My wife, the CEO, had fallen for a grease monkey. To fit in with his crew, she traded her chauffeured Maybach for the back of a motorcycle. Her collection of haute couture gowns was locked away, replaced by nine-dollar graphic tees with slogans like ‘GET RICH OR DIE TRYING.’ The exclusive membership at the Sterling Club was swapped for a monthly tab at a dive bar on the wrong side of town. I tried to reason with her. “Have your fun, Audrey, but don’t let it get out of hand,” I’d said, my voice low and steady over the phone. “If you embarrass the family name, it reflects poorly on all of us.” She called me stale. Predictable. “Donovan, have you ever done one thing in your entire life just for yourself?” Her voice was laced with a kind of pitying scorn. “When I’m with Jax and his friends, it’s the only time I feel free.” Then she blocked me. I stared at the undelivered message, at the stark finality of it. A flicker of anger, hot and unfamiliar, coiled in my gut. Freedom? Was this what she called freedom? Trading a billion-dollar empire for cheap beer and asphalt? I typed out one last message from my assistant’s phone, my patience worn to a thread. “I don’t care what kind of freedom you think you’re chasing. But if you dishonor our families at the foundation gala in three days, we’re done. This marriage is over.” 1 The message was marked as ‘Read.’ No reply came. Looking at the blank screen, the whole situation felt absurd. Audrey Croft was the perennial good girl, the dutiful daughter whose life had been a blueprint drawn by her parents. She’d married me the summer after graduating from Wharton, a union of holding companies, a merger of legacies sealed with a ring. For five years, we had been the picture of a modern power couple. The Crofts and the Shaws were more than satisfied. A stable marriage meant a stable alliance. On the back of our union, Audrey had been unofficially crowned the heir apparent to the Croft empire. But then, a month ago, some grifter had thrown himself in front of her car in a clear insurance scam. Jax, the yellow-haired biker, happened to be there and played the hero, scaring the guy off. And just like that, it was as if Audrey had been put under a spell. A part of me was hurt, I’ll admit. But I could tolerate it. In the face of family legacy and market share, affection was merely a seasoning, not the main course. I never imagined she would forget who she was. She started following Jax into his world of dingy bars and back-alley brawls. Smoking, fighting, even getting caught up in a petty shakedown of some college kids. I cleaned up her messes, quietly and efficiently, urging her to come home. She responded with a quote that the tabloids ran with for a week: she would rather feel the wind on the back of Jax’s bike than be suffocated in the leather of a Maybach. In the span of thirty days, Audrey Croft, the formidable CEO, had become a running joke. And I, by extension, was the punchline. My phone buzzed, dragging me from my thoughts. It was my executive assistant, her voice tight with panic. “Mr. Shaw, you need to see the news. How do we want to respond?” I opened the browser. The headline sent a shock of ice through my veins. #CEOInLove: Society Heiress Gets Inked for Her Bad Boy# #LoveThatCrossesTheTracks# In the accompanying photo, Audrey was lying face down in a tattoo parlor, a triumphant smirk on her face. And there, emblazoned on the small of her back, were two words in a thick, blocky font that screamed cheap rebellion: JAX’S GIRL. Jax. That was his name. Almost simultaneously, a call came through from the chairman of our board. My father. “Donovan,” he began, his voice devoid of its usual warmth. “I’ve managed to kill the story on the major wires for now, but the gossip sites are having a field day. How you handle this next is up to you.” He paused, and when he spoke again, his tone was heavy. “The Shaw family values its dignity above all else.” The line went dead. I gripped the phone, a hot flush creeping up my neck. I immediately buzzed my assistant. “Find Audrey Croft,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Use any means necessary. Bring her home.” Less than an hour later, Audrey was tossed into our living room, a burlap sack pulled unceremoniously from her head. She was spitting fire. “Do you have any idea who I am?” she yelled, then her eyes focused on me and the fight seemed to drain out of her, replaced by sheer contempt. “Seriously? You had me kidnapped? What happened to respecting a woman’s autonomy, Donovan?” She fished a crumpled cigarette from her pocket, lighting it with a practiced flick of a cheap lighter. She took a long, deliberate drag, then blew the smoke directly into my face. “So,” she said, her voice dripping with insolence. “What was so important?” I looked at her—the studded crop top revealing a sliver of her stomach, the ripped jeans, the smudged eyeliner. This was my wife? I didn’t recognize the woman standing in front of me. For five years, we’d been partners. Courteous. Professional. There was a distance between us, yes, but I had always treated her with respect, with a quiet concern I thought she appreciated. We were two well-cast actors, playing our parts in a long-running production. But somewhere along the way, I had started to believe in my role. My affection held a kernel of truth. It’s why I’d defended her, why I’d cleaned up her messes without a word to her family. But the stranger before me now made me question everything. Seeing my silence, Audrey rolled her eyes. “Look, if that’s all, I’ve got places to be. I’m busy.” She turned to leave, the clunky soles of her platform boots thudding against the marble floor. “My father called me,” I said finally. The words stopped her cold. She turned back slowly, a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. “What… what did he say?” I pressed my lips into a thin line, a small measure of relief washing over me. So, she still cared. She still understood what was at stake. The lecture I had prepared died on my tongue, replaced by a softer, more familiar tone. A warning. “You need to make this scandal disappear, Audrey. If you don’t, I can’t protect you anymore.” I expected compliance. Instead, she exploded. “Because I got a tattoo?” she shrieked, her voice cracking. “I have spent my entire life doing exactly what I’m told! Am I not allowed to have one thing for myself? It’s my body! Why don’t I get to have a say over my own body?” Her accusations hammered at me, and the dam of my composure finally broke. A week of swallowed anger and humiliation surged forth. “Of course, it’s your body!” I roared, the sound echoing in the cavernous room. “But you are Audrey Croft-Shaw! And you chose to tattoo another man’s name on it! Have you forgotten? I am your husband!” She flinched as if struck. It was the first time I had ever raised my voice to her. The color drained from her face, leaving it pale and shocked. After a long, tense silence, she took a shaky breath. A hint of her old self returned, laced with a newfound guilt. