, the cluster of knives suspended over Liam’s head. I had no strength left. No plan. I flipped the phone camera to face Liam’s mangled form. “Vivian! Please, for the last time, look at him! I’m not lying! This is your brother!” Vivian rolled her eyes, impatient. “Ethan Cole, you’re delusional. You’re about to die.” Rhys’s voice was sickeningly sweet. “Vivian, he’s trying to play on your guilt. Your brother is a Shaw, not some dirt-covered tramp. He’s waiting for the fireworks at the park. Now, you and your brother can go to hell!” “No!” The knives rained down. Liam surged forward, covering my head and chest. Dozens of blades pierced him, from scalp to thigh. Hot, wet blood streamed down my face. I looked into his eyes—and they were filled not with pain, but with worry for me. Rhys roared with laughter. “What devotion! At least you’ll have company! My little brother died all alone!” The security guards were recovering and resumed shoveling. The sand was rising quickly, now burying my chest, threatening my throat. I stared blankly at Vivian, the woman who had promised me forever, the monster who had just murdered her own brother. She looked down on me. “Kneel and beg, and I’ll give you a proper burial. I’ll even let you two brothers be buried together.” Rhys tugged her arm. “Vivian, help me shovel. Just looking at him makes me remember my poor, dead brother.” The sand reached my chin. “Vivian Shaw,” I whispered, my voice thick with sand, “even if I become a ghost, I will haunt you and tear you apart!” Vivian clapped her hands. “My husband, ever the drama king. Go on, then. Die.” Just as the earth was about to swallow me whole, the sound of dozens of high-powered off-road vehicles roared up around the quarry pit. Vivian’s voice, suddenly weak and trembling, called out to the woman who stepped out of the first vehicle. “Veronica… Big Sis… Why are you here?”

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The eighteenth time Damon Montgomery and I attempted to divorce, he failed to show up again. I stood outside the Registry Office, the same place it had always been, and received the customary text message. Emergency. Reschedule. I stared blankly at the red-highlighted countdown on my phone, the remaining days until we could file again. I simply couldn’t afford to waste any more time on this disastrous marriage. After a long moment, I pulled up the messaging app and calmly typed a few lines. She’s pregnant again, isn’t she? Damon, for the sake of your two children, just let me go. The nineteenth time, we finally succeeded. 1 Damon and I had once been madly in love. We had both dreamt of the perfect little family, a beautiful home, and one adorable baby. Now, the son he’d fathered with another woman was three years old, and still, he’d fought to keep me tied to him. A woman’s voice jolted me out of the memory. She gave me a sympathetic glance, unable to resist offering unsolicited advice. “Lydia, stop this. No matter how much you fight it, the child is here now. Deep down, Damon still loves you.” I didn’t reply, turning my back to her. The man in a crisp suit stood in the doorway, having overheard everything. He walked away the moment my gaze landed on him. Today was the day his son was officially inducted into the Montgomery family lineage. Halfway through the ceremony, the family elders paused, stymied by the name to be recorded as the mother. I had already warned them: my name was forbidden. In the awkward silence, someone gently advised Damon. “Damon, just choose someone else.” Damon’s eyes remained fixed on me, saying nothing. Everyone was watching my reaction. I finally spoke, my voice flat. “It’s fine. I have no objection.” I thought I heard a cold, self-mocking scoff from somewhere, but I didn’t look up to confirm. Savannah was called in. When the ritual was over, she turned to leave, but Damon stopped her. “Come here. Stand beside me.” Out of the corner of my eye, I felt his gaze probing my face, waiting for a crack in my composure. I kept my head down. But I still looked once. The woman leaned into his side, gripping the sleeve of his expensive jacket, her entire being focused on the child they shared. A familiar, dull ache settled in my chest, a residual pain that was more numbness than heartbreak. The ceremony ended, and as the last person in the room, I was the first to leave. Behind me, the little boy, Leo, skipped happily, holding Damon’s hand and Savannah’s other hand. The Montgomery seniors watched the trio—a perfect, complete family—with warm smiles. They looked so proud. Yet, they had once stood firmly by my side. I remembered when Savannah had just given birth. She knelt at the gates of the Montgomery estate for a full day and night, clutching the infant, and still they refused to let the child inside. They had sworn that as long as I lived, I would be their only daughter-in-law. I was glad I hadn’t believed them then. I stopped Damon as he approached. His expression was dark, shadowed. “The divorce papers tomorrow. Don’t forget.” My persistent demand for a divorce had clearly worn out his patience over the years. Everyone assumed I was just throwing a tantrum, unwilling to accept defeat. They thought three years of fighting was enough, that since the boy was three, what good would come of not forgiving him? But only I knew the truth: I was genuinely done wasting my time on him. The woman beside him instantly teared up. “Mrs. Montgomery, are you angry because of me? If I’ve done anything wrong, I apologize. Please, have some compassion for Damon and stop deliberately making things difficult for him.” Damon stared at me, then sneered. “She’s divorcing me. What right does she have to be angry?” My eyes finally felt the sting of dampness. The next second, I was abruptly shoved. The little boy, Leo, stood defensively in front of Savannah, hands on his hips, glaring at me with puffed cheeks. I landed hard on the marble floor. Looking down, I saw my palms were scraped raw. Damon instinctively took a step toward me. He was silent, but a flicker of emotion—concern? guilt?—crossed his eyes. A dry retching sound broke the tension. Savannah suddenly clutched her stomach and doubled over, her face pale. I rose slowly, clutching my stinging, scraped hands. I walked toward the exit. A stunned Damon did not follow. A low whisper drifted after me, reaching my ears as I left. “Do you think… she’s pregnant again?” 2 I opened the door to the house, and silence rushed out to greet me. It was empty and cold. I had dismissed the house staff six months ago. My body was throbbing, a deep ache pulsing behind my eyes. My hand shook as I fumbled in my purse for the pill bottle. I dumped a handful into my palm—I didn’t count—and swallowed them quickly with a dry throat. I lay on the cold hardwood floor, tears slowly tracing a path down my temples. Lydia. How did you let your life become this? The endless, sightless marriage had left my spirit exhausted, utterly lifeless. Now, even my body seemed to be giving out. The lock clicked. I tried to struggle to my feet, but I was too weak. No one ever comes here but me. A bitter laugh was still on my lips when the door swung open. Damon stepped inside, backlit by the evening sun. He stood motionless, watching me, not speaking. I managed to sit up, carefully tucking the pill bottle into my bag. Even if he saw it, he wouldn’t care. Just as I thought, Damon bypassed me entirely, settling languidly onto the sofa. “I don’t believe we’re divorced yet, Ms. Montgomery. Are you saying there’s nothing of mine left in this house?” I had mailed all his clothes to the penthouse he’d bought