My boyfriend hired my husband. For a long time, I was a master of compartmentalization, a fortress of carefully constructed walls. Then came the disaster of Valentine’s Day. Two bouquets on my desk, two gifts, and two hotel key cards. When Grant found out I was married, the explosion was nuclear. He left for a month-long “business trip,” a punishment of pure, unadulterated silence. The day he came back, he refused to see me. I found him after three too many glasses of wine. He held himself rigid, reining in a rage that vibrated in the air between us. “Lena,” he said, pushing me away with a devastating gentleness. “I don’t do leftovers.” His voice was low, each word a carefully placed stone. “I want all of you. That includes your heart, your past, everything. It all has to be mine.” He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing me. “Divorce him. And I’ll still want you.” “Do you understand?” 1 I woke up in Grant’s bed to the insistent buzz of my phone. The name flashing on the screen—Husband—was a cattle prod to my system. I shot upright, the silk sheets pooling around my waist. Beside me, Grant shifted, a frown creasing his brow. His hand moved blindly, a possessive, sleepy gesture that found my hip. I lifted his arm, its dead weight a familiar anchor, and slipped out of bed as quietly as I could. I padded out to the balcony, the cool morning air a shock against my skin, and answered the call. “Hello, Arthur?” “I start at your company today,” he said. “Director of Strategic Planning.” His voice was steady, methodical. He delivered the news like a weather report—calm, factual, devoid of any emotional inflection. But the words were a grenade detonating in the quiet of my mind. “You… what?” “Who hired you?” A slight pause. “Someone in upper management,” he said, as if considering the technical accuracy of his statement. Then he added, “Your direct supervisor, I believe. Grant.” Arthur was the new head of my department. And Grant was my boss. And Arthur’s boss. The biggest boss. My boyfriend hired my husband. And parked him right under his own nose. I raked a hand through my hair, my thoughts scattering like birds. “Lena, don’t feel pressured,” Arthur continued, his tone unreadable. “I intend to keep things strictly professional.” Was that what he thought I was worried about? “You were doing just fine on the West Coast,” I said, trying to keep the accusation out of my voice. “Why did you suddenly come back?” “There were a few things I needed to handle,” he said simply. “And coincidentally, there was something I needed to discuss with you.” “What is it?” I couldn’t imagine what business he could possibly have with our company, let alone me. “We can talk about it tomorrow in person,” he said. “Do you need me to bring you breakfast?” “No,” I said, a little too quickly. “I’m fine.” The line went dead. I walked back into the bedroom and sank onto the edge of the bed. My bare feet sank into the plush gray carpet, but my insides were a tangled mess. Grant was still mostly asleep, his arm searching the empty space where I’d been. After a moment, his eyes fluttered open, locating me in the dim light. A long arm shot out, hooking around my waist and pulling me back down into the warmth of the sheets. “Heard you talking in your sleep,” he murmured, his voice a gravelly remnant of the night. His breath was warm against my ear, laced with an attachment he’d never admit to when he was fully awake. “Kept saying ‘husband’.” He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “Getting sentimental on me, Lena?” I was about to fire back a retort, but he cut me off, pressing a fierce, possessive kiss to the side of my face. His hand tightened on my waist. “Say it again,” he commanded, his voice dropping an octave. “I want to hear it.” “Grant!” I yelped, squirming away. “I don’t want to go to work!” It came out as a petulant wail, a last-ditch effort to postpone the inevitable. A day at the office was not on my agenda. He laughed, a genuine, startled sound, and propped himself up on an elbow to look at me. “Lena, I asked you to be sweet,” he said, an eyebrow arching in amusement. “Not to challenge me.” 2 I hid in the bathroom for thirty minutes, hoping the world might rearrange itself while I stalled. It didn’t. When I finally emerged, Grant was leaning against the kitchen doorway, a mug of coffee in one hand. He’d made me a plate with a single fried egg and a glass of warm milk. Our eyes met in the vanity mirror. “Lena,” he said, his voice deceptively casual. “Don’t even think about telling me you’re calling in sick. You’ve already burned through your next three months of PTO this week.” I wiped my face, feeling the heat of a blush, and sat down at the small dining table. “I told you I don’t like cold milk.” “It’s warm,” he replied without missing a beat. “Well, I like my eggs fully cooked. This part right here is still runny.” “Fine,” he said, his voice flat. “Next time I’ll char it for you.” Grant’s comebacks were always swift and merciless. I took a bite of the toast. “I’ve told you a million times, I like peanut butter on my toast.” “It’s on there. You just haven’t gotten to that part yet.” I searched for another flaw, my protest growing weaker. “You didn’t put peanut butter on it last week.” He finally looked up from his phone, his gaze sharp. “Lena. Stop picking fights. Eat your breakfast. I’m driving you to work.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Of course, if you don’t want to eat, there’s a good chance breakfast will cease to be a service I provide.” The chef was threatening a strike. That was a non-starter. He could survive on black coffee and sheer willpower. I, a mere corporate drone, required actual sustenance. I would perish. “Grant,” I said, changing tactics. “I heard you hired someone new?” He was scrolling through emails. “Your sources are surprisingly quick,” he said, not looking up. “Hey, I’ve been with the company for five years. I have my ways.” “Five years and you’re still in the same position. I could have trained a monkey to do your job and it would have been promoted by now.” I bristled. He was the one who had personally mentored me for the last three years. If I hadn’t progressed, wasn’t that a reflection on him? I took another bite of toast. This time, I hit the peanut butter. My mood instantly improved. “I don’t need the money, so why kill myself climbing the corporate ladder?” To compensate for our arrangement, Arthur wired a substantial amount of money into my account every month. For the sake of appearances, he’d also send transfers on holidays and buy me things. I had more money than I knew what to do with. The burden of the secretly wealthy. I circled back to my original question. Grant still didn’t look up. “He’s the new director. Good temperament. If you screw up, he won’t yell at you. He’ll probably just lecture you like you’re one of his students.” I nodded slowly. That sounded exactly like Arthur. He was the kind of man who could watch me attempt to cook—an event not dissimilar to a controlled demolition—without so much as a frown. I should mention, my culinary skills are legendary. A former colleague of mine, Rick, once managed to set his entire apartment building on fire because he couldn’t get the gas stove to light and decided a Bic lighter was the next logical step. He ended up in a holding cell for the night. When he called Grant to explain why he needed a day off, Grant was stunned into silence before finally muttering, “You’re a special kind of talent, Rick.” Rick thought it was a compliment. He was fired a week later. … I finished my breakfast. Grant glanced at what I was wearing and, without a word, grabbed a handbag from my closet that actually matched. His aesthetic sense was one of his few undeniable virtues. He was rarely wrong. 3 When we got to the office building, I had him pull over a block away. I jumped out of the car like a fugitive. Grant leaned over the passenger seat, a smirk playing on his lips. “Why so jumpy, Lena? It’s not like I have a policy against office romance.” Please. The main issue was that I was about to be late. I hurried to the elevator bank and jabbed the ‘up’ button. Grant followed at a leisurely pace, the crisp sound of his leather-soled shoes echoing on the marble floor. He wasn’t in any rush. It was like he was deliberately trying to fray my last nerve. I breathed deeply and stepped into the elevator first. Just as Grant reached the doors, I decisively hit the ‘close’ button. “Sorry, Mr. Crawford,” I said sweetly. “You’ll have to catch the next one.” Grant’s eyebrows shot up. He watched as I, clad in low-rise jeans that revealed a sliver of my waist, gave him a cheeky wave. The smile on my face was pure sugar, but my intentions were anything but. The little rebel. She was getting more brazen by the day. He’d deal with her later. For now, he waited for the next elevator. The new guy was starting today. 4 I spent the morning at my desk feeling like a spy in my own life, jumping at every shadow. At ten o’clock, I saw him. Arthur stepped out of the elevator. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second before I snapped my head down, pretending to be utterly absorbed in my monitor. From inside his glass-walled office, Grant watched the whole exchange. He saw Lena straighten up in her chair as if she’d been zapped with a taser. It was almost comical. She didn’t need eyes in the front of her head; she clearly had them in the back. He was smiling to himself when he saw an elegant, scholarly-looking man walk past her desk. Lena’s body went rigid. Grant’s smile vanished. His brow furrowed. The man was now at his office door. His voice was calm, his face handsome in a clean-cut, formal way. “Mr. Crawford? I’m Arthur Thorne, the new Director of Strategic Planning.” Grant tore his gaze away from Lena. “Come in,” he said coolly. “Have a seat.” I couldn’t sit still, my head swiveling back toward Grant’s office every few seconds. On one of these turns, my eyes locked with his. I quickly forced a smile and pretended to be fascinated by the contract in front of me. At eleven-thirty, Grant emerged with Arthur, leading him over to our department. “This is your new boss,” Grant announced to the team. “I’ve done my research for you. The workload is manageable, the pay is good, and he’s known for being generous. You work hard for him, and he’ll take care of you.” A wave of cheers went through the department. I was the only one who remained silent. I looked up, and Arthur was looking directly at me. I quickly averted my gaze. Grant stood off to the side, observing, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. But he quickly masked it, turning to leave and handing the floor over to Arthur. Just before he walked away, Grant shot one last glance at me. I was still staring at Arthur, damn it. Grant decided then and there. They needed to talk. A long, thorough talk. 5 After Grant left, Arthur held a brief introductory meeting. When it was over, just as everyone was getting up, he called out. “Lena, could you stay behind for a moment? We need to sync up.” To the others, he said, “The rest of you can head to lunch.” He didn’t specify what we needed to discuss. I stood by his new desk, clutching my laptop. “What’s up, Arthur?” His serious face betrayed no emotion. His eyes, behind their gold-rimmed glasses, studied me with a quiet intensity. “I may need you to accompany me to a gala in the near future,” he said, his tone formal. I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “That’s it?” “Yes.” For a second, I thought it was going to be something much more complicated. “Oh. Okay, sure. I’ve got plenty of time.” As I turned to leave, Arthur closed his laptop and fell into step behind me. “Would you like to have lunch together? We can discuss the details.” And so, I found myself heading upstairs with him to the executive dining room. I only dared to do this because I knew for a fact that Grant never ate the company cafeteria food. He was too picky, surviving on a strict diet of kale salads and black Americanos. Which is why my heart stopped when I walked in and saw him sitting at a table by the window, deep in conversation with another executive. I immediately fell back, trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and Arthur. From the moment they entered, Grant’s eyes had been fixed on me. He took in the form-fitting black top, the company ID hanging from a lanyard around my neck. The dark-wash, low-rise jeans. The sliver of pale, smooth skin at my waist. The way I trailed behind Arthur, my high heels clicking on the floor. My chestnut-brown waves bounced with every step, a sight that was starting to seriously irritate him. “The new director in Strategic Planning?” the man across from him asked with a knowing smirk. Grant just gave a cold “Mm.” “That Lena girl certainly has a way with people, doesn’t she?” The man’s laugh was laced with insinuation. Grant’s gaze turned glacial. He looked like he wanted to strangle someone. I felt the prickle of his stare from across the room and sat stiffly in my chair opposite Arthur, my appetite gone. Arthur noticed my discomfort almost immediately. He followed my gaze and saw Grant. He gave a slight, formal nod in his direction. “Does this company have a policy against office relationships?” Arthur asked me in a low voice. “Or should I inform management of our marital status?” My head snapped up. “Don’t you dare!” I whispered fiercely. I hadn’t figured out how to explain any of this to Grant. A man with his pride… if he found out I’d played him for a fool, he would destroy me. I grasped for an excuse. “Just… don’t. I don’t want people gossiping.” Arthur looked down, saying nothing. After a long moment, he pushed a small plate of sweet and sour pork ribs toward me. “Lena,” he said, his voice even. “If this marriage is making you uncomfortable, we can file for a separation.” I looked at him, really looked at him. His dark eyes were sincere, holding no trace of accusation. “But I hope you’ll give me a chance,” he continued earnestly. “I came back to make things right. A divorce isn’t the best solution for us right now. If that’s what you’re thinking, please, just give me a little more time.” A lump formed in my throat. It took me a moment to find my voice. “Okay,” I said, my voice muffled. “I understand.” Before my father passed away, his greatest wish was to see me settled. Around the same time, Arthur’s parents were pressuring him to get married. So, through a mutual acquaintance, we were introduced and bound together in a loveless arrangement. He had always been decent to me. Before we signed the papers, he gave me a prenuptial agreement. It stipulated a generous monthly allowance for me to stay in the city and take care of his parents. It also stated that if I ever started a new relationship, I could terminate the marriage at any time. I had tried. But he was always too busy, constantly traveling, unable to come back. He lived abroad for years. In five years, I could count the