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just assumed… in a family like ours, feelings weren’t part of the equation.” She looked at me then, truly looked at me. “I’ll fix it. I’ll come home. I’m sorry I worried you.” Two days later, she kept her word. When I walked through the door, she was sitting on the sofa in the grand parlor. Her dark hair fell in a silken sheet over her shoulders, and she wore a tasteful cashmere set that spoke of quiet luxury. She stood as I entered, her expression placid, her voice a cool, even monotone. “Donovan. The tattoo has been removed.” She gestured to a small, fresh bandage at the small of her back, visible just above her waistband. “I will be going to the board personally to offer my apologies,” she continued. Then she retrieved a thick file from her briefcase. “I know my behavior has been… irrational. As an apology, I’m signing over 20% of my new AI venture to you.” I took the file, my eyebrows raising slightly as I scanned the first page. The company was at the forefront of generative AI, a market darling poised for an explosive IPO. The valuation was easily in the ten-billion-dollar range. It was a weighty apology, a gesture of sincere contrition. I handed the documents to my assistant, who had been waiting silently by the door, and nodded for him to handle the transfer. As I turned back, Audrey reached out, her fingers closing around the cuff of my shirt. “Are you still angry?” she asked, her voice so soft it was like a breath against my chest. “I promise, it will never happen again.” My heart gave a painful throb. I swallowed the bitter taste of the past few weeks. A crack in a vase can be glued, but the line always remains. In my mind, the perfect image of Audrey Croft was now irrevocably flawed. I closed my eyes, steeling myself. Gently, I pulled my sleeve from her grasp. “Don’t forget the foundation gala tonight,” I said, my voice colder than I intended. “The car will be here at seven.” She stood frozen, her eyes welling with a guilty red. I sighed, a long, weary breath, and handed her a gift box I’d had brought in. “A new gown,” I said. “Don’t overthink it. It’s in the past.” It was a truce. A signal that our alliance, our marriage, was still intact. She nodded, taking the box, her expression unreadable. At seven o’clock sharp, she descended the stairs. She was a vision. The gown I’d chosen, a deep emerald silk, clung to her frame, setting off her porcelain skin and cool, composed features. She turned heads the moment we arrived. With the seamless grace I’d always admired, she navigated the crowd, greeting investors and board members, her smile perfectly measured, her charm deployed with practiced efficiency. She found me by the bar and slid her arm through mine, a familiar, proprietary gesture. “Darling, I’m so sorry I’m late,” she murmured, loud enough for those around us to hear. A few of our acquaintances chuckled. “Look at them. Still newlyweds after all these years.” By silent, mutual agreement, no one mentioned the recent unpleasantness. As long as she was Mrs. Donovan Shaw, she commanded respect. The gala was proceeding flawlessly. Audrey was playing her part to perfection, a testament to her breeding. Later in the evening, after the speeches and the auction, the orchestra began to play. Audrey’s parents found me by the terrace. “Donovan,” her father began, his expression somber. “We apologize for Audrey’s recent… foolishness. It must have been difficult for you.” He placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “But rest assured, she is a Croft. She knows how to weigh her options and choose what is most advantageous.” I smiled and nodded, offering the requisite polite assurances. But his words left a bitter aftertaste. I was the advantageous choice. The logical one. But he was right. In our world, love was never the bottom line. As long as the merger was profitable, the marriage would endure. I could learn to retract the small, worthless piece of my heart I had foolishly invested. Toward the end of the night, my father made his appearance. I was about to lead Audrey over to pay our respects when I turned and found she was gone. I frowned, catching my assistant’s eye. “Where is she?” He looked uneasy. “Mrs. Shaw took a call a few minutes ago, sir. She said it was an emergency and left in a hurry.” My jaw tightened. What emergency? Every major firm in the city knew this gala was happening tonight; no one would dare interrupt. And if it were a Croft family matter, her parents were right here. It could only be one person. Jax. My father’s gaze was already on me. I smoothed my expression into one of easy confidence and walked toward him. “Father. Audrey was called away for an urgent matter. She sends her deepest apologies. Allow me to toast you on her behalf.” He looked at me, his eyes sharp and knowing, but he accepted the glass. He took a sip, his gaze unwavering. “Donovan, family interests are paramount, I know. But you are my only son. Your own well-being matters more.” I was stunned. I never expected that from him, a man forged in the cold calculus of corporate warfare. For a moment, a genuine warmth spread through my chest. But I shook my head. “I appreciate that, Father. But I have it under control.” He gave me another long, meaningful look. “You always were the one with the heart, son. Be careful with it.” When I returned home after the gala, the house was dark and empty. Audrey wasn’t back. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed one. I pulled out my phone, about to call my security team to track her down, when a text from an unknown number came through. It was a video. I opened it. The scene was a filthy, cluttered apartment. Greasy takeout containers, cigarette butts, empty beer bottles, and playing cards were scattered across the floor. Audrey, who I knew to be a fastidious neat-freak, who would often have the maids re-clean a room she found unsatisfactory, was sitting cross-legged on a stained carpet. She wore a faded, cheap-looking t-shirt and her hair was thrown up in a messy ponytail. She was playing cards with a group of thugs with brightly dyed hair. “Haha, you lose again! Off with an item, Audrey-baby!” a voice jeered. It was Jax, a cigarette dangling from his lips. The other men hooted in agreement, their eyes crawling over her with a slimy, possessive hunger. My stomach clenched. Audrey? Taking her clothes off? The woman who, for all five years of our marriage, insisted on turning the lights off during