for Savannah months ago. It had been so long since he’d come home; wracked with pain, I could no longer remember when. Seeing me still sitting on the floor, the man roughly hauled me into his arms. He leaned in close, his voice a low, ragged growl. “Lydia. Speak to me.” His eyes, beneath the dark fringe of his lashes, had that tiny, beautiful teardrop mole I used to love. I turned my head away. “Your things aren’t lost. They’re at your other house.” Damon exploded. He gripped my shoulders so tightly his fingers dug into my flesh, his eyes completely red. “Three years! It’s been three damn years! What do you need to finally forgive me? Can’t you see I regret it? Can’t you see I’m suffering every day just like you?” He took my hand and placed it over his wildly beating heart, his voice raw with pleading. “Lydia, can’t we just go back to the way things were?” I pushed back, but he didn’t budge. I just stared at him, my eyes empty with a quiet sense of finality. Finally, Damon shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. He gradually released my arms. I rubbed my bruised shoulders and picked up the steak knife from the coffee table, turning it over in my fingers. “Then divorce me, Damon. We both can be free.” Damon slumped to the floor, laughing wildly. “You want a divorce? Never. I’ll keep you trapped here. I’ll make you watch me live a happy life for the rest of yours.” I tightened my grip on the knife. Slowly, deliberately, I brought the tip to my pale, exposed throat. Unfortunately, he won’t be able to trap me for my entire life. Damon’s pupils constricted. Without hesitation, he grabbed the blade with his bare hand. His five fingers were trembling. In the silent, terrifying standoff, he was the one who surrendered first. “Fine. I’ll divorce you.” The tall man struggled to stand, swaying as if he might collapse. Before he did, a small woman rushed in and braced him. Savannah. She was weeping, her lashes heavy with tears. “I didn’t follow you. I just—you come home so often with fresh cuts and bruises. I was worried.” Damon rested his head weakly against her shoulder, closing his eyes. “I won’t come here anymore. Never again.” I watched the empty, wide-open doorway. Damon was gone. Memories rushed up, pushed down, only to surge up again, blurring my vision. Someone once said that love alone can’t guarantee a happy ending. Damon and I never believed it. Now, we both knew better. 3 Savannah, of course, told Damon’s parents about our dramatic confrontation. They arrived while I was eating dinner. My throat, still visible despite my efforts, showed the faint red line from the knife. Damon’s mother kept her silence, but his father asked, with a show of concern: “Why are you eating so little?” It’s true. When did my appetite shrink to this? “Because I’m going to die soon.” Damon’s father froze, assuming I was being difficult again. His face hardened. “Lydia, is that how you talk to your elders? You weren’t like this before. You’ve become so difficult to be around. No wonder Damon avoids coming home. Who would want to stay with you for long?” I was unmoved, slowly chewing my food. I couldn’t seem to swallow it. Damon’s mother, a woman of high society, grew visibly angry at my lack of reaction. She pushed her plate aside and slid a check across the table. “We came here to ask you to divorce Damon. You saw Savannah today; she’s pregnant again. She’s several months along, and it’s a girl.” The pain started again. A wave of nausea. How strange. Why does it hurt every time they mention Damon? “We’re divorcing tomorrow.” Damon’s mother scoffed. “You and Damon have been fighting this for three years. When has it ever worked? You refused a good life and insisted on this drama. If you had just accepted my grandson sooner, it wouldn’t have come to this.” I looked up, meeting her eyes. “Are you suggesting I should have accepted his child with another woman, and watched him lie to me, over and over, all for the sake of that child?” My clear, unwavering gaze unnerved her. The cruel words died in her throat. She only muttered: “We were on your side. You wouldn’t have lost anything.” I tossed the check back onto the table, stood up, and motioned them out. “Don’t worry. Tomorrow, Damon and I will be done.” 4 On the day of the divorce, I woke up early and dressed with care. After all, this would be the last divorce of my life. I arrived early. The Town Hall had just opened. The people milling around were all couples, some happy, some clearly miserable. I was the only one sitting alone on the steps, counting the ants on the sidewalk. The morning passed. Damon didn’t show. He’d broken his promise again. I checked my phone. One minute ago, he had sent the text. Emergency. Reschedule. I stared at the seven simple words. I scrolled up through our previous attempts. All eighteen messages were identical, down to the punctuation. I sat back down, propped my chin in my hands, and drifted into a daze. If the divorce failed today, Damon’s mother would suspect I was the one refusing to let him go. I didn’t want to die with the reputation of a woman still clinging to her cheating husband. After a long time, I took out my phone and calmly typed the lines that had worked the day before. She’s pregnant again, isn’t she? Damon, for the sake of your two children, just let me go. He didn’t reply, but I decided to wait. To pass the time, I counted the ants again. I realized there were only a few of them, and I finished counting quickly. They have more time left than I do. The smile on my face froze. It was only now, truly, that I realized I was actually going to die soon. Just as the Town Hall was closing, Damon emerged from a car parked some distance away. His polished leather shoes appeared in my line of sight. I looked up. The afternoon sun made my eyes sting slightly. I rose slowly and brushed the dust from my clothes. “Let’s go inside.” Damon didn’t move. He grabbed my arm, his eyes radiating a cold intensity. “Are you really sure you want to divorce me?” For a fleeting second, I heard another question, long ago. “Lydia, are you really sure you want to marry me?” I pulled my hand free and walked up the steps before him. “Yes. I’m sure.” The answer was the same, but the path was leading to a completely different ending. 5 The nineteenth time, we finally succeeded. When we walked out, Savannah was waiting by the door with their son. The boy saw me and spat toward me. “Dead woman, get lost! Stop bothering my dad! If you don’t leave, I’ll hit you!” Before he could touch me, Damon slapped him across the face. Damon didn’t hold back. The boy’s cheek immediately swelled, and a trickle of blood appeared at his mouth. Savannah began to sob, distraught, but Damon remained impassive. He gripped the boy’s head and spoke with a fierce, brutal intensity. “If I ever hear you insult her again, you’re out. Go as far away as you can.” The boy hid in Savannah’s arms, wailing, refusing to apologize. “They said I’m a bastard, not Dad’s real son, that’s why you won’t let us live with Grandpa and Grandma! They also said Mom is a homewrecker, a vixen everyone hates! Mom always cries in secret and lies to me that she just got sand in her eyes!” The boy wiped his tears with the back of his hand and pointed a furious finger at me. “If it weren’t for you, Dad would love me and Mom! Why don’t you just die!” I wasn’t angry. I just felt a sudden, deep disgust for the little boy. He was Damon’s son, all right. His words cut just as deep. I turned my back, quickly swallowing a few more pills in secret. Damon saw the movement and seized my wrist. “What are you taking?”