number of times we’d seen each other on one hand. But he had never mistreated me. In the last two years, his parents’ health had declined. Just recently, his mother was diagnosed with cancer. Filing for divorce now felt inhuman. So I agreed. “Have you been to see your mother yet?” I asked. “I just got back yesterday. I haven’t told them I’m here.” “Okay,” I said. “I’ll go with you to see her tonight.” And just like that, our dinner plans were set. I finished my food as quickly as possible and left. 6 That evening, as I was packing up my desk, a text from Grant came through. Downstairs. Parking garage, B level. I looked up and saw Arthur just stepping out of his office. “Ready? My mom’s already made dinner.” “I just need to run to the restroom,” I said, making a quick escape. I ducked into the women’s room, deliberately taking my time. Finally, I sent a reply to Grant: Sorry, have plans with Olivia tonight! You don’t have to wait for me. xoxo Grant sat in the darkness of his car and read the message. He then calmly picked up his phone and sent a text to Olivia, a junior analyst on my team. Are you free right now? I need some adjustments made to this morning’s contract. Olivia replied almost instantly: Yes, Mr. Crawford! I’m home now, but I can get on it right away. Grant added two minor clauses. Thank you for your hard work. He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat. He sat there in the silence, his face a thundercloud. A few minutes later, Arthur appeared at the elevator bank. The sound of high heels echoed in the empty garage. Then, Lena’s silhouette emerged. A short, black puffer jacket was draped over her arm. “It’s freezing out here,” she complained. Arthur took her bag, freeing her hands to put on the jacket. He clicked the unlock button on his key fob. “I have the heat on in the car.” Lena spotted his car and made a beeline for it, diving into the passenger seat. Grant let out a cold, humorless laugh. Looked like she was pretty used to hopping into his car. He reached over and shut off the heat he’d had running just for her. Let her freeze to death. His temples were throbbing with a rage so hot he felt like he could breathe fire. If Lena were standing in front of him right now, she’d be incinerated. Who needed a damn heater? He slammed his hand on the horn. The blare ripped through the quiet garage, startling the occupants of the car ahead. “That’s Mr. Crawford,” Arthur said, glancing in the rearview mirror. I immediately ducked my head down. “Go, go, go!” I urged. “The company doesn’t allow office romance. He’s the strictest one about it.” The car sped out of the garage, a hasty retreat that felt suspiciously like a guilty escape. Grant had seen her duck down to hide from him. A knot of fury lodged itself in his chest, a heavy, unmovable weight. He ended up at a bar on the corner. He took a seat by the window and waited. He waited until eleven-thirty. That’s when he finally saw her, the damn woman, getting out of another man’s car across the street. She was laughing, her whole body swaying with the motion. And Arthur wasn’t exactly a saint, either. He looked so prim and proper, but he was lingering, clearly reluctant to leave. What, was he hoping for an invitation to come inside? Fine. Let’s see if she had the guts to bring another man home. With that thought, Grant downed the rest of his drink, grabbed his coat, and stormed out of the bar. He stood a short distance away, watching them. His brow was knitted, his posture radiating an aggressive energy. He looked like a man on the edge, someone you didn’t want to cross. He was impossible to miss. Arthur saw him instantly. He looked at Lena. “I see Mr. Crawford again.” I quickly turned my back to the street, not daring to look. “It’s late,” I said, my voice rushed. “You should get going.” “My mom packed you some dumplings. Make sure you put them in the freezer.” I took the container from him. Arthur then pulled a case of cherries and a durian from his trunk. “Go on inside,” he said. I didn’t dare turn around yet. “You go first.” Arthur nodded. His eyes met Grant’s across the street. He could feel the murderous intent radiating from the other man, but he simply gave another polite, almost imperceptible nod. Then he got in his car and drove away. 7 Grant’s eyes were locked on me, predatory, like a hawk circling its prey. My legs were starting to go numb from standing in one spot. The moment Grant looked down to light a cigarette, I made a dash for the entrance to my apartment building. We were on the same street, just a few yards apart. “Well, well,” Grant’s voice cut through the night as he looked up and saw me. “Look who decided to bring home groceries.” I turned, feigning surprise. “Oh, you’re still here? So late.” I slowly walked over to him. A faint smell of whiskey clung to him. I leaned in closer, sniffing. Grant held his cigarette away from me, his other hand coming up to press against my shoulder, keeping me at a distance. “Do I know you?” I frowned. “What do you mean, ‘do you know me?’ Wasn’t it me who woke up in your bed this morning?” “Ha.” Grant tapped the ash from his cigarette, his expression utterly frigid. “So you do remember waking up in my bed, Lena.” He emphasized the word ‘bed’, his dark eyes glinting with a cold light. “You know what I’m like, Lena. Explain. Before I lose my temper.” “Who is he?” I bit my lip, gathering the courage to speak. “He… he is…” Just then, Grant’s phone rang. His face was a mask of thunder as he answered it. I sidled up to him, tugging gently on the sleeve of his coat. He shot me a warning glance. I took his hand. His knuckles were ice-cold, but his palm was burning hot. When he didn’t pull away, I dared to lace my fingers through his. The call ended. Grant stubbed out his cigarette. He looked down at our intertwined hands. “There’s an issue with one of the new interns. I have to go.” Which intern? Why was he so concerned? “You’ve been drinking. I’ll drive you.” I reached for the car keys in his pocket. He didn’t stop me. But as I urged him toward the car, he stood his ground. “You go home. I’ll get a cab.” Oh. I turned and walked toward my building. The moment his taxi pulled away, I found his car parked down the street, got in, and followed him. 8 The main avenue was a river of light, lined with upscale restaurants where executives entertained clients. When I arrived, I saw Grant emerging from one of them with someone. It was the new intern, a girl named Lauren. I’d heard she was a nepotism hire, someone with connections. Grant had assigned her to me for training. Lauren was wearing Grant’s suit jacket. She was trembling, clearly distraught. She buried her face in Grant’s chest, and he, with a deep frown, didn’t push her away. He even patted her shoulder comfortingly. Hugging another woman in the middle of the night. So this was his “issue.” I hit the hazard lights and leaned against the side of my car, my arms crossed. I watched them like I was watching a movie. I watched for a long time. And then, Grant saw me.

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Seven years of marriage. Seven years of trust. And for the first time, I reached into my husband Roman’s suit pocket and pulled out a diamond stud earring that wasn’t mine. Me? I hadn’t worn real jewelry in years. My ears had probably healed over by now. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw a vase. I just placed the diamond on the dining room table, the cold stone clicking against the wood, and waited for Roman to bring our son home from soccer practice. The front door swung open, letting in a gust of autumn air and the chaotic energy of a six-year-old. Leo spotted the sparkle immediately. “Mom, did you buy more junk?” Leo wrinkled his nose, dropping his cleats on the floor I’d just vacuumed. “Dad says you spend too much money.” I fought the urge to ground him until college. Ignoring him, I locked eyes with Roman, who was closing the door behind them. “Care to explain whose this is?” Roman froze. He didn’t speak. He just stood there, his tailored coat hanging heavy on his shoulders, that handsome, sculpted face of his draining of color. Leo looked between us, eyes widening. Then, he let out a cruel, high-pitched laugh. “Daddy! Did you get me a new mom? Finally!” A six-year-old shouldn’t sound like a mean girl from a teen movie, but thanks to TikTok and too much screen time, mine did. He turned to me, his face twisted in a sneer. “You’re so cringe, Mom. You look like a homeless person. I’m so embarrassed by you. Just leave!” He bounced on his toes, pointing at the diamond. “That looks like Ms. Summers’ earring! Yes! I want Ms. Summers to be my mom. She’s pretty and she smells like vanilla, and she likes Daddy so much.” Every word was a serrated blade, sawing specifically at the parts of me I’d been trying to hide. Hearing this, Roman’s hand, which had been clenched at his side, relaxed. The panic in his eyes shifted instantly to a dark, terrifying calm. He walked to the mudroom closet. He didn’t grab a shoehorn—we aren’t in the 1950s—but he came back holding the two things Leo feared most in this world: the charging cable for his iPad, and the wooden spoon I used for stirring pasta sauce—a relic of Roman’s Italian grandmother’s style of discipline. He slapped the spoon against his own palm. Thwack. “Leo,” Roman’s voice was a low rumble, vibrating with a danger I rarely heard. He held out both items. “Son, do you want the Spoon, or do you want to lose the iPad for a month? Pick one.” 1 I looked at Roman’s offering. The spoon was mostly for show—a threat of old-school justice. The charging cable represented modern death for a digital native. The simmering rage of the “Seven Year Itch” was suddenly doused by the ice-cold bucket of my son’s betrayal. It was so absurd, so brutal, that I actually wanted to laugh. Before I could even weigh in, Leo wailed. It was a nuclear siren of a cry, the sound of a privileged child facing consequences for the first time. “Daddy, no! You’re gonna punish me? For her? For the ugly cleaning lady?” He stamped his little feet, shaking with indignation. “I hate you! I hate her! I want Ms. Summers!” Roman’s face went dark as a thunderhead. He didn’t hesitate. He dropped the cable, grabbed Leo by the back of his jersey, and—thwack—one solid, stinging swat to the backside with his hand, not the spoon. It wasn’t abusive, but it was shocking. Leo’s wail cut off instantly, replaced by a stunned silence, followed immediately by a scream that could shatter glass. “I’m calling the police! This is abuse! I’m telling TikTok!” I watched coldly. I didn’t move a muscle to save him. Roman hauled the screaming child to the “Naughty Corner” facing the wall, pointed a finger that meant stay, and then turned to me. The exhaustion in his dark eyes was bottomless. “Renée,” he said, his voice cracking. “I am so sorry. I have failed as a father.” He picked up the diamond stud from the table, frowning at it like it was radioactive waste. “This… I think this does belong to that teacher, Ms. Summers. But I swear to God, Renée, I have no idea how it ended up in my pocket.” I stared him down. Roman had beautiful eyes. They used to be the kind of bedroom eyes that made college girls stop in their tracks. Now, lines of stress fanned out from the corners, but they were still honest. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar. I knew that. But that earring was a thorn, and it was buried deep. “Ms. Summers,” I said, testing the name. “The one who teaches first-grade English? The blonde? The ‘hot’ one?” “Yeah,” Roman nodded, then quickly added, “I mean, I don’t think she’s hot.” His survival instinct was kicking in, but it wasn’t enough to put out the fire. “So explain the physics of this,” I pointed at the jewelry. Before Roman could speak, Leo, sniffling from the corner, yelled out his defense. “It is hers! I saw her wearing it! She lost it today and was crying! She said… she said she hoped a handsome prince would find it so she could marry him!” “She also said Daddy looks like a movie star…” Roman and I exchanged a look. The pieces clicked into place. Roman marched over to the corner, spun Leo around, and crouched down. His voice was deadly serious. “Leo. Look at me. Did you pick up Ms. Summers’ earring and put it in my pocket?” Leo’s eyes darted around the room. He poked out his bottom lip. Silence. “Answer me!” Roman barked. Leo broke. He dissolved into tears again. “I just wanted her to be in our family! She’s so nice! Not like Mom! Mom wears gross pajamas all day and her hair is messy and she looks like a zombie! The kids at school say my mom looks like the nanny!” 2 Kids say the darndest things. They also say the things that destroy you. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a giant, cold hand. I couldn’t breathe. Seven years. I went from being Renée, the rising star in graphic design, the woman who wore structured blazers and commanded boardrooms, to this. A domestic engineer. A chauffeur. A cook. I gave up the dream. I gave up the gloss. All for this house. All for them. And to my own flesh and blood, I was just “gross,” “old,” and “the nanny.” Roman looked stricken. He saw the color drain from my face, saw the light go out in my eyes. He let go of Leo and crossed the room in two strides, pulling me into his chest. “Shut up!” he roared at our son, true anger vibrating in his chest. “Leo, apologize to your mother. Now!” “No!” Leo jutted his chin out, doubling down on his bratty defiance. “I’m right! Look at her! What is she wearing? She never brushes her hair! At the PTA meeting, all the other moms had makeup and dresses. She wore sweatpants. Toby’s mom laughed at me!” I stiffened in Roman’s arms. The PTA meeting. I remembered that day. I’d spent three hours making the organic bento box Leo demanded, then scrubbed the master bath. By the time I looked at the clock, I had twenty minutes. I threw on my Lululemons—the expensive ones, I thought that counted—and ran out the door. I didn’t even check a mirror. I didn’t realize that in my son’s world, my devotion was his humiliation. Roman hugged me tighter, turning his head to glare at his son with eyes like ice. “Leo. Your mother wakes up before the sun to make your breakfast. She cleans this house while you sleep. She doesn’t have time to ‘dress up’ because every second of her time is spent serving you.” “I don’t care!” Leo screamed. “I want a pretty mom! Ms. Summers is pretty!” “Okay. That’s enough.” I gently pushed Roman away. I took a deep breath, willing my voice not to shake. I walked over to Leo. I knelt down so I was eye-level with him. I looked into eyes that were shaped exactly like mine, but filled with a stranger’s contempt. “Leo. You think I’m not good enough. You want to trade me in. Is that it?” He flinched at the dead calm in my voice, but he nodded. “Okay,” I stood up. The sharp pain in my chest had faded, replaced by a numb, cold wasteland. I looked at Roman. I spoke clearly, enunciating every syllable. “Roman. I want a divorce.”