intimacy, maintaining a rigid, almost puritanical modesty. I told myself she wouldn’t. But my hand had started to tremble. On the screen, Audrey just shot Jax a playful glare. But she was smiling. She reached up and pulled her shirt over her head. Her bare shoulders and collarbones were exposed to their greedy stares. She didn’t seem to care. “A bet’s a bet,” she said, her voice giddy. The game continued. She didn’t win a single hand. Her tank top, then her shorts, were tossed onto a pile on the floor. Finally, she was completely naked. Under the dim, grimy light, she looked like a priceless porcelain doll put on display in a junkyard. The stares grew more brazen. Someone shoved a beer into her hand. “You lost the game, now you gotta chug the pain!” I watched her take the bottle, a wave of self-loathing washing over me. Audrey had navigated treacherous boardrooms and hostile takeovers for years. Her perception was razor-sharp. She had to see the blatant malice in their eyes. She was doing this on purpose. Or worse, she simply didn’t care. After a few more beers, her eyes were glazed over. She suddenly threw her arms around Jax’s neck, draping herself over him. “Jax…” she slurred, her voice breathy. “Being with you… it’s the only time I feel alive…” Ah. So that’s what this was. A drunken confession. The room erupted in wolf-whistles. Jax grinned, puffed out his chest, and waved the other men away. “Alright, alright, show’s over! Everybody out!” The door clicked shut, leaving the two of them alone. Their faces smashed together in a desperate, clumsy kiss. CRACK. My phone hit the far wall, the screen shattering into a spiderweb of glass. I stood there, breathing heavily, the silence of the room pressing in on me. After a moment, I walked over and picked it up. Through the fractured screen, a new text message from the same number popped up. It was from Jax. “Heard you’re a big shot CEO too. You rich folks really get off on some weird shit, huh? Gotta say tho, your wife’s body is tight. Like a teenager’s.” The roiling nausea and white-hot rage in my chest instantly cooled, solidifying into something dense, cold, and absolute. The heir to the Shaw Corporation. Being mocked by some two-bit parasite. And it was all because of her. I walked to my desk and picked up the landline, dialing my assistant’s private number. “Liquidate and freeze every asset, every share, every joint account connected to Audrey Croft-Shaw. And put the PR team on standby. Level-one crisis protocol.” A pause on the other end. “Sir? Effective when?” “Effective now.” Three days later, in the early morning, I heard the faint click of the front door. Audrey was back. She carried with her the stale, lingering scent of cheap beer and smoke. She looked exhausted, but her eyes held a feverish, manic energy. She froze when she saw me sitting on the sofa in the living room. After a beat, she affected a casual air, slipping off her boots. “Sorry about that,” she said, her voice flat. “A last-minute project came up. Had to fly out for a few days.” I said nothing, taking a slow sip of my tea. Her own assistant, who had followed her in, was pale as a ghost. She leaned in and whispered frantically, “Ms. Croft, you need to look at the top news stories. Right now.” Audrey frowned, pulling out her phone with an annoyed sigh. A few seconds later, the color drained from her face. Her knuckles went white as she gripped the device. The number one trending topic, in bold, lurid letters: #HighSocietyScandal: Billionaire Heiress’s Wild Hotel Party# #VIDEO: Business Titan Audrey Croft’s Sex Tape Leaked# Her head snapped up, her eyes blazing with fury. “You?!” she screamed, her voice shaking with rage. “Donovan Shaw, did you do this?! Did you stoop this low?” The video was pixelated, with blurs over the most explicit parts, but her face was perfectly clear. Whoever released it wanted to destroy her reputation, not just titillate the public. It was a character assassination. And it dragged both the Shaw and Croft names through the mud with it. I leaned back against the sofa, a smirk playing on my lips. “I did. What of it?” “You—!” Audrey was trembling, speechless. She had clearly never imagined I would be capable of such a thing—of choosing scorched earth over ‘the greater good.’ She took a deep, shuddering breath, reining in her fury. “Fine! Fine, Donovan, you win! You’re ruthless. Now, get this taken down. Bury it. Erase every copy from the source. You do that, and I’ll agree to one demand. Anything you want.” She paused, her eyes glinting with what she thought was her trump card. “I’ll break it off with Jax for good. I’ll spend the rest of my life playing the part of your perfect wife.” A dry, humorless laugh escaped my lips. She really thought this was all some grand, manipulative gesture to force her back into line. She thought my ultimate goal was simply to maintain our respectable, hollow marriage. She had no idea. I was done wanting her. I stood up and retrieved a document from the desk drawer. “Alright,” I said, sliding it across the polished mahogany table toward her. Her eyes lit up with a flash of triumph. But then I finished my sentence. “I’ll have it all taken down the moment you sign the divorce papers.”

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Three days after the stomach cancer diagnosis, I picked out a grave. A prime piece of real estate, overlooking the valley. They said the spot was impeccable. It would guarantee a better life next time. A life where I wouldn’t be the unwanted “real daughter” — the one who came back and ruined the harmony. A life where no one could steal my parents, my brothers, my life. A life where… I was loved. I burned the photos, shredded the clothes, and erased every trace that Rowan Harrington had ever existed. Then I ran a bath, took a blade to my wrist, and settled in to wait. The call came as a final, cruel interruption. My final resting place, of all things. “Ms. Harrington, we are so sorry.” The voice from The Haven Memorial Park was slick with apology. “Two agents cross-booked the plot.” “It was simultaneously sold to another gentleman, Mr. Rhys Thorne.” “Would you… be open to choosing a different plot?” 1 Hell, no! I’d heard of moving cars, moving apartments. But a grave? Rage and despair churned in my stomach, making the blood loss-induced nausea worse. I lurched upright in the tub. Blood-dyed water sloshed over the rim, staining the pristine marble floor. Every curse word I had ever swallowed in my life rushed to my lips. But habit was a fortress. I forced the venom down. “I watched the contract upload into your system. It’s tied to my personal information.” “Yes, well,” the park representative stammered, “Mr. Thorne signed his contract at the same time, so…” “So, his name isn’t