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My sister, Serena, always dreamed of striking it rich. Her plan? Stage an “accident” that would cripple Leo Kingston, the only son of Manhattan’s most untouchable financial dynasty. A rebar stake through the kid’s chest. Serena played the Good Samaritan, rushing him to the E.R., even pumping out 800cc of her own blood. No fanfare, no credit—that was the trick to getting the biggest reward. As soon as the doctors said the danger had passed, she bolted. And I didn’t stop her. I stood in the corridor, watching her back. Last time—in my former life—I tried to warn her. I saw her tampering with the equipment at the construction site and begged her to stop; the Kingstons were untouchable. She smiled, told me I was sweet, and then, on the walk home, she took me to the roof of that very same steel plant and pushed. I died choking on my own blood, impaled on the same construction debris she’d rigged. My final thought: She blamed me for ruining her jackpot. Then, I opened my eyes. Back in the same day. The same humming, antiseptic corridor. This time, I wasn’t saving her. I was watching her dig her own grave. 1 Leo Kingston was in emergency surgery. My sister, Serena Miller, was at the blood bank window, her face a mask of refined, selfless panic. Her expensive designer dress was artfully soaked in Leo’s blood. If you hadn’t seen her orchestrate the accident—if you didn’t know the sickening ambition churning beneath that fragile facade—you would have thought she was a literal saint. “Is that enough?” she pleaded with the nurse, her voice catching with forced tears. “If he needs more, take it! I have plenty! He’s so small. You have to save him, or I’ll never have a moment’s peace.” The nurse cooed about her kindness, assuring her that the amount she’d given was more than enough. Serena bowed and scraped, thanking the nurse with effusive, grateful reverence. But when the nurse asked for her name, Serena smoothly changed the subject. It was all part of the plan. Her information was on the transfusion documents, but by pretending to be a self-effacing hero, she hoped the Kingstons—a family known for their obscene wealth and old money arrogance—would offer a reward far greater than any she could have negotiated. The nurse hurried away. The surgical doors swung shut. Serena’s grip was a vice on my arm, making me gasp. The act was over. Her voice was a low, vicious hiss, all the Good Samaritan stripped away. “Keep that mouth shut, Naomi. You know the score.” I gently pulled my arm free. I could feel the adrenaline thrumming through me, but I kept my face blank—the familiar, cowed expression she expected. “Don’t worry, Serena. You’re my sister. Who else would I side with?” I kept my voice small and meek. “Just let me be the receptionist when you get your big payout. I just want a steady paycheck.” Serena scoffed, wiping a smear of blood off her sleeve with a disdainful frown. “Mom and Dad are right. You’re a useless commodity, a born drone. You’ll die in debt without my brilliance.” She was already walking toward the elevator, high heels clicking impatiently. I just nodded along, playing the pathetic, easily managed younger sister. Last time, my concern had been interpreted as sabotage. This time? I would push her toward the cliff. I wanted to see exactly how she planned to survive messing with Rhys Kingston. Serena didn’t spare me another thought. She saw my fabricated fear and preened. “Fine. Stop looking so scared. You’re irritating me. When my company launches, I’ll hire you as my assistant—maybe hook you up with a chauffeur. That should keep your bills paid.” She practically dragged me to the elevator. As expected, we hit the ground floor just as he arrived: Rhys Kingston, the man who owned half of Manhattan and whose son was currently bleeding out upstairs. Serena’s eyes sharpened, a silent, warning glare aimed at me. I immediately clutched my stomach. “Bathroom. Emergency.” I fled. Why link myself to her when her carefully constructed tower was about to crumble? I heard Serena’s voice echoing down the corridor, overly sweet and carefully pitched. “Oh, no thanks are necessary. It’s just what anyone would do. That poor boy is only five.” She turned down the offer of immediate financial help, but conveniently dropped her new, expensive-looking business card right at the Assistant’s feet. I waited until I heard the elevator ding. Rhys’s tone was lethally smooth, devoid of any genuine relief or gratitude. “I want to know if this was a loose bolt or a calculated hit,” he said to his Assistant. “No cops. I handle my own problems. You try to hurt a Kingston, you learn the hard way: I know a hundred ways to make you permanently quiet.” “Check the rebar. Check the workers. I want to know exactly how unstable that beam was. We’ll see if the steel or the perpetrator is harder.” The Assistant nervously glanced at Serena’s dropped card. “What about Serena Miller…?” “Don’t care yet,” Rhys cut him off. “See to my son. I’ll question the child when he wakes up.” I waited until the elevator doors closed on the elite entourage. I could finally breathe. Serena hadn’t just messed with a wealthy man; she had tried to extort a true powerhouse. Her lavish funeral was practically booked. Her car was gone when I finally stepped outside. She didn’t answer her phone. I caught a cab back to our dismal little house. The moment I walked through the door, my father’s heavy glass ashtray slammed against my forehead. Blood immediately bloomed. “Naomi, you spineless failure!” my mother shrieked, not even looking at the blood. “Your father has worked the Kingston site for years! This was our chance! You don’t help your sister, but you damn well don’t ruin her performance!” My father shoved his palm directly onto the bleeding wound on my forehead. The pain was blinding. “Serena told you to leave immediately! Are you deaf? Did you plan to steal her savior credit? You idiot! Do you want ‘Extortion’ written on your t-shirt?” They knew. They all knew this was a cheap, vile con. I remembered how they had blamed me in my former life—a cold, twisted memory where they refused to collect my broken body because I had supposedly cost Serena her fortune. “Taking her credit?” I spat the words, tasting blood. “Or taking the fall for near-homicide? Only a sick person looks at everyone else and only sees an accomplice.” My father raised his hand for another blow, but Serena swept into the room, cutting him off. “Stop, Dad. She’s useless. Don’t waste your energy.” She eyed my head wound with bored contempt. “Rhys Kingston got there so fast. Luckily, I was quick. I dropped the card and ran.” My mother’s face, a second ago tight with fury, instantly melted into pride. “That’s my girl! Always the smart one! Unlike some people, who are only good for being a drain on the electric bill! Twenty years, and still nothing but a disappointment!” I retreated to my room, grabbing some tissue to staunch the bleeding. From the hallway, I could hear Serena, her voice breathless with excitement, recounting the ‘accident.’ “He just tripped and fell off the scaffolding…” I couldn’t help myself. I marched out. “Stop lying to yourself! Do you think Rhys Kingston is as dumb as you are? Rebar doesn’t ‘just break,’ Serena! Not that gauge! And it doesn’t ‘accidentally’ fall into a five-year-old’s chest cavity!” My parents’ faces contorted with horror. They lunged for me. They hit me. Both of them. Hard. “Shut up!” My mother screamed. “Those words stay rotten in your throat! This was an accident, and your sister saved him! The Kingstons owe us! They have a moral duty to reward her!” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “So my honest paycheck is ‘useless,’ but extorting a man whose child you almost murdered is ‘ambition’?” My father grabbed the shattered glass ashtray and slammed it onto my head again. My vision swam, but the heat of my infected wound was nothing compared to the cold ache in my heart. “You have no ambition, Naomi! You’re poor! We’ll be buried in unmarked graves before you earn anything worthwhile!” “Why did you even bother having me?” I pleaded, my voice breaking. “One greedy daughter should have been enough.” A flicker of panic—just a quick, cold shadow—crossed both their faces. Serena, preening, cut in. “Forget her, Mom. She’s poor. I told her I’d give her a receptionist job, and she jumped at it. Rhys Kingston’s gaze… it wasn’t just gratitude. His wife died years ago. If I play this right, I won’t just get a fifty-million payout. I’ll get the whole empire.” My parents were ecstatic, ignoring me completely as they fawned over their brilliant daughter, handing her a bottle of expensive blood-restoration vitamins. It was my moment. I baited them with their own ugliness until my father was spitting mad. He snatched a document from a desk—our family’s official Birth and Identity Registry—and viciously tore out the page with my name on it. “Get out! Now! I have no daughter named Naomi!” My mother stared at me with pure disgust. Serena, still glued to her phone, barely looked up. “Good. If you can’t appreciate me, then go. Don’t come crawling back when you get fired.” I smiled, picking up the torn page. Freedom. “You’ll see,” I said, meeting their furious gazes with cold certainty. “The Kingstons aren’t fools. You messed with the wrong people. We’ll see who’s begging for mercy when he decides to pay a visit.” I left the house and stumbled toward the nearest drugstore. My head was pounding, the wounds already starting to throb with feverish heat. The pharmacist gasped at the sight of me—all blood and pale skin—and urged me to go to the hospital. I didn’t make it out the door. My legs gave out. When I next opened my eyes, I was in a hospital room. The nurses didn’t notice I was awake. “Did you hear?” one whispered. “The kid downstairs is a Kingston. Critically injured. Rhys Kingston flew in surgeons from Geneva and Tokyo overnight!” “Who would attack a child?” “I heard the kid’s not stable. And the security detail? They look like ex-military, maybe mercs. Don’t go near the room.” A cold dread settled over me. Serena was utterly doomed. I quickly checked myself out, but not before I ran into Rhys Kingston’s Assistant, frantic, racing down the hall and asking every person about their blood type. Leo needed a specific type, and the hospital’s supply was running low due to complications. I hesitated. I could walk away. I should. But the kid was a pawn. My soul needed this absolution. I followed the Assistant and gave my blood again. The urgency was so high, and the Kingstons had such pull, that no paperwork was filed. I was in and out of the operating room, and as soon as I heard Leo was stabilized, I ripped out the IV and fled. No information. No trail. I rented a cheap place on the outskirts. The community was right next to the site of the ‘accident.’ From my window, I could watch Rhys Kingston and his private security systematically interrogate every worker. I stayed hidden. Serena, however, was doing the opposite. She practically lived outside the hospital entrance, hoping Rhys would recognize her. When that failed for three days, she went straight to Leo’s room under the guise of concern. The Assistant recognized her immediately. Leo, bless his heart, even told the Assistant that the “nice lady” was his hero. The Assistant was effusive, promising Serena a personal visit from Rhys when the boy was discharged. Serena filmed the interaction and posted it. Within hours, Serena Miller was an overnight sensation—the hero who saved the Kingston heir. Offers, praise, and gifts flooded our old house. She gave an on-camera interview, saying she’d have saved anyone—it was just the right thing to do. She cemented her benevolent image. The flood of public approval and media attention made me cold. I immediately started the process of legally separating my name from my family’s address.

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Ivy and I were lured into a nightmare disguised as a vacation, sold into a high-end trafficking ring south of the border. For three thousand dollars a night, any man could own us. By the time the Feds and the Blackwood family’s private security kicked down the doors, I was the establishment’s top earner, sitting atop a wealthy client, counting a stack of cash with trembling hands. My best friend, Ivy Blackwood, wasn’t so lucky. She was found in the basement, visibly pregnant and in a permanent vegetative state. The Blackwood family put a five-million-dollar bounty on the head of the broker who sold us. But I, the only witness who knew the truth, chose silence. Ivy’s mother knelt on the marble floor, begging me to speak. I closed my eyes and feigned sleep. The detectives grilled me for hours. I gave them nothing but dead air. Ivy’s brother—my fiancé, Roman Blackwood—finally snapped. He threw me onto the Neural Projection Stage. “Ivy is living a fate worse than death, and you’re protecting the monsters!” “To think I ever loved a piece of trash like you… it makes me sick.” “Today, the Neural Interface is going to drag the truth out of your skull, and I’m going to send you and your accomplices straight to hell.” But when the truth finally flooded the screens, Roman didn’t scream. He fell to his knees, silent. 1 Roman chose the Crestview University stadium for my public execution. It was our alma mater. It was also where we first met. The arena, capable of holding ten thousand people, was packed to the rafters. Everyone I had ever known was there. Close relatives, old friends, professors, down to the delivery driver I’d tipped once and the woman who ran the diner down the street. Roman had invited them all. I covered my face, instinct screaming at me to run. But Roman’s hand was a vice on my shoulder, pinning me to the chair. I couldn’t move. He gripped my throat. Those eyes, once warm with the promise of forever, were now cold, hard flint. “Nora, do you even know what shame is?” “I’m asking you one last time. Who sold Ivy?” His grip tightened. My face burned, oxygen fleeing my lungs. I teetered on the edge of consciousness, but I kept my lips sealed. The Blackwood family swarmed me, a tide of expensive fabric and raw fury. “You heartless bitch! Ivy and Roman gave you everything, and you protect the people who destroyed her?” “She was born for the gutter! Probably enjoyed it down there! That’s why she won’t talk!” Hands clawed at me, tearing my clothes, exposing my scars and skin. Flashing cameras blinded me, my humiliation broadcast on the massive Jumbotron above. “Look at her! Let the whole world see what a traitor looks like!” Roman loomed over me, a needle the width of a pinky finger poised at the base of my skull. His gaze cut deeper than the metal ever could. “The Neural Interface does more damage to the brain than a lobotomy.” “It’s going to hurt, Nora. Imagine childbirth, then multiply it by twenty.” “And every dirty, secret memory you have? It’s going to be played out in 4K for everyone to see.” “This is your last chance.” The thought of those dark, grimy months in the compound made my pupils dilate. My body betrayed me, shaking violently. “No… don’t look,” I whispered. “Roman, please. Trust me. You’ll regret this.” For a second, hesitation flickered in his eyes. Then he glanced at his mother, her hair turned white overnight, and the hesitation hardened into disgust. “Regret?” ” The only thing I regret is pulling you out of that hellhole.” “I should have left you there to rot.” The metal pierced my scalp. It plunged deep into the neural tissue. The pain wasn’t just physical; it was existential. It shattered my consciousness. I couldn’t even form the words to beg. I just opened my mouth, and a sound that didn’t belong to a human tore out of me. The crowd went wild. “She deserves it! That toxic snake deserves every second!” On the giant screen, the static cleared. My memories began to play. The first scene flickered into view. Ivy’s hospital room. She looked like an origami figure, fragile and paper-thin, except for the swollen mound of her stomach. The doctor, looking grim, delivered the news. “Her brain activity is minimal. The chances of her waking up are statistically zero.” “And… given her physical state, a termination is too risky. She has to carry the child to term.” Ivy’s mother