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It started with a joke. A cruel, offhand comment by the team’s shiny new recruit about my “senior citizen” reflexes. He said I should be put out to pasture. My wife, Sloane—who I thought loved me more than life itself—responded by spiking my pre-game smoothie with enough laxatives to kill a horse. I spent the championship match humiliated, sick, and destroying my reputation on live stream. Afterward, she benched me. She claimed it was strategy. She called it “The Icarus Gambit.” She said she was giving the rookie, Jax, everything—the captain’s armband, the millions in sponsorship, the penthouse in downtown L.A.—just to inflate his ego until he popped. She claimed she was building him up to tear him down, all to avenge me. She bought him state-of-the-art gear while I sat on the sidelines. She poured money into him like water. “It’s a long con, Wes,” she’d whisper. “I’m making him think he’s a god so he falls harder.” I believed her. Until the car accident. My arm was crushed under the wheel. I needed emergency surgery to save the nerves in my hand—my career. I applied to the company for a loan. Sloane approved it instantly. But when the billing department called me for the ninety-ninth time to say the transfer hadn’t gone through, I checked our team’s internal Slack channel. Jax had reposted my medical request. He tagged me, then asked the group: “Some people think the boss is a charity case. Just because you’ve been here forever doesn’t mean you get to milk the company account. What do you guys think? Should I approve this?” My teammates—boys I’d trained, boys I’d protected—reacted with “laugh” emojis. They voted No. I felt my heart turn to ash. I voted No, too. That was when Sloane finally called, her voice dripping with that manipulative sweetness. “Wes, honey, don’t be mad. I let Jax block it to feed his arrogance. Just rest your hand. Wait for Worlds. When he chokes on the global stage, you’ll step in and save the day. You’ll be the undeniable GOAT.” “The day you lift that trophy,” she promised, “we’ll finally go public with our marriage. Okay?” She didn’t know that because of the delay, the nerves in my wrist had severed completely. I would never play again. And she didn’t know I was already drafting the divorce papers. 1 I didn’t get a chance to respond before Sloane hung up. The ER doctor looked at the blood soaking the trash can beside me, his expression tight with pity. “Mr. Carver, are you telling me you can’t scrape together three thousand dollars? If we don’t operate in the next hour, the damage is permanent.” My chest felt like it was in a vice. Instinctively, my right hand went to my left wrist, fingers brushing the cold steel of my watch. It was a vintage Patek Philippe. Years ago, when Sloane was cut off by her wealthy family for dating a ‘gamer,’ she had worked double shifts at a call center and sold plasma twice just to buy it for my birthday. “To us against the world,” she had said. That watch held the weight of every struggle we’d survived. I never thought I’d take it off. But here I was. The legendary Wes Carver, captain of Team Zenith, sitting in a fluorescent-lit hallway, unable to find a single friend who would lend me a dime. My fingertips were going numb. Sloane, I really have no other choice. I opened a resale app on my phone, snapped a photo, and listed the watch. Because I priced it desperately low, my phone buzzed within minutes. A collector was nearby; he came to the hospital lobby with a wad of cash. I stared at the stack of bills in my hand, then at my bare wrist. I felt a phantom weight there, a ghost of a promise. My eyes burned, but I finally exhaled. When I woke up from anesthesia, the surgeon looked grim. “We saved the hand, Wes. But we only restored about fifty percent of the function. Fine motor skills are gone.” In plain English: My career as an e-sports athlete was over. My stomach dropped. The World Championship was a month away. Jax was flashy, but he had no discipline. Without me anchoring the mid-lane, Zenith wouldn’t make it past the group stage. For five years, Sloane and I had bled for this team. She handled the investors; I handled the game. I managed the egos, the strategies, the 16-hour scrims. When we qualified for Worlds this year, she had cried in my arms, saying it was all worth it. I ignored the throbbing in my arm and grabbed my phone. I needed to text her. She knew specialists in Switzerland; maybe there was still a chance for reconstruction. But before I could type, a notification from Jax popped up on my feed. The caption read: “Boss Lady treating me to a five-star feast as a reward for being the team’s new shot-caller!” The photo showed Sloane, who is deathly allergic to shellfish, peeling a shrimp with a gentle, adoring smile. A bottle of antihistamines sat by her elbow. In the corner of the frame, the receipt was visible. Total: $33,000. A bottle of Romanee-Conti alone was thirty grand. My surgery—the one that could have saved my career—cost three thousand. To Sloane, three grand was a rounding error. She used to tell me the team’s burn rate was too high. She made me, the captain, lead by example. She took my salary, “invested” it for me, and gave me a $500 monthly allowance. Every expense needed a receipt and a memo. I thought she was just scarred from her family cutting her off. I thought she was being prudent. I indulged her because I loved her. It wasn’t about budgeting. It was about value. And I just wasn’t worth it. I screenshotted the post, my thumb hovering over the send button to Sloane. But I couldn’t do it. I was afraid of the answer. I thought I was her world. But did she really need me at all? “Sir, the patient needs rest, you can’t—” The door banged open. Sloane burst in, pushing past the nurse, her chest heaving. “Why the hell did you sell the watch? The one I gave you?” I looked at her, exhausted. “Surgery fees.” Sloane paused, blinking. “Wes, you scraped your arm. You needed a Band-Aid and some Neosporin. You spent three grand on surgery? Are you insane?” She paced the room. “I get it. You’re doing this to punish me. You’re mad I let Jax block your loan request. But Wes, you have to see the big picture! I need Jax to think he’s untouchable. I need him to think he’s crushed you so he gets sloppy. The higher he flies, the harder he falls. Worlds is in a month. Can’t you just suck it up for the team?” Her voice was hypnotic. The old Wes would have folded. But she didn’t notice that when she said Jax’s name, her eyes shined. She didn’t look at me; she looked through me. A year ago, Jax mocked me on stream. “Old man,” “slow hands,” “waste of a roster spot.” He didn’t know my hands were slow because five years ago, I took a falling wardrobe to the wrist to save Sloane during an earthquake. I fractured my scaphoid so she wouldn’t get a scratch. Back then, if a rookie disrespected me, they were gone by morning. Now? Sloane claimed she was “playing 4D chess.” At first, we played the part. She’d scream at me in front of the team, then slip a candy bar into my pocket later. I’d act depressed, secretly laughing at Jax’s ego. But the game changed. Sloane stopped slipping me candy. She started talking about Jax’s “potential,” his “mechanics,” his “star power.” She forgot to ask if I was okay after the car crash. She forgot that when she demoted me, she also cut my allowance to fifty bucks a month. “To sell the lie,” she had said. I stayed silent. Sloane frowned, her tone softening just a fraction. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to give you money. But Jax checks the accounts. If he sees a transfer to you, he gets jealous. He stops eating. You have to understand, Wes. I’m doing this for you.” So, Jax skipping a meal was a crisis. But my five years of sacrifice? My hand? That was nothing. My voice rasped when I finally spoke. “Sloane. Do you realize I can never play again? My tendons—” She cut me off, digging into her Hermes bag. She pulled out a toy model of a Bentley and shoved it onto the bedsheet. “Stop being dramatic, Wes. I know you’re feeling insecure.” “You were eyeing this car the other day. I know you like it. The team is cash-poor right now, but listen—once we win Worlds, I’ll take the prize money and buy you the real thing. Okay?” She forced the toy into my bandaged hand. “Jax is almost ruined. I’ve made him lazy and entitled. Just wait one month. He’ll humiliate himself on the world stage, and then you’ll sub in and look like a savior. You’ll be the hero. I’m going to make him regret ever insulting you.” Bang. The door was kicked open again. Sloane whipped around, annoyed. But when she saw who it was, the color drained from her face. Pure panic. Her fear told me everything. The “strategy” was a lie. Jax stood in the doorway, fists clenched, looking like a tragic hero in a teen drama. “Sloane. I knew it. I saw you ask the dealer for the extra model car. You bought it for him!” “If Wes hadn’t texted me to come watch this show, I would have been the idiot forever. It’s all a conspiracy? I’m just a pawn?” “Forget Worlds. I quit. Let him carry you!” He dramatically stripped off his team jacket—custom-made by Sloane—and threw it at me. Then came the Rolex I knew cost a hundred grand. Then the keys to the penthouse. I couldn’t dodge. The heavy keys struck my ear, hard. It swelled instantly, ringing with a high-pitched whine. I saw the smirk in Jax’s eyes. He wasn’t hurt; he was calculating. As he turned, his jacket snagged my IV line. The needle ripped out of the back of my hand. Blood sprayed across the white sheets. Sloane didn’t look at me. Not once. She was staring at Jax, frozen, terrified he would leave. Jax stormed out, “accidentally” bumping a nurse’s cart and falling to the floor with a theatrical groan. Sloane gasped. She rushed to him. I grabbed her sleeve with my good hand. “Sloane, wait. I didn’t text him. I didn’t invite him—” “Wes!” She slapped my hand away. Hard. Her eyes were blazing. She looked at me like I was a stranger. An enemy. “Who else would it be?” “Worlds is in three days. If anything happens to Jax, I will never forgive you.” I went mute. She trusted a kid she’d known for a year over the man she’d slept beside for five. Five years of marriage. Reduced to this. Sloane grabbed the toy car and ran after Jax without looking back. The nurse came in to find a disaster zone. My hand was purple, the IV site gushing blood, my ear throbbing. She gasped. “Some people… I swear. That guy bumped me on purpose. And that woman—she’s a CEO? Her husband is in here bleeding out, and she’s on her knees in the hallway crying over a guy with a scraped palm? She literally called the whole medical team to attend to him.” I glanced at the nurse’s iPad. She had the hallway security feed up. On the screen, Sloane—the icy, untouchable Sloane Evelyn—was kneeling on the linoleum, cradling Jax’s hand, weeping. I stared at the image. Years ago, when the wardrobe crushed my wrist, she had knelt just like that. Begging the doctors to save me. Crying hot tears onto my skin. I knew how she loved. And looking at that screen, I knew with absolute certainty: She loved Jax. I thought she was acting. I finally realized the only person she was acting for was me. “Wes, you are my anchor. Nothing matters more than you.” I remembered her vow when she started this “pummeling” scheme. Well, Sloane. It seems anchors are replaceable. Good thing I wasn’t planning on waiting anymore. I picked up my phone and dialed a number I hadn’t called in five years. 2 “Wes Carver? Are you serious? You’re actually willing to coach for Vanguard?” The voice on the other end was incredulous, then ecstatic. Margot Vane. Sloane’s sworn rival. She had been trying to poach me since the day she started her team. This was the first time I’d ever replied. “I am,” I said. I hung up and sent my resignation email to Zenith’s HR portal. It was approved instantly. My grip on the phone tightened until my knuckles turned white. She wanted me gone that badly. To please Jax. … I spent the next few days in the hospital. Sloane didn’t call. She didn’t text. I saw her on the news, though. At auctions, buying rare memorabilia, gifting it to Jax publicly. “The Duchess courting her Duke,” the headlines read. The industry mocked Jax for being a “kept man,” but they were envious. Jax posted on Instagram constantly. A photo of a bonfire. In the flames, the twisted metal of a toy Bentley and two other models were melting. Jax held up a keychain with ten real supercar keys. Caption: “Burned the trash. Feels bad to like the same stuff as a has-been. Luckily, Sloane bought me the real deal.” I didn’t comment. I just liked the post. On the day of my discharge, Sloane finally texted. She said she was coming to pick me up. We needed to have dinner. I knew the signs. This was the olive branch. She wanted to smooth things over. I didn’t refuse. I wanted to end this face-to-face. I waited in the lobby from noon until the sun went down. She never came. Just as I was about to call a cab, a notification from Jax popped up. “Wes, seems like a broken hand didn’t teach you a lesson. Still trying to cling to Sloane? Time for another reality check.” Before I could process that, the general e-sports group chat—with every pro, manager, and owner in the league—lit up. Jax dumped a folder of photos. “Guess who wrote these?” The chat exploded. “Whoa, love letters to Sloane Evelyn?” “‘I want to grow old with you’… cringe. Sounds like a stalker.” “That handwriting… isn’t that Wes?” Jax tagged me. “Bingo. Didn’t know ‘The General’ was such a sap. Care to explain, Wes?” I froze. The blood in my veins turned to ice. Those were the 99 love letters I wrote Sloane during our first year. On our wedding day, we buried them in a time capsule under a sapling in a private park we bought. We planted a “Marriage Tree.” Sloane said it was our sanctuary. Holy ground. No one else was ever allowed there. Jax sent a voice memo to the group. “Sloane, babe, interview time. How do you feel reading these old letters?” Sloane’s voice, cold and dismissive, cut through the speaker. “Disgusting.” It felt like a physical blow. I dialed Sloane, my hands shaking. “You took Jax to the sanctuary? Tell him to delete the photos. Now.” Sloane sounded bored. “Jax was in a bad mood today. I needed to cheer him up. It’s just a laugh, Wes. Don’t be so sensitive.” “You almost ruined the plan the other day. I’ve had to work so hard to get his ego back up. Consider this your penance. He’s coming back to the car. I have to go.” For Jax’s amusement, she fed him my heart. I dropped the phone. I hailed a cab to the sanctuary. The moment I stepped out, I saw the tree. Our tree. It was covered in red ribbons. But the ribbons with “Wes & Sloane” were gone. Every single one now read: “Jax & Sloane Forever.” “Jax & Sloane – To The Moon.” The dirt around the roots was fresh. Scattered in the mud were damp clumps of paper. Some charred, some soaked. My letters. “These are my treasures, Wes,” she had told me once. “Even when I’m old and gray, I’ll read these and feel young again.” I stood there for a long time. The wind dried the tears on my face until my skin felt tight. Then I remembered. Sloane had buried something else in the capsule. A “guarantee,” she called it. “If I ever break your heart, dig this up.” I fell to my knees and started digging. I didn’t have a shovel; I used my hands. Memories flashed—our wedding, the earthquake, the late nights planning strategies. They morphed into the image of her kneeling over Jax in the hospital hallway. My fingernails tore. Blood mixed with the soil. Finally, I hit metal. I pulled out the capsule. Inside, there was a single document. A divorce agreement.