on the system yet, is it?” I cut him off, my voice dangerously calm. “I’m sorry, but no. I am not open to choosing a different plot.” When I came home, I couldn’t win the fight for my family. My parents, my brothers—they all went to my sister, Chloe. But this plot? It was legally mine. I wasn’t going to lose this, too. The line went silent for a beat. When the voice returned, it was a low, resonant baritone I didn’t recognize. “Ms. Harrington, name your price.” “Any amount. Consider it compensation.” The edges of my vision were starting to blur from the loss of blood. I pressed the heels of my hands into my forehead, trying to clear the haze. “It’s not about the money.” I told him honestly, the words slurring only slightly. “I need it. Urgently.” But the cemetery, clearly sensing a big-money client, jumped to the new man’s defense. “Ms. Harrington, we genuinely have hundreds of other premium plots. Mr. Thorne… he has a more immediate need.” “And you’re a young woman. Even if you’re in a rush, you have time to—” “Is Mr. Thorne purchasing it for himself?” I interrupted. My question stopped them both. I didn’t wait for the answer. I looked down at the hand soaking in the warm, crimson water. Softly, calmly, I deployed my greatest competitive advantage. “I’m slitting my wrists right now. I’m dying today.” “I really do need it urgently.” “Please stop fighting me for it. Or, if you love it that much, maybe we can… split the plot?” 2 A sudden, stunned silence fell over the phone line. I didn’t break it. I was doing a mental check of logistics. I figured cremation this afternoon and burial tonight would be the most secure option. This plot—my perfect, private spot—I had to secure it. But to do that, I needed to ensure someone would collect the body. No delays. I bit back a whimper of pain, grabbed the phone off the edge of the tub, and opened the family group chat. The one pinned to the top of my messages. Ro: Guys, I’m planning on taking my life. Ro: Could one of you please come back to the condo to collect the body? Ro: @all. I hit send, not mentioning the cancer—that would just sound like another lie. Less than twenty seconds later, the screen flashed: [Dad] has left the chat. A bitter laugh escaped me. Perfect. Once the logistics were sorted, I’d dissolve the group myself. They had their other group chat, anyway. The one that didn’t include me. On the phone, Rhys Thorne cleared his throat. His tone was a complex weave of shock, doubt, and careful concern. “Ms. Harrington, you’re… kidding, right?” A fresh line of blood tracked from my wrist down to my elbow, hitting the water with a light, clear plink. It served as my answer. The line went silent again. Then, a sudden rush of wind roared in the background of his call. He must have been outside, or maybe speeding somewhere. I didn’t pay attention. The dizziness was getting worse. My family group chat remained desolate. No one answered. I pressed my lips together, took a shaky breath, and snapped a gruesome photo of my bloodied arm. Ro: Sorry. No joke this time. Ro: The grave site is being fought over. I’m serious about the rush. Ro: Just reply to me once. This is the last time. Please? Buzz. The phone vibrated weakly a moment later. Unexpectedly, someone replied. Ethan: K. 3 K. Go to hell, Ethan. Ro: Thank you for your service. I exited the chat, intending to delete the app altogether. But the phone immediately buzzed a few more times. Chloe: Sis, I’m so sorry… I’ll make Mom, Dad, and the guys come back right now. Chloe: Ethan is busy with work, let’s not bother him. Declan: Come back for what, a pity party?! Declan: This is all because it’s your birthday, and we’re out with Chloe, isn’t it? Declan: We said we’d be back tonight! Rowan, what the hell do you want? Declan: You can’t go one day without causing drama? Can’t you stop performing for attention? A sharp, physical pain constricted my chest. I smiled a pained, shaky smile. Ro: Sure I can. I’m dying, remember? Chloe. She was the girl my parents adopted three years after I was accidentally abducted. She was supposed to be my temporary replacement, a vessel for their grief and guilt. But ever since I came back, I’d envied her. Chloe was the blinding sunlight that helped my family move past the shadows. I was the shadow they couldn’t shake. I came back with all the scars and side effects of my years missing: uncouth, timid, awkward, lacking education. They felt a crushing guilt toward me, but that guilt was wrapped in an uncomfortable distance. I was a permanent, unwelcome guest in the Harrington house. Chloe was their family—the one they laughed with, joked with, and indulged. I tried for years to erase the seven missing years, to ingratiate myself, to earn their love. But no matter how hard I tried, their preference for Chloe only grew. They started to see me as jealous, bullying, manipulative—always vying for their attention. The distance became outright contempt. It all broke on that final day: “We ran tests. Your pill bottle was filled with vitamins!” “Why the hell do you keep complaining about stomach pain then?” “Using our guilt to hold the entire family hostage, is that fun?” “Competing with Chloe, is that what makes you happy?!” No. It wasn’t fun. So now I had cancer. And I was dying. I wouldn’t be a burden or a rival to their precious Chloe anymore. This family? They could keep it. 4 Mom: Rowan… how did you become like this? Mom: Blame me, but please don’t do this. Mom: I’m coming back now… Declan: Mom, ignore her! She’s a liar! Suicide? Fine! Go drown yourself in the ocean! Declan: Just don’t mess up the house or bother us with the cleanup. Declan: From now on, the Harrington family doesn’t have you. A pause. Fifteen seconds of excruciating silence. Then, he sent the final, fatal message: Declan: Sometimes, I actually wish you had never come back. The cut on my wrist, which had felt numb moments ago, erupted in searing, soul-shattering pain. It was a physical manifestation of the emotional wound. Tears that I couldn’t control began to stream down my face. “Rowan Harrington!” Perhaps my silence had lasted too long. Rhys Thorne’s voice—deep, strong, and utterly furious—came through the phone. The wind howled on his end of the line. “Talk to me!” 5 His shout dragged me back to my body. I blinked away the tears, quickly pressed a towel to the major bleeding points on my wrist, and slowly, weakly, stood up. I managed a small, tired smile as I closed my eyes. “The plot is yours.” “I won’t be needing it anymore.” 6 Ro: K, sounds good. I’ll take your advice. 