collapsed onto her daughter’s chest, wailing. In the memory, I stood by the window, eyes dead, staring at nothing. The Roman on the screen exploded. He grabbed a handful of my hair and dragged me to the bedside, slamming my forehead against the cold tile floor. “Why? Why won’t you tell us?” “What did the Blackwoods ever do to you? Did I not love you enough?” “Nora, do you even have a heart?” The crowd in the stadium roared their approval. “The Blackwoods are saints. Their daughter is a vegetable, carrying a rapist’s baby, and they can’t even abort it.” “Nora isn’t human. Look at her. Her best friend is gone, and she doesn’t shed a tear.” “She’s probably jealous. That’s why she let it happen.” Ivy’s mother, fueled by the crowd, rushed the stage. Her nails raked down my cheek, drawing blood. She grabbed the control lever of the extractor and jammed it forward. “My Ivy will never wake up! Why should you get to live?” My scream echoed off the stadium walls. Blood splattered onto Roman’s pristine trousers. He turned his face away, his voice icy. “Widen the search parameters. I want the truth.” The surge of electricity forced a jump in the timeline. The screen shifted. Roman was dragging me into a condemned warehouse in the bad part of the city. He stripped me and hoisted me up by my wrists. The room was filled with homeless men, eyes hungry, hands filthy, reaching for me. Roman’s eyes were bloodshot. He squeezed my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “Nora, who is he? Who is worth dying for?” My body in the memory was vibrating with terror, but I clamped my jaw shut. “I don’t know.” That broke him. “Since you miss the whorehouse so much,” he spat, “I’ll give you a taste of home.” Someone handed him a cigarette. Through the smoke, his voice was a jagged blade. “Give her to them. A dollar a turn. No refusals.” “Whatever she earns, buy Ivy’s favorite irises. Send them to the hospital.” The images that followed were the stuff of nightmares I had tried to bury. I clapped my hands over my ears, desperate to block out the sounds of my own degradation. Roman pried my hands away, laughing darkly. “Oh, playing the victim now, Nora?” “You’re the last person on earth who deserves pity.” “You’re protecting a criminal. You earned every second of this.” The audience ate it up. “Look at her, trying to manipulate us with a sob story!” “Ivy is a living corpse! Her parents are destroyed! Nora got off easy!” “She was the top earner down there, remember? Maybe she liked it.” “If she won’t talk after all that torture, maybe she is the mastermind.” “Has to be. If not the boss, then a willing partner.” Ivy’s mother, hearing the crowd, lost what was left of her mind. She slapped me, a sharp crack that silenced the front row. “Crank it up! Burn her brain if you have to! Dig it all out!” The technician looked pale. “Sir, she’s already at critical levels. If we push the voltage, she could be left permanently disabled…” “She’s already broken,” Roman said, his face like stone. He reached over and turned the dial to the maximum. “She deserves it.” The current hit my brainstem like a lightning strike. My body curled into a fetal ball. Warm liquid spread down my legs. As I lost control of my bladder, a new memory ripped onto the screen. A dark, damp room. A heavy iron chain around my neck, chafing raw skin. Two guards were beating me, trying to force me into a private room with a new buyer. When I refused, they placed a phone book on my chest and hammered it with fists—maximum pain, no bruising. A gasp from the stands. “I know that trick. It hurts like hell but leaves no marks.” “She looks like a victim there… how could she be an accomplice?” “Don’t be stupid,” someone shouted back. “She’s curating these memories! It’s a manipulation!” Roman’s fingers trembled as they closed around my throat again. “Still protecting him?” “You think showing me this makes me soft? You’re delusional.” “You’re a monster, Nora.” The memory shifted violently again. The screen showed me in a dressing room, applying heavy makeup, wearing barely enough silk to cover my shame. The stadium erupted. “See! She is a whore!” “Took a few beatings and then happily sold herself!” I shook my head frantically, trying to dislodge the memory, but the machine was relentless. The scene changed. Ivy. She was pinned under three men. She was screaming, her skin a map of bruises. The leader of the gang covered her mouth, looking at me with a dead-eyed smile. “I don’t run a charity.” “This one’s sick. She can’t work.” “Either you earn her keep, or we throw her to the dogs.” In the memory, I threw myself over Ivy’s body. “Please! Get a doctor! I’ll do it!” “I’ll work! I’ll pay for everything! Just don’t hurt her!” The montage accelerated. Me, swallowing my vomit, smiling at men who smelled like rot. Me, dragging my broken body to the boss, begging on my knees. Not for freedom. For better antibiotics for Ivy. The stadium fell into a stunned silence. “She… she sold herself to save Ivy?” “That’s not the behavior of a criminal.” “Jesus. The Blackwoods are torturing the woman who saved their daughter.” Ivy’s mother shrieked, shaking my shoulders. “Fake! It’s all fake!” “It’s CGI! It’s a lie! If she cared about Ivy, she’d give us the name!” “It’s a sympathy play! Look at her, she’s alive, isn’t she? My Ivy is gone!” The crowd, fickle as the wind, turned back. “Ungrateful trash!” “Rot in hell, Nora!” Roman’s face was gray. He stared at the screen, then screamed at me, a sound of pure desperation. “Who is it?! Who is worth betraying me? Betraying Ivy?” “I gave you everything!” “Why isn’t it you in that hospital bed?!” He wiped a tear from his cheek and turned to the doctor. “Don’t stop. More power.” “We don’t leave until I have a name.” “Mr. Blackwood,” the technician stammered. “Her vitals… she’s going to brain-dead…” “If she’s protecting a slaver, she’s better off dead.” Roman grabbed a second probe and jammed it into the base of my neck. The machine whined, a high-pitched frequency that shattered teeth. My body thrashed, galvanized by the electricity. The memories began to strobe. My childhood, abandoned by my parents. The orphanage. The scholarship. Meeting Ivy. Becoming sisters in everything but blood. Meeting Roman at Ivy’s sweet sixteen. Falling in love. The images swirled, but the name—the face of the villain—was missing. The technician threw up his hands. “Her will is too strong. Her subconscious is locking down the core memory. I’ve never seen resistance like this.” I looked at Roman. My vision was blurring, tunneling. I tried to speak, but my tongue was heavy lead. To him, my silence looked like mockery. He laughed, a brittle, insane sound. He grabbed the technician by the collar. “Do whatever it takes.” In the front row, a young woman—an intern who had always looked at Roman with hungry eyes—stood up. “The body has a failsafe. If the pain threshold is breached, the mind loses control of the blockade.” Ivy’s mother stopped crying. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pair of rusted gardening shears she’d found in the stadium utility closet earlier, manic in her need for a weapon. She handed them to Roman. “Ten fingers connected to the heart, isn’t that what they say? Cut them off. Let’s see her keep secrets then.” “We owe this to Ivy.” The stadium held its breath. Then, a chant began. Low at first, then thundering. “Truth! Truth! Truth!” “Do it, Roman! Stop the traffickers!” Empowered by the mob, Roman’s eyes steeled. He walked to the chair. He took my hand—the hand he used to hold during movies—and caressed my thumb. Then he took the rusted shears. “You brought this on yourself.” “You could die a thousand times, and it wouldn’t be enough.” The metal crunched through bone. I didn’t scream. I convulsed. My body jerked like a severed wire. Blood sprayed, hot and metallic, painting the floor. “You…” I choked out, the words bubbling through blood. “You will regret this.” Roman looked at me, dead-eyed, and jammed the shears into the open wound. “The only thing I regret is not seeing you for what you are sooner.” “You destroyed Ivy.” One finger. Two fingers. Roman Blackwood cut them all off, one by one.