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The day I announced my retirement, the internet threw a party. Twitter threads unraveled my career, Reddit celebrated my demise, and the industry breathed a collective sigh of relief. Only one person defended me publicly. Sophie. My boyfriend’s childhood best friend. “Maya is a brilliant voice in our industry. Losing her is a tragedy for cinema,” she posted, adorned with a heartbroken emoji. I was a top-tier screenwriter. My scripts didn’t just get made; they started bidding wars. But in my past life, Sophie had turned in a script identical to mine at the prestigious Horizon Screenwriting Lab. On the day of the awards, my boyfriend, Adrian—the golden boy of indie film—produced “evidence” that I was the thief. He claimed he was protecting the true talent: Sophie. I was buried under an avalanche of cancel culture. Lawsuits piled up. The debt collectors banged on my door at all hours. And on the day Adrian and Sophie went public with their romance, I drowned in the bathtub of my foreclosed apartment. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back. The Horizon Awards. The moment before the fall. 1 “This is it, Maya. This is the one. We’re talking Oscars.” The voice belonged to Silas Grant, a director with a Midas touch and a shark’s smile. I jolted, the phantom sensation of water filling my lungs making me gasp. I blinked, the harsh studio lights stinging my eyes. I wasn’t in the tub. I was in the conference room at Paradigm Studios. My assistant and the legal team were staring at me. “Maya? The pen,” Silas urged, sliding the thick contract across the mahogany table. “Sign it so we can pop the champagne.” I didn’t reach for it. This script, The Unraveling, was my magnum opus. It had taken two years of bloodletting to write. In my previous life, I signed this contract with a shaking, happy hand. Thirty minutes later, Sophie was announced as the winner of the Horizon Grant with a script that mirrored mine scene for scene. Later, I wrote a short film to try and save my career. When I submitted it, I was told it was a 90% match to a script Sophie had registered the day before. She had mailed the drafts to herself to establish a timeline. I couldn’t prove a thing. Overnight, I went from “Genius” to “Hack.” I looked up at Silas. My throat felt like it was full of broken glass. “I’m sorry, Silas. I can’t sign this.” Silas’s smile didn’t drop, but his eyes went cold. “Excuse me? We agreed on terms. Walking away at the eleventh hour is suicide in this town.” “I can’t explain right now,” I said, my voice steadying. “I will give you a result, I promise. But I cannot put my signature on this document today.” He slammed a hand on the table. “Do you know how much prep we’ve done? You think you can toy with us because you have a couple of hits? You’re nobody without a director, Maya.” Silas could blacklist me with a phone call. He was the gatekeeper. But before I could speak, a junior exec checked her phone and gasped. “Sophie just started trending. She sold a script to Apex… the logline sounds exactly like The Unraveling.” Silas snatched the phone, read the tweet, and glared at me. “What is this?” I frowned, feigning confusion. “Silas, I swear, I didn’t plagiarize.” “You didn’t?” He laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “So what, she plagiarized you? The girl who’s been locked in a wifi-free writer’s colony for a month?” That was the trap. The Horizon Lab was a black box. No internet, monitored devices. If I claimed the script was mine now, everyone would assume I was the one who stole it from the “sequestered genius.” I stood up, smoothing my blazer. “Give me one week. I will write you something new. Something better. I won’t delay production.” Silas stared at me, calculating. My track record bought me a sliver of grace. “One week,” he hissed. “If you don’t have a script that blows my mind, you’re finished in Los Angeles.” 2 On the drive home, my phone buzzed. Adrian: Babe, Sophie won the grant! Taking her out for drinks to celebrate. Don’t wait up. Adrian and Sophie. They shared a history I couldn’t touch—sandbox friends, secrets, a bond forged in their quaint hometown. I used to edit Sophie’s work at Adrian’s request. It was amateurish, derivative. When I gave notes, she’d cry, and Adrian would accuse me of being threatened by her “raw potential.” I eventually stopped trying. In my last life, Adrian had been the one to twist the knife. He went on Good Morning America with timestamps and metadata, claiming I had access to Sophie’s cloud. It was all premeditated. Adrian had been funneling my work to her. But right now, rage was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I needed a new script. I packed a bag—just sweats and my laptop—and drove three hours to my cabin in Idyllwild. I bought this place last year as a sanctuary. In the other timeline, the bank seized it before I ever spent a night. I locked the doors. I unplugged the router. For seven days, I wrote like a woman possessed. I poured the grief of my death, the cold water, the betrayal, and the burning desire for rebirth into the pages. Adrian didn’t call once. He was probably too busy toasting to their victory. When I typed FADE OUT, I felt lightheaded. It was dark, gritty, and real. I drove to the local library to use their secure connection and emailed the PDF to Silas. Ten minutes later, he called. “Maya,” he breathed, the aggression gone. “This is… visceral. You’re a witch. Come to the office tomorrow. We’re fast-tracking this.” “I’ll be there.” I drove back to the cabin and collapsed onto the bed, sleeping for fourteen hours straight. I woke up to my ringtone screaming. It was Silas. He sounded apoplectic. “What kind of game are you playing? Sophie just signed a deal with Apex for a script that is virtually identical to what you sent me!” I sat up, the room spinning. “That’s impossible.” “Check Twitter,” he spat. “And lose my number. We’re done.”

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There is a specific kind of intimacy in sharing a bathroom, a forced vulnerability that I have never gotten used to. But there are boundaries. And then, there is the violation of my prescription pH-balancing wash. It kept disappearing. When I asked my roommates, they feigned ignorance. Becca and Chloe just shrugged, eyes glued to their phones. But Sienna? Sienna laughed. “Maybe you just use a lot of it,” she sneered, applying a layer of gloss. “Or maybe you just have a lot of… problems down there that need fixing. You know, from being loose.” She implied I was dirty. That I carried something contagious. I didn’t scream. I didn’t fight. I just felt a cold, hard knot tighten in my stomach. I took the bottle, emptied the expensive medicinal liquid down the sink, and filled it with industrial-strength adhesive. That night, the dormitory was awakened not by a nightmare, but by a scream so raw it sounded like fabric tearing. 1 Let me back up. My luck had been rotting for weeks. First, the infection. A persistent, burning itch that kept me awake until the sun bled through the blinds. The campus clinic doctor prescribed a specialized, expensive wash. “Use sparingly,” she said. “This stuff isn’t covered by basic insurance.” I treated that bottle like liquid gold. But a month’s supply vanished in a week. At first, I thought I was crazy. I bought another one—seventy dollars I didn’t have—and marked the level with a Sharpie. Two days later, the line had dropped by three inches. Getting to the specialist required three bus transfers and a half-day missed of classes. The copay alone was half my grocery budget for the month. I felt every penny leaving my account like a physical blow. But it wasn’t just the money. It was the thought of someone else’s hands—someone else’s body—touching the nozzle that touched me. It made my skin crawl. I confronted them again. “Not me,” Becca said. “Gross, no,” Chloe added. Sienna was at her vanity, perfecting her eyebrows. She saw the bottle in my hand, snatched it, and held it up like a trophy. “Oh, look. It’s the coochie medicine,” she announced, her voice pitching up so the girls in the hallway could hear. “Maybe if someone wasn’t sleeping around with randoms, she wouldn’t need prescription-grade disinfectant. Careful, girls, don’t breathe too deep. You might catch whatever she has.” Becca and Chloe actually recoiled, pressing their backs against their bunks, looking at me like I was a biohazard. 02 “It’s just a bacterial imbalance,” I stammered, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “I have the lab results from the Medical Center. Look…” Sienna didn’t look. She just crossed her arms and smirked. “Save the act. I saw you last Sunday,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “Getting out of that black Mercedes G-Wagon. That guy was old enough to be your dad. Disgusting.” “That is the father of the kid I tutor!” My voice cracked. “It was pouring rain. He offered me a ride back to the dorms—” “Bullshit.” Sienna cut me off, her gaze dropping pointedly to my chest. “You smell like desperation. You’re hopping into old men’s cars and then coming back here acting like a saint?” I was shaking. Not from fear, but from a rage so pure it felt electric. Before I could speak, Sienna tossed the bottle. Clatter. It hit the trash can rim and fell in amongst the used makeup wipes. “Who knows what kind of diseases are on that plastic?” She grabbed a can of Lysol and began spraying the air around me aggressively. “So unlucky. I heard you can catch that stuff just from breathing the same air.” The panic was contagious. “Sienna, spray my side too!” Becca squealed. “I think I touched her curtain earlier, oh my god,” Chloe whined. “And she picked up my Uber Eats order today… I feel sick.” Sienna smiled, a predatory baring of teeth, and linked arms with them. “Come on, babes. We’re going to Target. We need bleach. Tonight, we scrub this room. Anything she touched gets boiled or trashed.” They left in a cloud of performative giggles. A second later, the door flew open. Sienna marched back in, aimed the Lysol directly at my face, and held the trigger. “The thing that needs sanitizing most is you,” she hissed. “Do us a favor and drop out. Stop infecting our lives.” I coughed, my eyes stinging from the chemical mist, tears streaming down my face. She slammed the door, leaving me in the silence. 03 I stood there, my chest heaving. Why? I was the one being stolen from. I was the victim. And now I was the pariah? My grandmother used to say, Swallow your anger and you’ll swallow poison. If I let this go, if I just bought a lockbox and hid my things, I would be admitting defeat. I would be accepting that I deserved this treatment. No. Fuck that. They didn’t deserve my grace. I pulled out my phone and opened Amazon. Industrial strength cyanoacrylate adhesive. Add to cart. Miniature wireless nanny cam. Add to cart. Overnight shipping. Two days later, the package arrived. When the room was empty, I tucked the camera onto the top shelf of my bookcase, hidden between two textbooks. Then, I poured the remaining medicinal wash into a travel bottle for myself. I filled the original prescription bottle with the glue. It was clear, odorless, and had the viscosity of gel. It looked exactly like the soap. But the reviews said it could bond steel to concrete. Finally, I took a label maker and printed a single word in bold, red letters: GLUE. I stuck it clearly on the bottle. I placed it at the very back of my desk, behind my laptop and a stack of notebooks. Hidden. Private. 04 That night. The scream tore through the darkness like a physical weapon. I bolted upright, heart hammering. Becca and Chloe were sitting up, silhouettes of confusion in the dim streetlights filtering through the window. We looked at Sienna’s bed. It was empty. My stomach dropped. No way. She didn’t actually… I scrambled down the ladder. The bottle on my desk was gone. From the bathroom down the hall, the screaming shifted into a guttural, animalistic sobbing. “It’s Sienna!” Becca realized, sprinting into the hallway. I followed, barefoot on the cold tile. Becca pounded on the bathroom door. “Sienna! What’s wrong? Open the door!” The only answer was a shriek of pure agony and the sound of something heavy thumping against the stall wall. The handle jiggled, but the lock held. The commotion summoned the Resident Advisor, a tired senior named Jessica, followed by a growing crowd of students in pajamas holding up their phones. “Move! Everyone back!” Jessica yelled, key in hand. She shoved the door open. The collective gasp sucked the air out of the hallway.

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When I was seven years old, the neighbor’s kid accused me of stealing a candy bar. It was a lie, but the way the adults looked at me—like I was already a criminal—broke something inside me. That was the day I was diagnosed, by my own internal logic, with a severe case of persecution mania. When colleagues posted brunch photos on Instagram, I didn’t just like them. I created five different burner accounts to monitor their stories, convinced they were badmouthing me in the background. When we went out for happy hour and the team started getting deep, I didn’t drink. I mastered the art of tossing shots into potted plants and studied counter-surveillance techniques to ensure I wasn’t being followed home. But the irony? For three years at Sterling & Finch, I was a model employee. I was the top biller. No one tried to sabotage me. No one tried to freeze me out. My manager was fair. My coworkers were painfully nice. The clients were docile. The CEO even gave us wellness stipends for burnout. I was just starting to feel like a lunatic—like my trauma was a vestigial organ with no purpose—when she arrived. The Intern. It happened in the breakroom. The air smelled of stale roast and expensive espresso. She deliberately tipped the scalding latte onto her own blouse, then shoved the empty mug into my hands. She turned to the Director, who had just walked in, tears already streaming down her face. “It’s all my fault,” she sobbed, her voice trembling. “I shouldn’t have upset Sloane…” In the doorway, the CEO looked disappointed. My colleagues looked horrified. But me? As I watched their judgment form, I didn’t feel fear. I felt a rush of adrenaline so potent it was almost sexual. I unbuttoned my silk blazer, letting it drop to the floor. Revealed underneath, clipped neatly to my blouse, was a high-end body cam. “Who wants to see the instant replay?” I asked, my voice trembling with excitement. “It’s in 4K.” 1 The entire Project Management team froze. Ivy—our new, fragile intern—bit her lip so hard it went white. She stared at the lens like it was the eye of God. “What… what is that?” “I’ve been recording since day one, sweetie,” I said, pulling out my phone to sync the footage. “Don’t worry. It has a wide-angle lens. It caught every micro-expression.” The color drained from Ivy’s face. Before I could hit play, Roman, our Department Director, stepped forward. His brow was furrowed in that way that usually made the female staff swoon. “Enough!” Roman barked. “Sloane, the coffee is spilled. Are you seriously going to stand there and argue that Ivy did this to herself?” “I personally hired Ivy,” he continued, his voice dripping with righteous indignation. “I know what kind of person she is.” Ah. Textbook gaslighting. Beautiful. I looked at him with genuine admiration. He was playing his part perfectly. My fingers danced across the screen, scrubbing the timeline back to the exact moment of impact. On screen: Ivy sneering at me, her face twisted in arrogance. “Sloane, don’t think just because you’re the top salesperson you actually matter. Roman cares about me. I have a million ways to make you disappear from this company.” “Right there!” I paused the video. In the freeze-frame, Ivy’s wrist was clearly cocked, the brown liquid suspended in mid-air, splashing onto her own chest while she thrust the mug at me. I zoomed in. I shoved the phone screen into the faces of every stunned colleague. “Step right up, folks! Does this look like an accident? Or does it look like a performance?” The silence in the room was heavy. Eyes darted between me and the sobbing girl. Roman stared at the screen, his jaw unhinged. “Cat got everyone’s tongue?” I broke the silence, my voice bright. “Come on, weigh in. Is this irrefutable proof or what? Ivy, honey, since everyone is shy, why don’t you share your creative process? What was the emotional arc you were going for with this frame job?” Ivy turned distinct shade of grey. “I… I didn’t…” She didn’t finish. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed backward in a faint so graceful it belonged in a Victorian novel. Roman, previously frozen, surged forward. “Ivy! Ivy!” He cradled her head. “Call 911! Now!” I leaned over, peering down at her fluttering eyelids. “Hey, don’t pass out yet. You haven’t finished your workshop on victimization.” Roman looked up at me, his eyes burning with fury. “Sloane! Do you have to be so aggressive? You literally terrified her into unconsciousness. Is your heart made of stone?” I rolled my eyes. “Digging up video evidence is hard work, Roman. I haven’t even gotten an apology yet. Whose heart is really the problem here?” But he wasn’t listening. He scooped Ivy up in his arms—bridal style—and sprinted for the elevators. Whatever. I stretched my arms, feeling a satisfying pop in my shoulders, and tucked my phone away. Ivy stayed in the hospital for a day. Roman stayed by her side, canceling million-dollar client meetings to hold her hand. I, the falsely accused top performer, didn’t even get a text. I didn’t care. I was busy. I ordered twenty more micro-cameras. I directed the delivery guy to strategic locations: the printer room, the conference hall, the supply closet—anywhere high-drama plot twists were likely to occur. The Office Manager caught me taping a lens under a fern. “Sloane, what are you doing? It’s an ad agency, not the Pentagon.” I just smiled at her. I didn’t explain. I had work to do. That afternoon, Ivy returned. She looked pale, fragile, sitting on the leather sofa in Roman’s glass-walled office. I was summoned immediately. Roman sat behind his desk, fingers steeped. “Sloane. Ivy knows she made a mistake.” “She’s just a kid, fresh out of college. She’s sensitive. She doesn’t handle pressure well. You scared the life out of her yesterday.” Ivy looked up at me, her eyes rimmed with red. “Sloane… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so sensitive. I misunderstood the situation. Can you forgive me?” Before I could answer, Roman cut in. “This ends now. We never speak of it again. Sloane, you’re a veteran here. You need to have a bigger perspective. Mentor the new blood. Don’t focus on these petty grievances.” I looked between them—the Good Cop and the Sad Cop—and almost laughed out loud. “So, let me get this straight. Being framed for assault is a ‘petty grievance’? And me nearly being labeled a workplace bully is just… a detail?” Roman’s expression darkened. “That’s not what I meant. I just expect you to be more mature.” “Oh!” I clapped my hands. “By mature, you mean I should smile while being framed, slap myself for good measure, and apologize to her? Is that the corporate policy?” Ivy sobbed louder, her shoulders shaking. Roman rubbed his temples, looking exhausted. “Why do you have to twist my words? I brought you in here to solve a problem, not start a war.” “Fine. Let’s solve it.” I reached into my tote bag and slammed a thick binder onto his desk. “This is a little something I wrote last night. * The Junior Employee Code of Conduct.* It details thirty-six common office traps, including The Breakroom Frame-Job, The Meeting Minutes Scapegoat, and The Intellectual Property Theft. I think we should roll it out company-wide. Mandatory reading. Pass/Fail exam.” Roman and Ivy stared at the binder. “Especially for Ivy,” I added, beaming at her. “As the case study for this incident, I think she should write a 3,000-word essay on what she learned, to be read aloud at the Monday morning all-hands meeting.” Ivy looked like she might faint again. “Sloane,” Roman hissed. “What is your endgame here?” “Risk management, Roman.” I widened my eyes innocently. “I’d hate for my 4K cameras to catch any more… negative energy. It’s bad for company culture, don’t you think?” The Code of Conduct was never published. But the atmosphere shifted. The cafeteria went quiet when I walked in. Colleagues who used to grab sushi with me now avoided eye contact. During project meetings, the air was thick with silence. So, during lunch, I pulled out my next weapon: The USB Drives. They contained three years of my work. Every design draft, every client acquisition strategy, every timestamped overtime log. I walked desk to desk, handing them out like party favors. “Sarah, here’s the raw data for the Q3 pitch you asked for.” “Mike, here are my annotated notes for the account you just took over. Thought they might help.” “Dave, this is…” They took them with trembling hands. I sat back down, serene. “Oh, and if anyone is curious about the provenance of my numbers, feel free to check the metadata. It’s all backed up. Transparency is key!” The next day, Ivy approached my desk, flanked by two minions—girls from HR who loved drama more than their actual jobs. “Sloane,” Ivy said, her voice dripping with performative pity. “I know you’re still mad. But everyone is scared of you. It’s my fault.” “Please,” she continued, “don’t be so extreme. You’re isolating yourself.” Her minions chimed in on cue. “Ivy, you’re too nice! She’s clearly unstable.” “Yeah, walking around like a porcupine. Who would want to work with her?” “Sloane, you need to apologize to Ivy. Or we’ll make sure you can’t stay here.” They waited for the applause. But the office remained deathly silent. The usual gossipmongers were staring at the trio like they were radioactive. Ivy sensed the shift. “Sloane… I know you’re talented, but you can’t take it out on everyone…” “Apologize!” the minions screeched. Suddenly, the Project Manager—a man who hadn’t spoken up in days—stood up. He held up the USB drive I’d given him. “Maybe you guys should look at this before you demand apologies.” He plugged it into the nearest monitor. It wasn’t just my work. It was proof—timestamps, email chains, edit histories—that Ivy had been copy-pasting my strategies and leaking them to a competitor to curry favor. “You stole Sloane’s proposal,” the manager said, his voice flat. “And you blamed her for the leak.” Ivy burst into tears and ran. That night, Roman called me. “Come to the office. Now.” “It’s 8:00 PM, Roman. I bill triple for emergency overtime. Send an email.” Silence stretched for ten seconds. “Ivy… she tried to kill herself.”