7 Since the burial plot was legally tied to my information, both parties had to meet to sign the transfer papers. I set the meeting location at Metropolitan General Hospital. I needed to get stitched up before going to the ocean, anyway. After such a long time bleeding, I might not make it to the water otherwise. And then I’d just be a mess for someone else to clean up. I was surprised. Rhys Thorne should have been driving from the distant memorial park, yet he arrived only ten minutes after I did, despite me being in the city. The agent, wiping sweat from his brow, noticed my confusion. “Mr. Thorne drove straight here the moment he heard you were… suicidal.” “He checked your file for your home address and sped back to the city.” “He probably broke every speed limit.” I looked over at the man standing next to the agent. Tall, well-built, dressed in a simple white tee, a casual jacket, and chinos. He was remarkably handsome, with clear, intense eyes. “You just got here, too?” Rhys asked, slightly out of breath. “Come on, we need to find a nurse—” “Rowan Harrington, number zero-zero-seven, please report to Examination Room B.” The robotic voice from the speaker cut him off. Rhys stared at me, dumbfounded. “You’re in this condition, and you took a number?” I nodded, confused by his reaction. “Uh, yeah. Why? No rush, right? Don’t want to take up the ER resources.” “Rowan Harrington?” A familiar, icy voice of surprise sounded behind me. I turned. I hadn’t expected to see Owen Harrington—my second brother, a rising star internist at the City Hospital. What was he doing here, at Metro General? Owen clearly hadn’t expected the name being called to actually be me. His brow furrowed as he approached. The screen of his phone was lit up. It looked like a text message thread. Oh, no. It must have been the group chat. “Did you know I was here for a surgical symposium today?” His voice was a cold, distant accusation. His eyes swept over my makeshift-bandaged wrist, and a flicker of impatience crossed his face. “There’s a limit to how far you can push a pathetic stunt, Rowan.” 8 The Harrington family had three sons. Ethan was the businessman, Owen the doctor, and Declan the racecar driver. Compared to Declan’s toxic cruelty, my older brothers were generally characterized by their busy schedules and cool indifference. I barely reacted to Owen’s words. Rhys Thorne, however, frowned instantly. He stepped forward, taking my arm and pulling me into the exam room, gently sitting me down on the edge of the examination table. “Doctor, this is an emergency. It cannot be delayed.” Rhys shot a pointed, cold glance back at Owen, who was still standing at the door. Owen’s face tightened. He stood frozen for a few seconds, then let out a cold, cynical laugh. “You’ve stooped so low that only Chloe would fall for this performance.” “She was worried sick about you and is already hurrying Mom and Dad back home.” “Congratulations. As you wished, the whole family is miserable. Satisfied?” His gaze slid over my bandaged wrist again. His eyes darkened, but he said nothing else. He simply turned, walking toward the exit, apparently confident I would follow his command. That’s when the doctor, reading the information from my intake card, gasped. “You have stomach cancer?!” “This needs a gastroenterologist. You registered for general surgery—that won’t help you!” The exam room fell silent. The hand Rhys had on my wrist froze instantly. Owen Harrington stopped dead in the doorway. But unlike Rhys’s sheer shock, Owen’s face registered immediate annoyance and contempt. “First a suicide attempt, now cancer.” “Rowan Harrington, know when to quit.” “If you keep this up, you won’t have a way to save face if you don’t actually die.” My eyes flickered, the pain replaced by a quiet, bitter amusement. I nodded slowly, forcing a slight smile. “Okay. Then I guess I’ll just go die.” 9 Owen let out a short, tired scoff and pinched the bridge of his nose. His impatience was bordering on outright disgust. “I’ve been in meetings for hours. I’m too exhausted to watch your performance, Rowan.” Owen’s work was demanding and unpredictable. For years, I had quietly adapted to his schedule, making sure I never added to his burdens. If this were a month ago, I would have rushed over, offered a water, and apologized for troubling him. But this time, I stayed put, sitting quietly. I looked up at him, my expression blank. “Then you should go home and rest early.” Owen’s face froze. A flash of something—confusion? panic?—crossed his eyes, before it snapped back to his default cold indifference. “Whatever. Do what you want.” “Just keep your word. If you’re not coming home, don’t ever come back.” My heart remained utterly still, like dead water that couldn’t be stirred. I nodded softly, my smile serene. “K. Sounds good. I’ll take your advice.” “Take my advice, my ass.” Very suddenly, Rhys Thorne snapped. He gently but firmly pulled my hand onto the examination table for the doctor, stood up, and turned to face Owen. Rhys’s eyes were dark, his expression lethal. He only said one word. “Roll.” 10 The exam room door slammed shut behind Owen. Rhys pulled up a chair next to mine and sat down, silently watching the doctor unwrapping the crude bandage on my wrist. I broke the silence. “Just give me the transfer papers. I’ll sign them now.” I didn’t want to waste his time. Rhys didn’t answer. His gaze moved from the grotesque cut on my arm to my eyes. “You said you needed it urgently. Why concede?” “And if you’re not going home, where exactly are you going?” The plot’s yours, dude. Why do you care? I thought. Stop interrogating me. I was planning to just use the safe excuse—I don’t need it. But Rhys’s eyes were too intense, too perceptive. I had a feeling that any lie would only prolong the conversation. I sighed, giving in to the strange necessity of the truth. “It’s too much trouble to arrange for someone to collect the body.” “So, I’m planning to drown myself in the sea and feed the fish.” “The plot is no long—Ouch!” The doctor, apparently startled by my morbid update, lost his grip on the gauze, tightening it painfully. He gave me an apologetic look, clipped the dressing tape, and then paused. He spoke gently. “Are you sure you don’t want to try and fight this?” “With good management, you can usually buy yourself five more years with stomach cancer.” I blinked, then shook my head with a light laugh. “Nah. Lived long enough. I don’t need the extra three to five years.” I pulled my bandaged hand back and turned my head, intending to ask Rhys for the papers again. My eyes caught the realtor standing behind him. I blinked again. Wait. Those two men came empty-handed. “So, the transfer papers… where are they?” Rhys’s expression shifted. He pressed his lips together, his eyes becoming unreadable. He thought for a few seconds, then finally spoke. “Rowan Harrington. Let’s split the plot.” 11 It might have been the blood loss. It was probably the shock of his bizarre proposal. My