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When the fire alarm screamed through the elementary school, I was two months pregnant. Chaos erupted, a stampede of terrified children and smoke. I reached for my husband, needing his hand, needing safety. Instead, Mark shoved me hard. I lost my footing. The world tilted, and I tumbled backward down the concrete stairwell. Pain, sharp and blinding, tore through my abdomen. I felt the hot, sticky dampness spreading between my legs before I could even scream. Through the haze of smoke and agony, I looked up. I saw my husband. He was shielding his son—our son—and guiding the school’s beautiful young homeroom teacher, Paige, past my crumpled body. Then, as if I were nothing more than debris blocking their escape, he kicked me aside. “God, you’re such a nuisance,” he muttered, his voice cold steel against the heat of the fire. “Why are you always in the way?” I woke up in the hospital to a ceiling of sterile white tiles and a hollow ache where a heartbeat used to be. When I finally dragged myself home, I found a pregnancy ultrasound report on the kitchen counter. It wasn’t mine. Scrawled across the top in clumsy, joyful handwriting was a note from my son: I’m so happy! I’m going to be a big brother! I love Ms. Paige the most in the whole world. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply walked to the bedroom, packed my life into a single suitcase, and sent a text to my boss. “David, I accept the transfer. I’ll report to the London office next week.” 1 I had just hit “send” when the bedroom door flew open. I lowered the phone, unprepared for the look of utter disdain on Mark’s face. It was a look I had become intimately familiar with over the last year—a mixture of boredom and irritation. “Leo and I have things to do,” he said, not bothering to look me in the eye. “We can’t go on that trip abroad. Cancel the tickets.” The tone was a command, not a request. That was Mark. I slid my phone into my pocket, my voice steady, devoid of inflection. “I’m going with my friends instead.” Mark exhaled, his shoulders dropping as if he’d been carrying a heavy load. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a second, he played the part of the doting husband, reaching out to awkwardly pat my shoulder. “Listen, Nora. Next month, when Leo is on break, and I have some downtime… how about we do a proper family trip? Just the three of us. Maybe Europe?” He was lying. I knew it, and he knew I knew it. Vacation—that intimate, relaxed space—was reserved for them. For Mark, for Leo, and for the lovely Ms. Paige. I nodded silently, turning back to my suitcase. I folded a silk blouse with precision, smoothing out the wrinkles before tucking it away. Mark paused, unnerved by my lack of a fight. “Right. Well. That’s settled then.” Before I could respond, his phone rang. It was her ringtone. A bubbly, sickly-sweet pop song that grated on my nerves. He answered immediately. The faint, coquettish voice leaking from the receiver made the phantom burns on my skin flare up again. Let them have each other. If they wanted to be a family—the father, the son, and the mistress who wanted to be the cool stepmom—then let them. The door banged open again. Leo, my son, burst into the room. His eyes were shining with a manic excitement as he looked at his father. “Dad! Ms. Paige said she’d be my godmother! Can you believe it? I’m literally the happiest kid alive!” Then he saw me. The light in his eyes instantly curdled into annoyance. “Ms. Paige is burned and hurt, but she still promised to come to work every day,” Leo spat, his voice dripping with a learned cruelty. “Look at you, Mom. You’re fine. You just sit at home enjoying life. Besides spending Dad’s money, what are you actually good at?” Mark chuckled, ruffling Leo’s hair. “Hey, don’t talk to your mother like that,” he said, though his tone carried zero weight. Leo grabbed Mark’s sleeve, whining, “Daddy, come on, let’s go see Ms. Paige. I can’t wait for her to be my new mom.” Mark’s hand shot out, covering Leo’s mouth. His eyes darted to me, panic flashing in them. He turned, offering a tight, nervous smile. “Nora, don’t listen to him. Kids say the craziest things.” “He only has one mother,” Mark added, the lie tasting like ash in the air. I kept folding clothes. “It’s fine,” I said, my voice flat. “More people to love him. I’m happy for him.” Paige was Leo’s homeroom teacher. Before she arrived, our home had been peaceful. But slowly, insidiously, Mark began to praise her. Then Leo started. “Mom, you should be more like Ms. Paige,” Leo would say, pushing away his dinner. “She’s not strict like you. She lets me eat whatever I want. At her house, there are no rules!” We had fought about it, screaming matches that left my throat raw. But every time, Mark and Leo stood shoulder to shoulder, a united front against the “boring, nagging mother.” Two weeks ago, at the parent-teacher conference, the fire alarm had sounded. I had tried to reach for my son. Mark had shoved me away. I lost the baby. They saved her. And now, looking at the sonogram Leo had helped annotate, I knew the truth. The pain in my heart finally eclipsed the physical pain in my body. I turned my back to them to wipe a stray tear. It didn’t matter anymore. Soon, I would be gone. I wouldn’t be an eyesore to this happy little family any longer. 2 I stayed in bed until the afternoon shadows stretched long across the floor. I drank hot water, but the cramping in my lower abdomen didn’t subside; it pulsed, a grim reminder of what I had lost. Before collapsing into sleep earlier, I had put a pot of chicken soup on the stove to simmer. My legs felt like lead as I walked to the kitchen. I just needed something warm. I reached for the ladle, but a hand slapped mine away. “Are you seriously stealing food from a patient? God, you’re greedy.” Mark stood beside me, lifting the entire pot off the stove. “Thank god Leo didn’t inherit your sticky fingers.” I looked at him, blinking slowly. “I made this soup. How is eating my own cooking stealing?” I pointed to the trash can, where a charred, black lump sat on top of the refuse. “You burned whatever you were trying to make. It’s right there.” Mark froze, holding the pot mid-air. He looked at the trash, then back at me, his face flushing an ugly shade of red. “Paige needs bland food for her recovery. I… I assumed I made this.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. My mistake.” “Go rest,” he muttered, turning his back. “I’ll make some instant noodles and bring them to you.” In all our years of marriage, this was the first time Mark had apologized to me. And it was for her. He had never stepped foot in the kitchen before. He used to joke that the kitchen was a “woman’s battlefield.” But for Paige? For Paige, he would learn to cook. Love—and the lack of it—was so painfully obvious in the details. I sat at the table and served myself a bowl of soup. As I lifted the spoon, my sleeve slid down, revealing my bare wrist. Mark frowned, staring at my arm. “Where’s your bracelet?” It was a custom piece, a gift from our early days. I never took it off. His matching one had disappeared months ago. “Lost in the fire,” I said calmly. “Did you forget?” If he had looked just an inch higher, he would have seen the fresh, angry burn scar on my forearm. “Oh,” he said, looking away. “Sorry. When work slows down, I’ll buy you a new one.” Work? Mark wasn’t busy with work. He was busy playing house with Paige. “Dad!” Leo walked in, wrinkling his nose. “Mom’s soup tastes terrible. Ms. Paige’s cooking is a hundred times better.” Leo stared at me, waiting for the reaction. Waiting for me to get defensive, to cook a five-course meal just to prove a point. Mark shot him a warning look and took the bowl from Leo. “Don’t be rude. Let me taste it.” I didn’t engage. I just pulled the pot closer to my right hand and poured myself another serving. “If you don’t like it,” I said softly, “you can go eat at Paige’s house.” Mark opened his mouth to scold me for being jealous, but his eyes drifted to the living room wall. He froze. “Where is our family portrait?” He spun around, his voice rising. “Are you done yet? Why do you have to be so dramatic to get attention?” 