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It took ten years for Margot to finally say yes to my proposal. It took three hours and two extra martinis at our engagement party for her to destroy it. She was usually the picture of icy composure—the kind of CEO who never let a hair fall out of place. But tonight, the alcohol stripped that veneer away. She screamed that I was embarrassing her, that I didn’t know my place, and then, with a cruelty I’d never seen, she kicked me out of the Uber. “Get out, Leo. Just get out.” I walked for three hours. The headache from the champagne thumped behind my eyes like a second heartbeat. When I finally unlocked the door to our Tribeca penthouse—the one we were supposed to share as husband and wife—I found her on the sofa. She wasn’t alone. She was cradling him. “I regret it,” she was whispering, her voice thick with a tenderness she had never shown me. “If you tell me to stop, I will. I’ll call off the wedding right now. Just say the word, Jasper.” Watching her stroke his hair, seeing that raw, unguarded affection, I felt something inside me quietly snap. I decided then and there. I wasn’t going to wait for her to cancel the wedding. I was going to disappear. No one could have predicted that after I vanished, the woman who had always been so aloof, so perfectly detached, would lose her mind trying to find me. 1 I kicked the dress shoes off my feet. They were an engagement gift from Margot. Italian leather, beautiful, and a size too small. I’d worn them all night to please her, and now my heels were blistered and bloody. I left them there in the hallway. I’d rather walk barefoot on broken glass than put them on again. I dialed the number I hadn’t used in years. The ringback tone sounded foreign, connecting to a villa somewhere in the Napa Valley hills. “Dad? It’s me. I’m not getting married. I want to come home.” There was a heavy silence on the line, then a sigh that sounded like relief. “Okay, Leo. I’m getting old. The vineyards, the business… it’s all going to be yours eventually anyway. Come out here. It’s time.” I choked back a sob. “I heard you, Leo,” Dad said softly. “I thought Margot was different… I didn’t think you’d end up walking the same road your mother and I did.” He paused. “Don’t cry, son. You’re young. A man’s world isn’t just marriage and heirs. Build something of your own. Just know I’m waiting for you.” Before tonight, I thought Margot was different, too. She was a self-made powerhouse, dignified, fiercely private. She kept every man at arm’s length. Even after she made the Forbes list, there was never a scandal, never a rumor. Until tonight. Until Jasper walked into the party uninvited. For the first time in her life, I saw Margot shatter a glass. For the first time, she lost her temper over nothing, turning her rage on me and leaving me on a street corner. If it had been anyone else, I might have chalked it up to stress. I might have given her another decade of my life, asking for nothing in return. But the man in our living room was Jasper. Jasper, who had tormented me for twenty years. Jasper, who had taken everything from me. The one person on this earth I could never forgive. Seeing her bring him into our sanctuary was the final blow. I should have walked away then. But my hand, acting on its own masochistic impulse, opened the app for the living room security cameras on my phone. On the screen, Jasper was wearing my silk pajamas. Margot—the woman who never did chores, the woman who called my casual drinking “undisciplined”—was in the kitchen, carefully preparing a hangover cure for him. Jasper looked up at her, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’re really going to marry the substitute?” Margot didn’t answer. She knelt before him and began to massage his foot. “You don’t have to say it,” Jasper laughed, cruel and easy. “I know you did all this to piss me off. The big engagement party? Just a flare gun to get my attention. You can’t get over me. Look at this place. Industrial chic, just like I like. The ring you bought him? My style. The cake had our initials, really, didn’t it? Even the shoes on his feet… those are the ones I told you I liked, aren’t they?” Jasper pressed his foot against her chest, right over her heart. “You’ve always loved me, Margot.” She said nothing. She just stared at him for a long beat, and then, she buried her face in his lap, sobbing, before pulling him into a kiss so desperate it looked like she was trying to breathe through him. I stood in the hallway, tears streaming down my face. In ten years, whenever I tried to kiss her with any passion, she would turn her cheek. I thought she was reserved. I thought she was shy. She wasn’t. She was just saving all her fire for Jasper. For a decade, she gave me her body, her time, and her loyalty. But she kept her soul in a jar, waiting for him. I took a deep breath and turned to leave. But before I could reach the elevator, the door opened. Margot stood there. She froze when she saw me, instinctively dropping Jasper’s hand. “Jasper had too much to drink,” she said, her voice rushing. “He’s… he’s practically your brother, Leo. I couldn’t leave him on the street. He’s a good man, he has boundaries. He insisted on leaving so you wouldn’t misunderstand.” Margot, usually a woman of few words, suddenly couldn’t stop talking. Every sentence was a shield for him. I looked at her and felt… nothing. Just a cold sense of unfamiliarity. I was the one who grew up with her. I was the one who stood by her while she built her empire from a garage startup to a conglomerate. How did I end up being the placeholder? “He’s not my brother,” I said, my voice flat. “He’s the bastard son of the mistress who destroyed my family.” Margot’s face hardened. “Leo! How can you be so vicious? Apologize to him. Now.” She stepped between us, pushing me back toward the curb. “No wonder your parents left you behind. No wonder people find you hard to love. You’re bitter, Leo. It’s ugly.” The moonlight hit her face, illuminating the fierce protectiveness in her eyes. It superimposed perfectly over a memory I had buried. Years ago, when we were just kids. My mother had gotten pregnant by another man—Jasper’s father—and forced my dad into a divorce so she could be with her lover. My dad left the country in a rage. I was the debris left behind. Back then, whenever the neighbors whispered or the kids bullied me, Margot would stand in front of me, just like this. “Leo is the best person in the world,” she would scream. “If no one else wants him, I will. I’ll love him forever.” I had built my entire life on that promise. I worked myself into the ground to escape my toxic family, to be worthy of the home I thought we were building. But whenever I brought up that memory, she would frown and dismiss it. “We were children, Leo. It meant nothing.” And now, with Jasper back, she didn’t even bother with the gentle dismissal. No wonder people find you hard to love. I looked away, my eyes burning. Maybe she saw the blood seeping through my socks. Maybe she realized she’d gone too far. Her expression softened, just a fraction. “Look,” she sighed. “I’ll pretend you’re just drunk tonight. Tomorrow—” “There is no tomorrow,” I said. “What?” Before she could demand an explanation, Jasper let out a theatrical sob and ran down the street. Margot didn’t hesitate. She didn’t look at me. She chased after him. She moved so fast that something fell out of her pocket. A silver necklace with a star pendant. I picked it up. I thought of the small tattoo of a star she had over her heart. A tribute to him. Jasper. The pieces clicked into place. The ten years of devotion were just a play I was acting in alone. I turned and went upstairs. My phone buzzed. A text from Dad. Flight booked. Two weeks from now. The day of the wedding. The countdown clock on the living room wall—14 Days Until “I Do”—was now a countdown to my escape. I laughed, a dry, hollow sound. I grabbed a trash bag and started clearing the apartment. Every decoration, every photo, every “couple’s item.” Fate has a twisted sense of humor. I had two weeks. Two weeks to say goodbye to the life I thought was mine. The next morning, I was woken up by Margot’s ringtone. “Leo? You up? I sent over those soup dumplings you like. I’m not coming home today—crisis at the office. We’ll have to reschedule the engagement shoot.” She paused, then added, “And don’t worry about last night. I apologized to Jasper for you.” “Okay,” I said. She was surprised by my lack of fight. “You know… the wedding is just a formality. We know how we feel. We don’t need a circus to prove it. Let’s keep things simple.” “Okay. Simple.” Simple meant no marriage license. No photos. No officiant. And, ultimately, no groom. I hung up and walked to the wall calendar. I took a thick black marker and crossed out Wedding Photos. Margot was always too busy for me. So, I had filled the calendar with things I wanted us to do during the “wedding month.” A bucket list of small happinesses. Now, I watched them disappear under the black ink. I handed in my resignation. I went out for drinks with my few close friends. I told them the wedding was off. “We kind of guessed,” one of them said gently, turning her phone toward me. Margot’s Instagram. She never posted me. Not once in ten years. But her stories were full of him. Jasper’s silhouette at the beach. Jasper at a theme park. Jasper trying on suits. She was showing him off to the world while keeping me in the dark. “Leo, you don’t deserve this,” my friend said. “She’s going to regret this. That guy is trash.” “It doesn’t matter,” I said, looking out the window at the New York skyline. “I’m already gone.” When Margot finally came home days later, thumbing rapidly through emails, she barely looked up. “Place looks empty. Did you send the decorations back?” “You said keep it simple.” She blinked, then looked at the countdown. “Seven days. God, it flies.” I ripped two pages off the calendar. “Five days, actually.” The pages I ripped off said Ferris Wheel at Sunset and Private Dinner. She didn’t notice. “Don’t plan a honeymoon,” she said, distracted. “I can’t leave the city.” “I know.” She wouldn’t leave Jasper. I pulled the star necklace out of my pocket and handed it to her. Her eyes lit up in a way they never did for me. “You found it! I’ve been looking everywhere.” “I saw the reward post you put up.” She had offered ten thousand dollars for a cheap silver necklace. Our entire wedding budget was less than fifty. “Where’s your engagement ring?” I asked. She looked at her bare hand, feigning surprise. “Oh. I must have left it at the gym…” Her phone dinged. A specific, custom tone. Jasper. She kissed my forehead, already moving toward the door. “Sorry, hubby. Work emergency. Handle the wedding stuff for me? Once this deal closes, I promise, I’ll make you the happiest man alive.” She was suddenly full of sweet nothings. Before, I would have melted. Now, I just went to the bathroom and scrubbed the spot where her lips had touched my skin. The day before the wedding. Calendar item: Family Reunion Dinner. My biggest wish. And the most impossible one. My dad wouldn’t forgive my mother. I wouldn’t forgive Margot. I went to the Top of the Rock alone to watch the sunset. The city turned gold and violet, and I felt the memories detaching from me, drifting away on the wind. Check phone. Jasper had posted a new photo. A dinner table. My mother, smiling. Margot, putting food on Jasper’s plate. Caption: Parents meeting. Finalizing the wedding details. I didn’t feel angry. I just found it funny. Whose wedding? I blocked Jasper. I typed a message to Margot, deleted it, and typed it again. I never sent it. Just as I was leaving, Margot called. “Where are you? Send me your location. I miss you.” She picked me up twenty minutes later. There was a basketball-shaped pillow in the passenger seat. And an open box of condoms in the center console. I sat in the back. “Why the sudden urge for sightseeing?” she asked, checking her mirrors. “I know I promised to take you here. We’ll do it properly when I have time. Oh, by the way—my mom wants to see you.” We arrived at the old family estate. The dinner was over; only scraps remained. Margot’s mother grabbed my hand. “Leo, honey. You know I like you. You’re not rich, but you’re safe. Domestic.” She shot a glance at Jasper, who was lounging on the sofa. “Margot could do better, status-wise, but I told her—status isn’t everything. Not every man is willing to be a house-husband. You should quit your job after the wedding. Focus on taking care of her.” I nodded, zoning out. Margot walked over with a garment bag. “You were busy, so I had Jasper pick up the suits. He has better taste anyway.” She pulled out a suit. It was used. Frayed at the cuffs. It smelled like mothballs. Jasper, meanwhile, was wearing a pristine, white bespoke tuxedo. “The shop must have mixed them up,” Margot said, flustered. “It’s late… just wear it for the rehearsal photos. I’ll fix it tomorrow.” “It’s fine,” I said. We lined up for a photo. Jasper shoved me to the edge, planting himself right next to Margot. When the shutter clicked, he “accidentally” elbowed me. The result: A beautiful portrait of Margot and Jasper, with a blurry, half-out-of-frame ghost that was me. “We should retake that,” Margot said. “Maybe another time,” I said. “I’m tired.” Jasper’s eyes welled up with fake tears. “I’m so sorry, Leo. I didn’t mean to ruin it. I’ll drive all over the city tonight to find you a better suit. I promise.” He ran out of the room, weeping. Margot glared at me. “Look what you did.” She ran after him. I picked up the shabby suit and took an Uber home. It was 2:00 AM. I was packing the last of my things when I found an old leather notebook in a drawer. Margot’s diary. It detailed the year she was broke, living in a hostel, where she met Jasper. The crucial pages were ripped out, leaving only one line: The happiest days of my life. I flipped to the entry from the day she proposed to me. I was young and stupid. I mistook mud for gold and let the star go. No matter how hard I try, I can’t turn Leo into Jasper. But the past is dead. For Jasper’s sake, I will be kind to Leo. Her handwriting was elegant, sharp. I can’t turn Leo into Jasper. I looked around the room. The watches, the car, the clothes I wore, the cologne she bought me—it was all Jasper’s taste. I looked in the mirror. The haircut she insisted on. The gray hoodie. I was a walking, breathing cosplay of the man she actually wanted. She saw Jasper destroy me for years, and she sided with him. She knew he was my nightmare, and she turned me into his reflection. Rage, cold and clarifying, washed over me. I smashed the mirror. I grabbed a pair of scissors and shaved my head, destroying the “Jasper cut.” I ripped the final page off the calendar. The Wish: Marry the love of my life. I crumbled the paper and dropped it in the trash. I took nothing but my passport and my phone. I walked out the door, hailed a cab, and told the driver: “JFK. International Terminal.” At noon, just as I buckled my seatbelt in First Class, Margot called.