vision went completely black for a moment. I steadied myself for several long seconds before I found my voice. “Excuse me?” “Didn’t you suggest it?” Rhys smiled faintly. “‘If you love it that much, maybe we can split the plot.’” “I think that’s an excellent idea.” “It’s perfect for a loner like me.” “Your relatives will come and visit, bring flowers, and pay their respects on all the major holidays. I get to piggyback on their love.” “It’s a great value proposition.” He met my stunned gaze, his smile softening. “In return, I’ll personally arrange the collection and cleanup of your body, no fuss.” I clutched my chest. I looked back and forth between him and the door. Why did that sound… appealing? “But you can probably tell from the scene at the hospital, my family won’t actually come to visit.” “Doesn’t matter,” Rhys said, entirely unconcerned. “Having a neighbor is better than having no company at all.” He stood up and looked down at me, his demeanor casual and easy—a complete contrast to the cold fury he’d just shown Owen. “If Ms. Harrington isn’t willing, I can always look for another—” “Deal!” 12 I picked a gorgeous beach—a misty, private cove where the sunset stained the sky in brilliant hues. It felt like a magnificent place for a grand finale. But I was already starting to regret my “plot-sharing” arrangement with Rhys. The man was too meticulous. “Let’s just wait for the sunset. We’re not in that much of a rush.” “The water at night is too cold.” “In fact, let’s just wait for the sunrise, then you can go.” Fine. You’re the cleanup guy. You make the rules. The night wait for the sunrise was agonizingly long. Blood loss makes you tired, and I quickly drifted off. I expected the five-thirty alarm to wake me. I did not expect my third brother, Declan, to call me via video chat at 10:32 PM. Rhys was asleep, slumped comfortably against the passenger window. I quietly opened the car door and stepped out. I answered the call. The screen immediately filled with the image of the Harringtons’ ornate dining room table, Chloe in the center, bathed in attention. Ethan wasn’t there, but the others were. “Rowan, are you insane?!” Declan’s brow was deeply furrowed, his voice choked with anger. “You drag the whole family back, and now where the hell are you?” “Chloe spent the entire afternoon making your favorite meal. Get your ass home now!” Mom leaned into the frame, her voice still soft, but layered with exhaustion and disappointment. “Rowan, please stop this. Just come back and celebrate your birthday with us, okay?” Dad scoffed. “Making your parents wait to eat? Where are your manners?” My eyes skimmed the clearly disturbed plates of food. I smiled faintly. It occurred to me that Rhys’s cleanup schedule and my death schedule didn’t have to be linked. Why was I waiting for him? A profound, dead calm settled in my heart. I took a decisive step forward. The water rushed over my feet. “I’m dying right now. I’m not coming back.” Just as I spoke, the lock on the front door clicked. Ethan Harrington, dressed in a sharp suit, appeared in the doorway. His gaze swept over the table. He changed his shoes, then walked directly toward the only bedroom on the first floor. My room. “I was busy in a meeting this afternoon. I forgot about Rowan.” “How is she? Still being dramatic?” He spoke lightly, casually, then reached for the doorknob and opened my bedroom door— 13 The room was utterly empty. All my belongings were gone. The sliding bathroom door was wide open. The tub was a horrifying scene of bright, red water. The sight shocked everyone into silence. Owen, the doctor, reacted the fastest. He shot up from the table and sprinted into the room. When he saw the level of blood in the tub, he sucked in a sharp breath. His eyes quickly filled with panic and disbelief. “No, wait, this volume of blood—this is not a stunt.” “She—she was really trying to die…” He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out his phone, and quickly scrolled through something, zooming in on the screen. I couldn’t see the image, the video feed was too blurry. But I knew exactly what he was looking at: the photo of my cut wrist. Ah. That explained it. How could a doctor—my own brother—have thought I was just acting if he had actually looked at the depth of that cut? He hadn’t. He hadn’t even bothered to look. A cold certainty settled in my heart. I tilted my head back, raising my hand to end the call. But Owen snatched the phone from Declan. His face was pale. “Rowan Harrington, stop this immediately.” “Come back… just come home.” “Or tell me where you are. I’ll come get you…” 14 The seawater was chilling, rising past my waist. Rhys was right. The night water was truly freezing. I stopped moving and finally let my eyes focus on the screen. I met Owen’s terrified gaze. “Go back. And then what?” “Go back to being your awkward, visiting stranger, watching how much you adore Chloe?” “We never wronged you, though!” Declan’s defensive, tortured voice came clearly through the speaker. Unlike Owen, who now seemed to suspect the cancer was real, Declan was still convinced I was acting out. But his hostility had softened into a desperate defensiveness. “We’ve never lacked for you. Who walked on eggshells and treated you like a princess before you started your little schemes?” “Why do you have to compete with Chloe?” They never lacked for me. True. They just didn’t love me. Chloe gets a cold, and the entire family coos and gives her medicine. I slit my wrist, and I get “Go die somewhere else so you don’t bother us with the cleanup.” These were my biological parents and brothers. Why shouldn’t I compete? Why the hell shouldn’t I fight for them to love me?! “Rowan,” Owen swallowed hard. “Just come home first. We can talk when you’re home.” “If you’re really sick, your brother will save you…” I kept walking. The cold water submerged the rough bandage, and a sharp sting registered. I smiled faintly and cut him off. “Owen Harrington, I haven’t had a brother, or a home, for a very long time.” Owen’s body stiffened. It seemed to hit him that I hadn’t called them “brother” in a very long time. Not since the day they accused me of lying about my stomach pain. They were the ones who said it. “Rowan Harrington, I truly wish Chloe was our real sister.” Owen’s eyes widened with a frantic, regretful look. He shook his head, his voice trembling. “No, that’s not true! Those were words spoken in anger, out of disappointment!” “We just didn’t want you to keep bullying Chloe or competing with her—” A large hand reached over and snatched the phone away. I looked up in surprise. Rhys Thorne was standing right behind me in the water, his moonlight-drenched gaze heavy. “People only envy others for two reasons.” “One, they believe the person doesn’t deserve it.” “Two, because they lack it themselves.” “You had the energy to criticize her jealousy.” “But you never had the decency to give her what she lacked—security, affection, belief.” Rhys let out a cold, short laugh, his lips curling with pure contempt. “It’s not favoritism. It’s just lazy cruelty.” “Garbage.” 15 Splash! The phone was tossed into the waves, sending a small spray of water into the air. My eyes widened. Wait. That was my phone, right? You just threw my phone into the ocean? “Rowan Harrington.” Rhys took my hand and stood with me in the icy sea, his eyes locked on mine. He didn’t say anything else. He just sighed, then bent down and lifted me horizontally out of the water. He held me tightly against his chest, turning toward the shore. “I have a home. Why don’t you come take a look?” “If you like it, we can try sharing that, too.”