3 I wiped my mouth and met his gaze. “The frame fell,” I said. “Glass everywhere. I haven’t had time to clean the mess, so I put the photo away.” The tension in Mark’s shoulders eased, though suspicion still clouded his eyes. “Look, Nora,” he said, softening his tone. “I promise, once Paige is fully healed, I’ll keep my distance. We are the real family here. You know that.” He checked his watch. “Tomorrow is our anniversary. Make a reservation at that Italian place you like. We’ll have a nice dinner.” The classic cycle. A slap in the face followed by a piece of candy. To them, I wasn’t a wife or a mother. I was a utility. A servant who could be dismissed and summoned at will. My phone buzzed. Leo, sensing the shift in atmosphere, sidled up to me. “Mom, your cooking is actually okay. I was just joking.” His eyes held a glimmer of the sweet boy he used to be. I smiled, a sad, small thing. Mark took my phone from the table. “Let’s just book it now. Oh, look, the manager is calling you.” He handed me the phone, grinning. “Nora, stay home tonight. I’ll bring takeout. Wait for me.” Leo giggled, covering his mouth. For a fleeting second, we looked like a happy family. The door clicked shut behind them. The phone in my hand was vibrating so hard it hurt. I answered. It wasn’t the restaurant manager. It was my colleague, Sarah. Her voice was shrill, bordering on hysteria. “Nora! Did you start the fire at the school? It’s all over the internet. People are doxxing you. They posted your address. They’re coming for you, Nora.” I gripped the counter, forcing air into my lungs. “Sarah, listen to me. Our company handles the cybersecurity for that district. Can you pull the server logs? I need the surveillance footage from that day.” 4 Sarah didn’t get a chance to answer. Another call cut in. Then another. And another. I answered one. Screaming. Curses. “Burn in hell, you psycho!” I hung up. Another call. I dialed Mark, my fingers trembling. His voice was unrecognizable—cold, detached. “Nora,” he said, cutting me off before I could speak. “Paige is pregnant. The stress is too much for her. And she saved Leo. You need to take the fall for the fire.” I froze. “What?” “She’s fragile,” Mark continued, sounding reasonable, as if discussing dinner plans. “You’re strong. You can handle the heat. Consider it payback for us. Leo and I will make it up to you.” In the background, I heard a woman’s soft laughter. Paige. Thanking me. They were framing me for arson. And they hadn’t even asked. My phone pinged with another death threat. Why don’t you just die? Even though I was leaving, the betrayal felt like a physical blow. “How dare you?” I whispered, my voice breaking. “How dare you decide to ruin my life for something I didn’t do? This is mob justice, Mark! What about my job? My career?” “Is your career more important than your son’s life?” Mark snapped, his voice rising. “You’re being selfish. Paige saved him! Even if you lose your job, who cares? I’ll support you.” “It’s arson, Mark! That’s a felony!” He scoffed. “Nobody died, Nora. Stop being dramatic. It’s just property damage. You’ll get roasted online for a few days, and it’ll blow over. Besides, that job of yours is pointless anyway.” Nobody died? A sharp cramp seized my stomach. My baby died. But to Mark and Leo, that life didn’t exist. It didn’t matter. I remembered a memory from years ago. Leo, a toddler, squatting next to Mark, both of them looking at me with adoration. “If we have a sister, I’ll treat her like a queen!” Leo had promised. “No,” Mark had corrected gently. “Mommy is the queen. We have to protect her.” Now, my knights were the ones holding the daggers. “Fine,” I said, my voice turning to ice. “I’ll take the blame.” And with those words, the last thread binding me to them snapped. Mark hesitated, surprised by my sudden capitulation. “Okay. Good. That’s… good.”

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My mother came to me privately and asked me to sell her house. “Your father is having some business difficulties,” she said. “I want to give him a little support.” The house was the only asset my grandmother had left her—a small, solid harbor meant solely for my mother. Now, for my father, she was throwing her harbor onto the market at a steep discount. A buyer contacted me quickly. The woman’s voice was warm and overly friendly. “Hello, could you possibly hold the property for me? My partner wants to gift it to me next week for my birthday.” I glanced at the photo on her phone screen, the one she had up with her ‘partner,’ and I froze. It was my dad. I managed a bright, professional smile, nodding at the woman. “Of course. I look forward to meeting your partner next month at the closing.” 01 After our conversation, I made sure to confirm the buyer’s information again and again. “Just so I can reserve the property, may I please take down the full name and a contact number for the purchasing party?” It wasn’t until I saw the forms—the name, the ID, everything matching my father’s—that the cold truth settled like a lead weight in my stomach. It really was him. The woman handed the paperwork back, her smile wide and self-satisfied. “Such a sweet girl. I hope you find a man who cherishes you as much as mine cherishes me someday.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Next week is my thirty-fifth birthday. He told me he’d get me anything I wanted, no limits. This little condo is older, sure, but the location is downtown. A quick renovation, just the two of us, and it’ll be perfect!” Her ‘kind’ words were a shard of glass in my chest. My grandmother’s last gift to my mother—her safe harbor—was being sold off at a loss so my father could turn it into a present for his mistress. I fought down the nausea, forcing myself to test the waters. “What if… what if your partner can’t come up with the full amount?” I tried to sound apologetic. “I don’t mean anything by it, but buying property is a huge deal. It would be a nightmare if the deal fell through later…” She threw her head back and laughed, as if I’d told the funniest joke in the world. “If he can’t scrape together a two-million-dollar down payment, why would I bother with him?” She lowered her voice to a proud whisper. “I’m not afraid to tell you, sweetheart, a few of his company’s new projects have hit the jackpot recently.” She shook her wrist, flashing a Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet. “See this?” she said, preening. “He just picked this up for me last weekend. On a whim.” I stared at the bracelet, the hatred a bitter heat on my tongue. “Your partner is so romantic,” I choked out, my voice tight. “When my mom had her birthday, my dad just gave her a thermos he got from a grocery store promotion.” The woman raised a perfectly sculpted brow, smugness radiating off her. “Men, honey, they know who’s worth spending money on.” She ran a finger over the bracelet. “Last week, I mentioned I was