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Before the first snow even hit the ground, my world ended on a glowing smartphone screen. I was scrolling through “UniConfessions”—one of those anonymous Instagram accounts where students air their dirty laundry—when a post stopped my thumb in mid-swipe. [To the Physics girl at BU: You might want to check on your boyfriend.] The caption was brutal. The poster said she was at Carbone—impossible to get a reservation, naturally—and overheard a couple at the next table. They were making a scene. The girl was whining, complaining that the guy kept bringing up his ex. The guy was soothing her, his voice dropping into that low, liquid register that sounded like safety. “Maya is different. We grew up together. I can’t just cut her out of my life like that.” The voice was clear, distinct, and devastatingly familiar. It was my boyfriend, Liam. And the “Maya” he was talking about—the one he couldn’t cut out—was me. My heart contracted, a physical spasm that felt like my blood had turned to slush. I tapped the video attachment. It was only a few seconds of shaky footage pointing at a white tablecloth, but the audio was crystal clear. It was Liam. 1 I would know that cadence anywhere. It was the voice that had whispered promises into my hair at 3 a.m., the voice that had shouted my name across crowded football fields in the heat of July. Then, the other voice cut in—sharp, vocal fry dialed up to eleven, tearful. “But you promised to spend the First Snow with me! What if Maya finds out?” Liam’s reply came fast, laced with a soothing sort of impatience. “She won’t find out. I told her I had a department mixer. Come on, babe, stop spiraling.” The comments section was a war zone. [User1: Damn, voice is smooth. Too bad he’s trash.] [User2: Physics major at BU… implies long distance. Run, girl, run!] [User3: Wait, Carbone is in NYC. Is this a cheating scandal? Spicy.] I gripped my phone so hard I thought the glass might snap. Liam and I weren’t just a couple; we were an institution. Neighbors in middle school, lab partners in high school, and then survivors of a long-distance relationship through college. Seven years. He was the golden boy of the Finance program at NYU—Student Body President, charming, destined for Wall Street. And I was Maya. Just a Physics major in Boston. Good grades, but otherwise invisible. To the outside world, we were the gold standard. Seven years of stability. Every holiday spent glued to each other’s sides. A future mapped out in detailed spreadsheets. We had a tradition. For the season’s first snowfall, he would take the Amtrak up from New York to Boston to be with me. We’d done it for five years running. My screen lit up. Caller ID: Liam. I took a breath that rattled in my chest and swiped to answer. My voice came out terrifyingly calm. “Hey.” “Maya,” Liam said. He sounded warm, affectionate, with just the right amount of regret. “I am so, so sorry. The department just dropped a bomb on us. Mandatory end-of-year networking gala tomorrow night. I… I can’t make it up there.” I listened to the silence in the background of his line. Somewhere inside me, a structural support beam snapped. I was free-falling into a dark basement. He kept performing. “I hate that I’m missing the snow with you. Seriously. Once this week is over, I’ll come up for the whole weekend. I’ll make it up to you, okay?” “Yeah. Okay,” I whispered. My throat felt like it was full of broken glass. “Get some rest.” “You okay? You sound off.” He was always sharp. “I’m fine.” I forced a smile that distorted my face in the empty room. “Just a head cold coming on. The gala is important. Don’t worry about me.” “Good. Drink some tea, wrap up warm. Love you.” When the line went dead, my legs gave out. I slid down the wall until I hit the cold laminate floor. Outside the window, the first flakes began to drift past the streetlights. Boston’s first snow was finally here. But the boy who promised to watch it with me was in another city, getting ready to watch it with someone else. It was almost funny. I didn’t sleep. Not a wink. When the sun turned the sky a bruised purple, I DM’d the girl who ran the gossip account. I didn’t scream. I didn’t rage. I just asked, politely, if she could describe the girl or knew her handle. Maybe my calm terrified her, or maybe she just pitied me. Thirty minutes later, a reply pinged. [Anon: Hey, I don’t know her handle, but she was striking. Heavy makeup, beach waves. She had a really distinct tattoo on her right wrist—a blue butterfly. And I think the guy called her ‘Bianca’.] Bianca. Blue butterfly. Those two details were keys turning in a rusted lock. A name I thought I’d scrubbed from my life floated to the surface—Bianca Rhodes. My hands shook as I opened my high school alumni network, scrolling until I found the profile I hadn’t looked at in years. Her main feed was locked down. But I didn’t stop there. I went to TikTok. Searching variations of her name. Finally, I found it. An account called @QueenB_NYC. There she was. Her latest Story was posted yesterday. A photo of an Amtrak ticket. Boston to New York Penn Station. Caption: “Running to my happy place!” I scrolled back. A selfie from two weeks ago showed her holding a latte, and there it was on her right wrist: a delicate, electric-blue butterfly. It was her. Bianca Rhodes. My high school tormentor. She came from old money, the kind of girl who had the world handed to her on a silver platter. I was the scholarship kid who studied through lunch. We shouldn’t have had any reason to interact, except for Liam. Back then, Liam was the boy from the wrong side of the tracks. Single mom, poor, defensive. Bianca looked down on him, but she hated me because I had the loyalty of the handsome, brilliant “bad boy” she felt entitled to toy with. She made our lives hell. The worst incident was senior year. She cornered me in the locker room with her friends, mocking me for “dumpster diving” for a boyfriend. When Liam found us, I was already fighting back. It was the only time I’d ever thrown a punch, defending Liam’s fragile pride. Bianca became a forbidden name between us. I thought that after graduation, she would just be a ghost story we told ourselves. I never imagined she would reappear like this. As my boyfriend’s mistress. The irony was so thick I could taste it. I walked to the mirror. The girl staring back was pale, eyes hollowed out. I looked like a marionette with cut strings. Was I sad? Devastatingly. Was I heartbroken? I couldn’t breathe. But beneath the grief, something hotter was waking up. A profound sense of nausea and rage. I wasn’t going to let this slide. Seven years of devotion couldn’t end with a grainy Instagram video. I needed the truth. I needed to see it with my own eyes. And more importantly, I needed the people who broke me to pay the bill. I opened the Amtrak app and booked a ticket to New York for that afternoon. My roommate watched me pack, concerned. “Maya, I thought you were sick? Where are you going?” I zipped up my bag and forced a smile that felt like baring teeth. “New York. I’m going to surprise Liam.” 2 New York was cold. The wind coming off the Hudson cut right through my coat as I stepped out of Penn Station. My phone buzzed. A text from Liam. [Liam: Hey babe, you eating okay? Miss you.] Attached was a photo of a conference room. A projector screen displayed: “Dept. of Finance: Year-End Strategic Review.” He was putting real effort into this lie. I pinched the screen, zooming in. He was sloppy. In the bottom right corner, reflected in the glossy screen of a colleague’s MacBook, was a window. Outside that window was the distinctive red awning of Le Monde, a cafe near Columbia University. The “meeting” was a fake. He was just stalling until his date. I sent back a cute sticker of a cat eating noodles. [Just ate. Focus on your meeting, don’t get distracted! x] Then I hailed a cab and gave the driver the address for Le Monde. I haunted the streets of the Upper West Side like a ghost. This neighborhood was full of us. The bagel shop where we had our first real fight, the park bench where we planned our post-grad life. Now, every landmark felt like it was mocking me. Twilight settled over the city. The snow intensified, dusting the brownstones in white. I stood in the recessed doorway of a bookstore, waiting. Finally, I saw them. Liam was wearing a long black Canada Goose parka—my birthday gift to him last year. It had cost me a month’s rent. Next to him, clinging to his arm, was Bianca. She was wearing the exact same coat, but in pristine white. We had bought those coats as a set. He took the black one. I kept the white one. Now, my coat—or its twin—was on another woman. They looked perfect. Like a catalog couple. The most beautiful things on the snowy street. Liam reached out and gently wiped a snowflake—or maybe a smudge of sauce—from the corner of Bianca’s mouth. The look in his eyes was tender, reverent. It was the same look he used to give me. That was the moment my universe fractured. I stayed in the shadows and pulled out my phone. My hands were shaking so badly I had to brace my elbows against my ribs. I hit record. I captured every laugh, every touch, every intimate glance as they walked into the restaurant. My phone buzzed again. Liam. [Liam: God, this meeting is dragging on. Just a bunch of old guys talking about yield curves. Wish you were here.] Bile rose in my throat. I actually gagged. I didn’t reply. Instead, I walked into the cafe directly across the street and took a table by the window. Through the glass, I had a front-row seat to their date. I watched Liam tending to her, pouring her wine, laughing at her jokes like she was the only person in the room. I ordered a black coffee. The bitter liquid burned going down, but it couldn’t touch the acid in my stomach. One hour. Two. I watched them like I was studying a specimen in a lab. Detached. Numb. When they left, they didn’t head toward the dorms. They turned down a side street and disappeared into a boutique hotel. I filmed them walking through the revolving doors. I filmed them checking in at the front desk. When they vanished into the elevator, I stopped recording. I had enough. I finished the cold dregs of my coffee, stood up, and walked out into the freezing night. On the train ride back to Boston, I stared at my reflection in the dark window. My mind was a blank tape. Seven years. Gone. Back in my dorm, I locked myself in the bathroom and splashed freezing water on my face until my skin was numb. I opened my photo gallery. Thousands of images. Prom. The beach trip after graduation. The day we moved him into his dorm. In every photo, he looked clean, kind. He looked like he loved me. I remembered ninth grade. My family had moved next door to his. His mom was volatile, struggling. The neighborhood kids called him “trash.” He was prickly back then, a wounded animal. I was the one who brought him leftovers. I was the one who helped him with his calculus. I was the one who begged my parents to help him with tuition when he almost dropped out. We were supposed to be the success story. When his biological father—a wealthy real estate developer—finally entered the picture sophomore year of college, everything changed. Liam got the credit card, the clothes, the confidence. “I’m never going to let you struggle again, Maya,” he had told me over a $200 dinner. I believed him. But money didn’t just polish him; it exposed him. The insecurity was still there, just masked by designer labels. Bianca wasn’t an accident; she was inevitable. She was the status symbol he finally felt worthy of. And me? I was just the witness to his embarrassing past. The girl who knew him when he was nothing. Realizing that hurt, but it also clarified things. I deleted the photos. One by one. Then I changed my profile picture from us to a black and white portrait of Richard Feynman. It felt like a funeral rite. Goodbye, Liam. Goodbye to my youth. 3 For the next few days, I functioned on autopilot. Classes. Library. GRE prep. Applications for my semester abroad. Liam noticed the profile picture change. He started panicking. [Liam: Maya, why’d you change your pic? Did I do something?] [Liam: Please pick up. I’m getting anxious.] [Liam: Babe, I’m sorry, just talk to me.] I ignored them all. He wasn’t anxious because he loved me. He was anxious because his safety net was fraying. His love exhibited wave-particle duality: it looked like love when he observed it, but collapsed into selfishness the moment he looked away. Friday was our seven-year anniversary. The night before, he sent a wall of text. [Liam: Maya, tomorrow is our day. I bought the first ticket out. I’ll be in Boston by 8 a.m. Meet me at our breakfast spot. I know I’ve been distant. Scream at me if you want, just let me explain.] I stared at the message. Explain? Explain how he managed to be two people at once? I typed one word: [Okay.] The next morning, I slept in. I woke up to sunlight bouncing off the melting snow. I took a long shower, did my skincare routine, put on light makeup, and went to brunch with my roommate. My phone vibrated incessantly in my bag. I put it on Do Not Disturb. We shopped. We saw a movie. At 3 p.m., I finally checked my phone. Forty-seven missed calls. Sixty texts. The last one was pathetic. [Liam: I’ve been standing here since 8 a.m. I’m freezing. People are staring. I’m so worried about you. I’m not leaving until you come.] Once, that would have broken me. Now, I just saw a man manipulating the narrative. I texted back: [Oh my god. I totally forgot. I’m out with friends. Just saw this.] He called immediately. “Maya!” His voice was a mix of fury and relief. “What is wrong with you? Do you know how long I’ve been waiting?” “I told you, I forgot,” I said, keeping my voice light, airy. “It’s just an anniversary. We’re adults, Liam. We don’t need to make a big deal out of dates. I’ve been so busy with my exchange applications.” Silence. He was processing the shift in power. “Fine,” he said, his voice tight. “I get it. You’re busy. Look, next weekend, the soccer team is having a mixer back in New York. Can you come? I want to properly introduce you to everyone.” I almost laughed. The audacity. He wanted to bring me into her territory. He wanted to parade me in front of Bianca to prove… what? That he was a good guy? Or was this a setup? “Sure,” I said. “I could use a weekend in the city.” I hung up and immediately checked Bianca’s TikTok. She had just posted. A video of her and some guys in NYU soccer jerseys at a bar. Caption: [Some people better stay home next weekend, or it’s going to get ugly. ] It was a trap. They wanted a scene. They wanted me to show up so they could humiliate the “boring” girlfriend. Well. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. But I was going to give them a show.