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The company let me go. Age discrimination, they called it. Thirty-five, and already too old for the hustle. Then, my son, Leo, lost sight in one eye in a stupid neighborhood accident. A week later, my wife, Seraphina—Sera—tumbled down the stairs and fractured her leg. The towering medical bills were a lead weight on my chest, suffocating the air out of me. But I kept grinding, pushing through every hellish job I could find to keep my little family afloat. Until the day I landed a gig as an extra on a film set, and saw the woman with the “broken leg” soaring thirty feet above me. 1 I stood there, paralyzed, watching the lead actress, who was mid-air, executing a perfect wire-work fight sequence. It was her. The curve of her jaw, the way she moved, the unmistakable grace—it was Seraphina. My wife. The woman I tucked into bed every night. How… how was she doing this? “Hey! What are you staring at? Get down and play dead, will ya!” A fellow extra hissed, nudging me hard. “You mess this up, you don’t get paid a dime!” I forced myself to drop, my face pressed against the cold, dusty floor of the soundstage. My eyes were shut tight, but the tears, hot and humiliating, leaked out and disappeared into the grime. When the director finally yelled, “Cut!” the world tilted. I scrambled up, stumbling toward the bright, manicured circle where Sera was instantly enveloped by her team. Her assistant, a sharp-faced young man named Benji, put a hand on my chest. “Sir, what do you think you’re doing? Are you looking for an autograph? Honestly, you extras are unbelievable. You’re here to work, not to stalk the talent.” I just stared, dumbstruck, past Benji to Sera, who was basking in the glow of attention. The worried murmurs and fussing of her people created a bubble around her—a world I didn’t belong to. Benji was ready to tear into me, but it was Seraphina who finally turned her gaze my way. For a flicker of a second, I saw it: pure, unadulterated panic in her eyes. My lips trembled. I tried to speak, to form a single question, but only a pathetic, ragged breath came out. The crew members around me were gushing. “Sera Maxwell, even at forty, she’s a goddess! The class, the sheer presence!” Some of the younger male extras were openly fantasizing. God, if only Seraphina were my wife. Sera muttered something quickly to Benji. His eyes darted back to me, full of surprise, but he grabbed my arm and steered me away from the crowd to a quiet corner. A moment later, Sera joined us. Her usual radiant composure was gone, replaced by a strained look. “Ethan, let me explain—” “Your leg,” I managed to choke out. “Your leg, Sera.” Benji, who had stepped away, rushed back, checking his phone. “Sera, the episode fees just came in. One million dollars. Per episode.” One million dollars. The number hit me like a physical blow. A million dollars for one episode. What did that make the five grand I was hoping to scrape together over seven days of humiliating extra work? What did that make the back-breaking shifts washing dishes, the sleepless nights? I looked at Seraphina—the woman who had just flawlessly performed acrobatics on a wire harness—and felt the laughter bubble up in my throat, hollow and bitter. A joke. I’m an absolute joke. Just this morning, I had proudly told her I’d found this extra gig. I had massaged her “injured” leg before leaving, worried sick about her recovery, waiting until her breathing evened out before walking out the door. Benji cleared his throat, sensing the toxic atmosphere. “Sera, whatever history you have with this… fan, you need to be careful. Don’t let your fiancé get wind of this. And frankly, he’s not exactly A-list material. No need to invite a scandal.” Fiancé? The word echoed in the empty space where my heart should have been. Sera’s face tightened. She shot Benji a look that sent him scurrying away. It was just the two of us now. She twisted her hands. “Ethan, please, let me explain—” I cut her off. The years of love, devotion, and sacrifice curdled into pure acid. “Explain what, Sera? What’s left to explain? You thought this was fun? Lying to me? You’ve been healthy this whole time, running around and swinging from cables, while you let me believe your leg was shattered! You’re a major star, yet you told me you were tutoring rich kids! You watched me get fired, watched me chase every scrap of work, lose my dignity for this family. Did you enjoy the show? Did you get a kick out of watching your pathetic, broke husband grovel for cash?” “Ethan, don’t—” “Don’t call me that! When did you get better? Or were you never hurt in the first place?” “That’s not it, Ethan. I swear—” I remembered the tough, sweet times. The struggle had always been real, but the love had felt honest, a precious, fragile thing. Now, looking at the dazzling stranger in front of me, I felt utterly defeated. I was a man who had been cast out by his company and utterly betrayed by his wife. I was a worm, wriggling in the mud. Then, a sickening thought struck me. Our son. Leo. He’d always been closer to Sera, but his injury was the one thing that crushed me. I looked up, my eyes suddenly clear and hard. “Leo. Tell me about Leo. Was he really blind in one eye? Or was that just part of the act, too?” Sera’s lips parted, a desperate sound caught in her throat. Before she could speak, the door to the quiet corner burst open. It was Leo. “Mom, what are you doing back here? Uncle Damon is waiting for us! We’re going out for dinner!” 