craving Japanese. He immediately booked a table at that place—two hundred dollars a head. Has your mom ever been anywhere like that?” My stomach twisted. I remembered last month, my mother’s birthday, when my father had claimed to be too busy with work and told her to just make herself a bowl of noodles. I took a deep, shuddering breath, swallowing the screaming questions that wanted to burst out. “He sounds incredibly thoughtful,” I managed, pasting my real estate agent’s smile back on. “I’ll get the documents ready for next week’s contract signing, then.” She tossed her hair back, pleased. Her phone buzzed with a message alert. She glanced down, a bright curve to her lips. “Ugh, he’s rushing me. He wants me to test drive. He insists on replacing my old car with a new Porsche; says the old one doesn’t suit me anymore.” She deliberately flashed the screen at me. The chat name on the lock screen read “Hubby,” and the last message was a pinned location for a luxury dealership. My nails dug crescent moons into my palms. Yesterday, my mom had asked him to take her to get her commuter scooter repaired. He’d told her he was locked in with an important client. She swayed her hips as she left, leaving a heavy, cloying cloud of expensive perfume behind. Before she disappeared, I used the excuse of needing an easy channel for closing details to add the woman, Vanessa, on WeChat. That evening, Vanessa’s social media updated. [Test drive surprise! Someone special said white matches my new dress.] The photo showed my father, Mitchell, holding open a car door, beaming, the dealership logo visible behind him. I scrolled down. Last Wednesday: [Midnight feeding] My dad, in a pristine apron, cooking a lavish seafood feast in what looked like a custom kitchen. When my mother’s arthritis flared up and she couldn’t stand to cook, he told her to eat instant noodles and manage. Last Sunday: [Gift haul unboxing] A sofa piled high with designer shopping bags. The family account ledger from that same week showed he had refused my mom’s request for a new refrigerator. In every photo, my father’s smile was indulgent and doting, a completely different man from the one who sighed and complained about “tough times” at home. I screenshotted every image, saving the evidence. My phone vibrated with an incoming call. It was my father. “Sasha, any progress on the house?” His voice sounded weary, stressed. “Your mother’s been nagging. Try to talk some sense into her.” I stared at the screenshot of him, arm-in-arm with his mistress, test driving a luxury car. “Dad,” I said softly, “what time are you coming home today? Mom made braised pork.” He paused. “Can’t. Client dinner. Gotta schmooze.” He sighed, heavily. “Business is just so difficult these days.” The call ended. I pulled up my mother’s recently posted social media update. It was a photo of her standing next to our old, yellowed refrigerator. The caption read: [Suddenly stopped cooling. The meat smells a little… off. Any suggestions for salvaging it, ladies?] The first comment was from my father. [Don’t waste it. Boil it longer, you can still eat it.] I saved the last screenshot, locked my phone, and put it away. Next week, on the day of the signing, I would be presenting him with a substantial ‘birthday gift’ of my own. 02 When I pushed open the door, my mother, Eleanor, was crouched in the kitchen, scrubbing the floor. The water she wrung from the mop was grey with soapy residue, and her fingers were red and chapped from the cold water. Her sleeve was stained with the dark residue of the herbal medicine she’d boiled this morning. “Mom.” My voice was rough. “Stop scrubbing. Did you get the fridge fixed?” She looked up, forcing a smile. “Your dad said we need to hold out a little longer. We’ll replace it once business picks up.” I stared at her split, cracked fingernails, a sharp, cold pang gripping my heart. Last year, when my dad was dealing with a flare-up of his rheumatism, she had shelled walnuts by hand to crush into his medicine, tearing off half a nail in the process. All he had said was that women were “just too delicate.” And she, my sweet, loyal mother, had actually started blaming herself for being too fragile. “How did the house talk go?” She steadied herself on the counter, clutching her lower back. “Your dad was coughing all night. I need to get that money together quickly…” I cut her off. I held out my phone. “Just look at this first.” Confused, she took the phone. Her fingers slid across the screen, bringing up Vanessa’s feed. The posts rolled past: Mitch smiling next to the Porsche [Test drive surprise]; Mitch in the kitchen making an elaborate seafood dinner [Midnight feeding]; and the most recent, most galling post: [Someone special said my bracelet was too plain, didn’t match my new dress.] The accompanying image was the Van Cleef & Arpels counter, a sales associate packaging a matching necklace. “I checked the price,” I said, my voice low and hard. “Even the cheapest version of that necklace is over eight thousand dollars.” “Th-this is…?” My mother’s hands were shaking. “This is the client who came to view the house today. Guess who’s buying it for her? My dad.” I watched her face as I explained, my words cutting through the air. “He cries poverty to us, Mom, but he’s pouring money into her.” “Impossible…” Her lips trembled. “Your dad said money was so tight he even had to cut my prescription coverage for a few months…” I pulled up the bank transfer screenshots. “Tight?” I pointed at the large, frequent transfers to Vanessa. “Eighty thousand dollars sent over three months. The notes all say ‘wellness investment.’” She suddenly stumbled toward the bedroom, returning with a rusted metal box. It was stuffed with yellowing receipts: my dad’s physical therapy bills, his vitamin subscriptions, his supplements. On every one, she’d written in her delicate script: Mitch’s health is paramount. The irony was staggering. At the very bottom was a photocopy of my grandmother’s will: Property bequeathed to Eleanor. May it be a place of shelter and refuge. My mother looked at the receipts, then the will, and the tears finally burst through. “How… how could he do this to me?” she choked out. “It wasn’t enough to take my money, to take my life—he wanted to steal my last anchor, too!” “Your grandmother warned me again and again…” She sobbed, caressing the copy of the will. “This house, Sasha, this was my root.” I picked up a recent receipt. Last week, Mitch took five hundred dollars for “holistic supplements.” That same week, Vanessa’s social media showed a new designer handbag. “Look closely, Mom,” I said, holding up the phone to the receipt. “His ‘supplements’ are what she’s wearing.” She suddenly snatched the phone, swiping furiously. Every photo of Vanessa’s boasting was a lash across her face. Mitch cooking, Mitch jewelry shopping, Mitch test-driving a new car. “When I was in the hospital last year for my surgery…” She stared at his adoring smile in one photo. “He said the hospital signal was bad… he was busy being her personal chef…” Tears splashed onto the screen, and then, slowly, a soundless laugh broke from her. “No wonder he always complained my medicine tasted bitter…” She grabbed the stack of receipts and hurled them against the wall. “Using my life’s savings to bankroll that little tramp!” In the flurry of falling paper, her bent back slowly, painfully, straightened. “Sasha.” She wiped her eyes, her voice now flat and cold. “Next week, for the contract signing, I’m coming with you.”

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