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The first day of college, and the campus queen wins my fiancé in a ring toss. She was already sliding a dog leash onto his neck, insistent on taking him home with her. To humor me, my fiancé bet that if I could ring him within ten throws, I could do whatever I wanted with him tonight. I’ll be honest, I’d been dying to get my hands on him for months. But before my first ring even left my fingers, the arrival of the impeccably dressed Sabrina Wells—Westbrook University’s queen—changed everything. The polished chrome chain was already clipped to my fiancé’s collar. She smirked at me, a blatant challenge in her eyes. “My apologies. I won the prize first. He’s mine for the night.” Unbelievable audacity. Who in the hell dares put a chain on Rhys Harrington? I was about to erupt. The stall owner quickly tugged my sleeve. “That’s Sabrina Wells, the Westbrook darling. The only daughter of the Wells fortune. And rumor has it, she’s the fiancée of the Harrington heir from Greenwich, Rhys Harrington.” “Cross her, and your time at Westbrook will be miserable.” Wait, what? She’s the Wells heiress? Who the hell does that make me? I shot a questioning look at my fiancé. “Dad has another daughter I don’t know about?” 1 Rhys, wearing a sleek, stylized wolf mask, winced as he tried to subtly slip the chain off. He answered me dutifully. “Baby, I have never heard your father mention any other daughters.” That was genuinely strange. Could my workaholic father possibly have a secret, illegitimate daughter? No, impossible. My parents are notoriously and sickeningly devoted to each other. My father is practically wrapped around my mother’s finger like caramel. An affair was absolutely out of the question. So, who was this Sabrina Wells? I tried to be reasonable. “Look, I think you have the wrong idea, Sabrina. This is my boyfriend, and we were just messing around. As compensation, you can have any other prize on the stall, on me.” Sabrina acted as if I hadn’t spoken. She yanked the chain hard, causing Rhys to stumble forward. “Stay still!” Before Rhys could fully react, she aggressively looped her arms around his neck. Click. She’d snapped a photo. A moment later, a social media post on a local feed flashed across my phone: “Won the cutest, hottest Big Bad Wolf at the carnival ring toss! He’s my exclusive personal escort now! ” The humiliating chain was clearly visible in the accompanying photo. Comments exploded instantly: “OMG, Sabrina, you’re wild! I can tell that body is shredded even through the mask. Is he a model?” “Only a real heiress plays like this!” “Wait… why does his build look familiar? Like the Harrington family heir?” No one, besides me, had ever dared treat Rhys like this. The sheer violence in his eyes was barely contained beneath the mask. This was the harbinger of his full-blown, terrifying rage. I quickly warned Sabrina. “You need to take that chain off and delete that photo right now. The consequences are far beyond anything you can handle!” If Rhys’s father—the notoriously protective patriarch of the Harrington empire back in Manhattan—ever saw his only son humiliated this way, he would go nuclear. Sabrina, and potentially Westbrook itself, would cease to exist. Instead, Sabrina used her $30,000 designer handbag to smack me hard across the face. Smack. A searing, sharp pain flared across my jaw. She glanced at my Westbrook University ID clipped to my jacket and sneered. “Tsk. I wondered what lowlife I was dealing with. Just a freshman, huh?” “No wonder. You reek of desperation and poverty. I can smell it three feet away.” She stepped closer, her voice dripping with scorn. “Listen up, little girl. You’re new to college, and you clearly haven’t learned the rules of the world. Tonight, big sister is going to give you a free lesson.” “When a Wells family member wants something, whether it’s an object or a person…” Her gaze swept deliberately over Rhys. “…no one dares say no. I don’t care if he’s your boyfriend. I want him, so he’s mine!” Rhys’s fists clenched, a storm brewing in his dark eyes. “You’re looking for a death wish,” he ground out. The air went silent. Sabrina was visibly rattled by his intensity. Before he could move, I quickly intercepted his hand, meeting his gaze with an urgent plea for patience. Rhys froze, confused, looking at me. I gave him a subtle, calming look. My focus wasn’t on his imminent breakdown, but on the bag that had just hit me. That specific color, that specific wear-and-tear… it was a gift from my father. And the tiny, distinct scratch on the bottom right corner matched the teeth marks of my mischievous puppy, Winston. I had explicitly told the housekeeper to discard that exact bag months ago. How was it in Sabrina Wells’s hand? Was my father truly hiding a secret daughter? 2 I instantly called my father. “Dad, you need to tell me the truth. Do you have an illegitimate daughter out there?” A distressed yelp came through the phone. Then, my mother’s furious voice: “Jonathan Sutton! You rat! Who is the mistress? Tell me now!” “Eleanor, my darling, I would never!” The head of the multi-billion dollar Sutton Group was practically whimpering. “Avery, don’t slander me! I promise you, you are my one and only precious daughter. What’s going on? You and Rhys’s engagement party is tomorrow night. Why aren’t you two together?” My father sounded genuine. I hung up and texted him, enclosing a photo of Sabrina, asking him to look into her identity immediately. I didn’t know how she got her hands on my Birkin, but a lie is a lie. I was eager to see how this fraud, wearing my identity like a costume, would keep up the act. “Sabrina Wells,” I said, my voice dangerously even. “There are dozens of people here recording this. If a video of the Wells heiress publicly assaulting an average student gets out, the Wells Group stock will tank tomorrow. Can you handle that?” Sabrina’s eyes narrowed, and she shrieked her denial. “You dare threaten me? Ha! Rhys already assigned his personal security detail to me! Do you know what that means? I am his acknowledged fiancée, the woman he truly loves!” “Are you sure?” I countered. I didn’t think so. Rhys’s personal security detail—The Talon operatives—answer only to him, and to me, via emergency clearance. Just then, a squad of imposing men in black arrived. They wore the Harrington family’s distinctive Talon insignia. They immediately dispersed the crowd, forcing everyone to delete their videos. They then turned and bowed in unison to Sabrina. “Miss Wells!” My stomach dropped. I looked sharply at Rhys. He gave me a pathetic shrug beneath the mask. “Baby, I swear this has nothing to do with me.” But what the hell was going on? How could she command The Talon? Sabrina crossed her arms, a triumphant smirk on her face, and yanked hard on the chain around Rhys’s neck. “Now I’ve changed my mind.” “I want you to be my pet. I’ll enjoy playing with you every night.” She ordered The Talon to restrain me and secure Rhys. Then, she walked over to a nearby street vendor and grabbed a bucket of glowing red charcoal from a grill, holding it up to Rhys. She grinned, manic excitement in her eyes. “Pull his pants down. I’m going to brand my exclusive mark right onto his little friend.” Rhys’s face was a study in cold, dark fury. His chilling demeanor caused the Talon operatives to visibly flinch. “You better kill me today,” he hissed. “Otherwise, I will make you regret the day you were born.” Sabrina was momentarily shaken, stumbling backward. Then, she turned, enraged, and ordered The Talon. “What are you afraid of? I’ll take full responsibility! Did you forget the Boss’s orders to obey me?” Watching Rhys face an absolute threat of castration, I struggled violently, screaming. “Are you all insane?! This is the Harrington Crown Prince! You dare do this to him?! The Harrington family will tear every single one of you limb from limb!” Sabrina slapped me across the face again. The blow left my ears ringing. She pointed a finger right at my nose, spitting words. “Still acting? Who would believe that nonsense? He’s the Harrington heir? Then I must be the Queen of England! Say one more word and I’ll have them brand your mouth shut!” My nose was bleeding. My cheek burned. I had been shielded and adored since birth. No one had ever dared lay a hand on me. When I was seven, I fell off a horse and suffered a minor wrist fracture. The next day, the purebred stallion—worth millions—had vanished from the stables. Rhys’s knuckles turned white. His eyes were bloodshot. “The Talon’s first iron rule,” Rhys’s voice was lethal, strained. “Loyalty to the Master, not the Mandate.” “If you touch a single hair on her head today, I will personally carve the mark of the Traitor into the retina of every single one of your eyes.” Every Talon operative recoiled as if struck by lightning, their faces bleached white. “That…” one stammered. “That is the unique private punishment reserved only for Harrington traitors. No outsider could possibly know that… Could he really be the Boss?”

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He didn’t hesitate. Elias simply dropped the pen, picked up his phone, and walked out of the City Clerk’s office, leaving me standing beside the paperwork. He was taking her home to shelter her through the pregnancy. The next post Wrenley uploaded was a close-up, intimate selfie of the two of them, captioned with a heart. The background was unmistakable: our master bedroom. Moments later, a series of texts from Elias: “That night after the Gala was a total mistake, I was drunk, but Wrenley is carrying a life.” “She was going to hide it, raise the child alone, but she’s so young, Audrey, and destined to be a top cardiothoracic surgeon. I can’t ruin her future, and I won’t abandon this innocent life.” “You wanted a child soon, right? She’ll deliver the baby, and then I’ll send her abroad for her residency. The child will be yours to raise. It will only ever know you as its mother.” When I didn’t reply, he followed up with a final, crushing blow: “The license appointment? We’ll have to reschedule until after the baby is born.” I stared at the screen, a soundless, hysterical laugh escaping my throat. My eyes felt hot and dangerously red. Did Dr. Elias Stone—the arrogant darling of the New England medical elite—really believe Audrey Hollis, the only heir to the Hollis Investment Dynasty, was so desperate that I needed him? I scrolled past Elias’s blocked number and dialed the one I kept in my “Emergency/Max Out Credit Card” folder: Rhett Maxwell. “Marriage license,” I said, my voice eerily steady. “Are you still up for it?” 1 Rhett, still in his custom Italian suit, was spitting fire and curses as he sped toward the airport shortly after. He had been queuing for his flight to an important business meeting in Milan, only to be yanked back by my single, non-negotiable phone call to the courthouse. A wave of guilt hit me as I remembered the look of barely contained fury—mixed with absolute adoration—on his face. “Audrey, I swear I owe you my firstborn or something. Eight years, I’ve been asking you out, barely getting a second glance, and now you want to tie the knot on an hour’s notice?” I glanced at my watch, savoring the panic in his eyes. “It’s almost closing time, Rhett. Are you signing, or not?” His fury deflated instantly. “Signing! The papers are here, the flight is rebooked, and my parents already know. I’d be an idiot not to.” … Since I hadn’t replied to his condescending texts, Elias finally called. His voice was laced with urgency, the kind that always sounded more like frustration than concern. “Audrey, you are overreacting. I only have eyes for you. My regard for Wrenley is purely professional, and that night was a genuine accident.” “I get it, Elias,” I said, my voice flat, empty of any emotion. “Men.” The silence on the line stretched for several seconds. I heard him take a deep, labored breath. “Where are you right now? I’ll have my driver pick you up. Wrenley is experiencing some terrible morning sickness, and I really can’t step away from her side…” I cut him off. “Don’t bother.” His tone immediately cooled, switching to that familiar, lecturing arrogance. “Audrey, are you throwing a tantrum? I’ve given you the full explanation. Wrenley will leave after the baby is born. What more do you want from me?” My chest felt hollow and tight. Unconsciously, I clenched the marriage certificate in my hand, focusing on keeping my voice even. “Elias, we’re done.” He paused, then let out a sharp, self-mocking laugh. “After all these years? All I’ve done for you? I made one mistake, Audrey. Which man hasn’t? I’m offering a solution, and you’re going to be this aggressively demanding?” I pressed my lips together, offering no response. My silence finally exhausted his meager patience. “Fine! Have it your way! Break up! You’ll be calling me, crying and begging to come back, in less than thirty minutes.” The line went dead, leaving only the sharp, empty dial tone. I hailed a cab back to the house that, until moments ago, had been ours. I wasn’t going back for him; I just needed to pack my life into boxes and leave. When I pushed open the front door, Elias was wearing a custom apron, and the dining table was set with a variety of carefully prepared, expensive dishes. He and Wrenley were sitting across from each other, chatting easily over their meal. His expression was unbearably tender as he gently picked up a fork and meticulously fed her a piece of fish. That soft look—I’d been naïve enough to believe it was reserved exclusively for me. I remembered the rare times I cooked for him. He would hug me from behind and whisper, “Thank you, baby. You’re spoiling me.” A warm sentiment, maybe, but in the five years we’d been together, he had never once offered to pour me a glass of water. He was the youngest, most brilliant cardiac professor at the city’s top medical school. He always had the same reason: “These hands, Audrey, are for surgery. I have to protect them at all times.” Even when holding my hand, his grip was always gentle, almost tentative. Now, he had made an exception for Wrenley. For a mere god-sister. Elias saw me, gave a triumphant smirk that screamed, I knew you’d come crawling back, and settled back into his seat. Wrenley offered a sickly sweet greeting. “Audrey! You’re back! Would you like to join us for dinner?” I ignored her, walking straight toward the master bedroom. “Stop right there!” Elias was on his feet in an instant, his face dangerously dark. “Wrenley is speaking to you. You have the audacity to ignore her? Where are your basic manners?” I slowly turned around, pulling a cold smile across my face. “How did you want me to respond, Elias? Should I thank her for generously rushing to have your child so I can be a pain-free mother? Or should I scream at her, call her a cheap tramp, and demand she get out of my house?” “You!” Elias was momentarily speechless, his neck veins popping with indignation. “Ugh…” Wrenley suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes welling up with tears that appeared to be on-demand. Elias immediately rushed to her side, panic etched across his features. “Wrenley, what is it? Are you in pain?” “I-I’m fine, Elias…” She trembled, clutching his sleeve, yet her tearful gaze was fixed squarely on me. “Audrey, I know this is all my fault, and I hate staying here in your home. I truly have nowhere else to go. I… I promise I’ll leave the second the baby is born. I will never bother you or Elias again.” Tears streaming, she suddenly touched her flat stomach. “I’m so sorry, baby. Mommy doesn’t want to abandon you, but Mommy did something wrong, and I have to accept the punishment, w-w-w… I’m sorry…” She then collapsed into his arms, dry-heaving violently. Elias’s eyes, when they met mine, were filled with a raw, visceral disgust, as if I were the one who had committed an unforgivable sin. “Are you satisfied now, Audrey?” I let out a single, incredulous scoff and turned to walk away. My lack of a reaction finally broke his control. He snatched the heavy glass of water from the table and hurled it directly at me. A sharp, blinding pain exploded at the back of my head. The sound of shattering glass followed as I tumbled backward, crashing hard against the ornate stair railing. The acute, jagged pain stole my breath, leaving me paralyzed, unable to move. Cold sweat instantly prickled on my skin. “Stop the theatrics! Get up now!” Elias’s voice from behind me was rough and impatient. Wrenley rushed over with a performance of concern. “Audrey, are you… are you alright? I think the glass only grazed your shoulder…” “Shut up,” I bit out, pushing her away. I forced myself to stand, my head swimming. Elias’s eyes narrowed into slits at my treatment of Wrenley. “Wrenley’s lost her appetite. Go into the kitchen and make her that salmon chowder you make so well. The one without chives. She hates chives.” “No.” My refusal was immediate and firm. “That is an order!” Elias’s face turned terrifyingly dark. “Audrey, you don’t think you have a choice here, do you?” I balled my fists, meeting his icy stare. “I’m not making the damn soup. What are you going to do about it?” A dangerous glint appeared in his eyes. He lunged forward, roughly grabbing my arm and shoving me into the kitchen with alarming force. Slam! The door crashed shut. “The soup isn’t made? You’re not leaving!” “Elias! You’ve lost your mind!” I hammered my palms against the door, screaming, “Let me out!” until my throat was raw. The only response was a chilling silence. My hands were swollen, hot, and bruised. Finally, defeated, I slid down the smooth, painted wood, leaning my aching body against the cold door. Their voices, though hushed, drifted clearly through the thin barrier. Wrenley’s soft, concerned whisper: “Elias, isn’t this too cruel for Audrey? If she doesn’t want to make the soup, it’s fine. I don’t need it.” Elias sighed, heavy with self-pity. “Wrenley, she was utterly spoiled by the Hollis family. I have to break her of that attitude. If she’s going to marry into the Stone family—a medical dynasty—she has to learn our ways. How else will she properly raise our child?” He continued, his voice laced with contempt. “The Stone name is all about compassion and virtue. Audrey’s temper… my mother has always disliked her.” Wrenley sounded genuinely confused. “Elias, then why haven’t you just broken up with her?” The apartment fell into a sudden, tense quiet. I pressed myself against the door, holding my breath, utterly still. Yes. Why? If I was such a burden, why endure me? The silence was unbearable, finally broken by Wrenley’s tentative whisper. “Elias?” His cold, clinical voice was like a scalpel slicing into my chest. “The Hollis family’s financial backing in New England is second to none. Her family’s influence has been… extremely useful to my career over the years.” I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle the strangled cry that threatened to escape. Tears, hot and blinding, finally spilled down my cheeks. That was it. All those years, he had been pursuing the Hollis name, the Hollis leverage, the Hollis access. Not me. A sickening flash of memory: Grandfather’s sudden heart attack. Elias, the young, brilliant doctor whose audacious surgical plan saved his life. I fell for the handsome, ambitious man instantly. I only sent a thank-you note and flowers, and he started relentlessly pursuing me. And every career boost, every subtle promotion, every closed-door opportunity—I had arranged those behind his back, terrified he would reject them. How hysterically funny. I had protected his precious pride, and all the while, he was just using me as a valuable asset. The kitchen door flew open. Elias looked down at me, clearly startled, before his face hardened into a scowl. “Crying over a simple chowder? Get out. I’m tired of looking at you.” I fought the dizziness and stood up, stumbling toward the master bedroom. The cold hit me the moment I opened the door. The bed linens had been changed to the nauseating pink lace I always hated. The framed photo of me on the nightstand was gone, replaced by a professional studio shot of a stranger’s baby. I flung open the custom mahogany closet. Every single item of my clothing was gone. Elias’s voice cut through the air behind me. “The guest rooms are too small. Wrenley is heavily pregnant, so she needs the space of the master. She’s living here now.” Wrenley added in a small, shaky voice, “Audrey, you don’t mind, do you? I promise, as soon as the baby is…” “I don’t mind,” I cut her off sharply. “Where are my things?” Elias refused to meet my eyes. “I had the staff move them to the utility closet. The spare bedroom closest to this one is being converted into the nursery. You can choose any of the other guest rooms.” I stood there for a long moment, then nodded stiffly. “Fine.” In the utility closet, my bespoke designer dresses were tossed onto the dusty concrete floor. My fine jewelry was scattered carelessly in a corner, looking like discarded trash. I took a deep, steadying breath, then turned to face Wrenley, who had followed me in. My gaze was pure, cold contempt. “Couldn’t even wait for me to leave? That’s low, even for you.” A fleeting flash of genuine shame crossed her face, immediately replaced by the practiced innocence. “Audrey, I don’t know what you’re talking about! Elias asked the staff to clean out the room. I didn’t touch anything.” I sneered, pointing to the heel print on a silk gown. “The housekeeper did that, too?” “What if I did?” She suddenly dropped her voice to a vicious whisper, a flash of pure malice in her eyes, before quickly recoiling and feigning terror. “Audrey, please! Just leave me alone!” She let out a piercing shriek, throwing herself backward. Elias burst through the doorway just in time to catch her. Wrenley immediately clutched her abdomen, sobbing uncontrollably. “Elias! I didn’t do anything! Why did Audrey push me? Thank God you came, or the baby…” “I didn’t push her!” My throat tightened, and I reflexively tried to explain. Elias’s eyes erupted with pure malevolence. He grabbed my throat with one hand, slamming me against the drywall. “You think I would believe that lie? That Wrenley would use her child against you? When did you become this vicious, Audrey?” His grip was incredibly strong; I was practically choking, struggling to squeeze out the words. “I… didn’t… really…” “Enough! I don’t want to hear your lies!” He was furious, letting out a laugh that was more of a snarl. He shoved me hard onto the cold floor. “Get out! Go back to the Hollis mansion and play the spoiled heiress! Don’t come back until you realize what you’ve done wrong!” I scrambled to my feet, staring at him in disbelief. Eleven o’clock at night. He was actually throwing me out? I remembered a time when, if I merely went out for a late-night walk, he would insist on walking beside me. Now, his chin was raised high, and he wouldn’t spare me a single glance. My nose started to sting. How many times had he erupted in fury at me today, all in defense of Wrenley? Everything I said, everything I did, was deemed a mistake. And this day, this very day, should have been our wedding day. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and walked out without even taking a coat. I needed to escape this suffocating place. … I had just arrived at the Hollis family mansion when my phone buzzed. It was a video message from Wrenley. I knew I shouldn’t, but my finger involuntarily tapped the play button. On the screen, Elias was embracing Wrenley tenderly, his eyes closed as he softly kissed her forehead, his face radiating contentment. His voice was thick with what sounded like genuine regret: “Wrenley, if I had met you earlier, I never would have wasted my time with Audrey. You have such pure ambition, such professional talent. And her? She’s all entitlement, using the Hollis name to get by, spending all her time on useless side projects.” “The Stones are a generational medical dynasty. If I had married her, she would have ultimately ruined our reputation.” Every single word was a poison-laced needle, piercing the deepest, most vulnerable part of my heart. Wrenley, using her family’s connections in the medical world, had easily become his private student and “god-sister.” This was his definition of “talent.” And me? I had stepped away from the family resources, starting from the ground up to eventually climb to the position of Hollis Investment Director. In his eyes, that was nothing but “useless side projects.” I was nothing to him. He had never loved me. I dropped the phone. The tears finally came, soaking the pristine silk pillow. I tossed and turned all night. As the morning light broke, Rhett Maxwell’s call came through. “Wife? Did you sleep well?” His voice was bubbling with barely contained, genuine delight. “I just landed in Milan. Couldn’t sleep a wink on the whole eleven-hour flight. Still can’t believe you actually married me.” His tone suddenly softened. “Wife, I already miss you. Do you miss me?” Wife. The word jolted me, snapping me back to reality. I had completely forgotten that in a fit of pure, impulsive rage yesterday, I had married Rhett. “Wife? Say something. Are… are you having second thoughts?” His voice was edged with ten thousand volts of anxiety. “No,” I replied quietly. I had grown up alongside Rhett. Even if I wasn’t sure if he loved me, I knew who he was. The Maxwell family was a perfect match for the Hollis family. He was the most suitable marriage partner. I heard him breathe a massive sigh of relief on the other end, his usual aggressive energy returning. “I’m flying back tomorrow! We’re going to pick out the engagement ring and wedding bands! I know the ceremony was rushed, but the proposal, the wedding—you’ll get every single moment of it!” “You just focus on being the most beautiful bride. I’ll take care of everything else.” I couldn’t help but smile slightly, agreeing to his plans. That was Rhett. With him, everything was meticulously arranged. All I ever had to do was follow his lead. And Elias… I only remembered his back, always rushing off to surgery or a lecture. Even the marriage license was initiated by me. When I brought it up, he had frowned, “Five years? Isn’t it a little premature to talk about marriage?” The difference between being loved and simply being tolerated was starkly clear. The entire day passed without a single word from Elias. Instead, his mother called, her voice dripping with an air of superior judgment. “I assume you’re caught up on Elias and Wrenley’s situation? She’s carrying the Stone family’s first grandchild, and we will not subject her to shame. Elias will marry her. Thank the heavens he didn’t marry you yesterday. It was destiny!” She paused for dramatic effect. “I’ve always said you two were mismatched. The Hollis family is all business, the Stones are a generational medical dynasty. The cultural pedigree simply isn’t the same, is it?” I let out a cool laugh. “Mrs. Stone, Elias and I are finished. Please don’t contact me again unless it’s absolutely necessary.” She clearly hadn’t expected the usually compliant Audrey to snap back. Just as she opened her mouth to argue, I ended the call. She immediately tried to call back several times. I blocked her number without hesitation, then went through my phone and blocked Elias on every platform. I deleted every single photo of us. Five years of what I thought was love evaporated with a few clicks. The next day, while trying on wedding rings at a high-end jewelry boutique, I ran straight into Elias and Wrenley. He was eagerly ordering an incredibly expensive custom jewelry set for her and a bespoke gold locket for the unborn child. When he saw me trying on a platinum band, Elias’s face instantly darkened. “Audrey! I told you to go home and reflect on your behavior, and you’re here shopping for a ring? You think this attitude is going to make me marry you?” He roughly grabbed my hand, forcefully pulling the ring off my finger and tossing it to the store clerk. “We won’t be buying this. Thank you.” The sharp edge of the diamond sliced into my skin, and a line of crimson immediately welled up. The clerk rushed forward to offer a bandage, but Elias stopped her with a cold hand. “It’s a minor scratch. Don’t bother.” I didn’t acknowledge him. Wiping the blood on my skirt, I turned back to the clerk. “Please bring me the original ring I asked for.” Elias snatched my wrist again, his eyes blazing. “Did I not make myself clear? You are not buying a ring today!” The surrounding customers started whispering. “That pregnant woman must be his wife, right? The mistress is so audacious, trying on rings in front of her.” “Shameless. Trying to claim the title. See? The man is finally telling her off.” Seeing the attention, Wrenley interjected with feigned sympathy. “Audrey, please stop this. You’re embarrassing me, and everyone is staring. I’ll even let you have the bracelet Elias just bought for me. Would you like that?” The clerk, flustered, also pleaded, “Ma’am, maybe you should come back tomorrow? We can’t run a business with this kind of commotion.” Elias’s grip tightened, and I could feel him ready to physically drag me out. I tore my arm away. “Elias, my ring shopping is absolutely none of your business. Stay out of it.” “None of my business? Fine. I officially announce the end of our engagement. You’ll never need a wedding ring!” He shoved me hard. As I stumbled backward, about to fall, a steady, warm pair of hands clamped onto my waist, holding me upright. Rhett Maxwell’s voice, deep and resonant, sounded in my ear. “Wife. Sorry I’m late.”

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