2 A profound, suffocating grief washed over me. I stared at my perfectly healthy wife, whose eyes were full of evasiveness, and my son, whose eyes were bright, curious, and utterly undamaged. The sky hadn’t just fallen; it had dissolved, leaving me floating in a void of lies. I had been living in a carefully constructed stage play. Behind Leo, a man walked in. He radiated money and privilege. Tailored black suit, expensive watch, a demeanor that spoke of effortless, casual power. Sera moved her head slightly, a frantic, useless attempt to shield Leo from my view. My heart shattered on the floor, the sound of the pieces inaudible beneath the roaring in my ears. “Leo?” My voice was a choked whisper. Leo spotted me. He frowned, his flawless features pinching with annoyance. “What are you doing here?” The cold, distant look in his eyes—the kind of look you give a stranger on the street—was a fresh stab of pain. “You… you were lying to me, too?” I whispered, all the strength draining out of my body. Leo’s frown deepened. It was the kind of disdain that could crush a grown man. “Lying? Oh, yeah, I guess I was. If Mom hadn’t said it was ‘interesting’ to keep you fooled, why would I have gone along with it? It was disgusting! Wearing that cheap, smelly eye patch every day in that gross little apartment.” Leo stood tall in a miniature suit and a bow tie, looking like a little prince of industry. I used to look at him and feel a surge of foolish, ordinary pride. How could someone so exquisite come from someone so plain? He had always been aloof, but I’d dismissed it as precocious maturity, a boy too old to cling to his father. But watching him now, how tightly he clutched the hand of the man in the black suit—Damon Royce—his face open with pure, trusting dependency, I knew the truth. I closed my eyes, the bitter cold of betrayal seeping into my bones. I sank to my knees, shaking uncontrollably. Leo, emboldened by my collapse, dropped the pretense entirely. “Seriously, now that you know, I don’t have to pretend anymore. We only stayed in that dump for your sake, you know? Honestly, Dad? I don’t know what Mom saw in you. You’re old, you’re… ugh. I literally couldn’t eat when I looked at your face. You’re nothing compared to Uncle Damon.” Tears blurred my vision. I couldn’t clearly see Leo’s face anymore. When Leo had his supposed injury, he was a spoiled terror. I had to coax and feed him every bite, despite a full day of exhausting work. I never complained. I cooked, cleaned, and cared for both of them. I thought I was a good man, a dedicated father and husband. In their eyes, I was trash. Even to my own son. Damon Royce stepped forward, his expression a mixture of contempt and bored curiosity. “So, you’re Ethan Kade? Yeah, you do look pretty pathetic.” He surveyed my crumpled, shaking form, then smiled, a chilling, condescending gesture. “No wonder Leo despises you and wants me to be his father. If I were him, I’d hate you, too. Seven days for five thousand dollars? Leo’s allowance for one day is more than that.” My back felt like it was snapping under the weight of his judgment. I wiped the tears from my face, desperate to shout a defense, but Seraphina beat me to it. “Leo, honey, why don’t you and Damon go ahead to the restaurant? I need to talk to… Ethan. Alone.” Leo wasn’t having it. “Why? Since he knows, let’s just get it over with! I don’t want to be involved with this failure of a man ever again!” Damon, too, seemed to prefer an audience for the kill. He gave me that casual, predatory smile. “You know that saying, Ethan? All the world’s a stage?” 3 Damon Royce looked at me, malice shining in his eyes. I didn’t care about his reasons, or Seraphina’s. I just felt a sickening mix of pain and nausea. He was clearly enjoying my humiliation. “This whole thing was a bet, Ethan. A script. I gave Sera the outline, and she just followed the directions.” I met Seraphina on a rainy night. I had been searching for jobs, hitting dead end after dead end. Despair was a heavy cloak, soaking me to the bone. I had no umbrella, no cab fare, nothing. Then, she appeared. She held a black umbrella over me. Her eyes were impossibly gentle. “Even if you’re a man,” she said, her voice soft, “you shouldn’t stand out here in the rain. It’s bad for your health.” I was a fool. I reached out and took her hand. I thought she was my salvation. I didn’t know she was the person who would push me into a deeper, colder abyss. Damon looked down at me, utterly superior. “You fell in love right on schedule, just like my script predicted. Honestly, did you really think someone like Sera would ever be within your reach?” “The blind eye. The broken leg. All orchestrated by me. You see, my social standing is leagues above yours. With one word, I can turn any story into reality.” His words were the opening of Pandora’s Box—a nightmare unfolding in real time. When Sera and I married, I planned out our future: saving money, a good education for Leo, a stable, happy life. But then, at thirty-five, my company fired me, citing my age. Not enough hustle, not enough hunger. In the same week, Sera supposedly fell and broke her leg on the way to a tutoring job. Leo, playing with a friend, shattered a shop window and the glass sliced his eye. The happy family disintegrated. I was the only healthy one left. To pay for their treatments, I begged, borrowed, and groveled. I knelt and pleaded, giving up every last shred of my pride. The debts were crushing, forcing me to take on an endless cycle of grueling shifts—washing dishes, waiting tables, stacking shelves. I fought tooth and nail for the extra gig, just another way to trade my time and body for cash. I never complained. I only cared that my wife and son were safe and whole. My hard work, my sacrifice—it was all a punchline. I wasn’t their rescuer. I was their entertainment. I was walking the path they had drawn for me. Damon’s final blow was delivered with a casual, easygoing smile. “You getting fired? Yeah, that was me too. Funny, right? Your company’s CEO just happened to be an old acquaintance of mine.” His words, spoken with such gentle cruelty, were sharp knives slicing through my spinal cord. I couldn’t breathe. I looked up, tears blurring the edges of his smug face. Damon Royce reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a pristine tissue, and gently dabbed my cheek. “Why the tears, Ethan? You pride yourself on being so strong. And I’m not done with you yet.” I had a hard childhood. My parents favored my younger brother, treating me like a servant. I fought for everything I had. Meeting Sera, I thought I was finally building the life I deserved. I wanted to give my son a life overflowing with love, free from the suffering I knew. I wanted Sera and Leo to never feel poor, to never be looked down upon. I didn’t want them to be miserable wretches like me. Instead, I was the biggest joke of all, still drowning in the same old mud. My supposed light was just a deeper form of darkness. I took a deep, shuddering breath. Thirty-six years of accumulated humiliation and anger exploded in my chest. I didn’t care about the consequences. I didn’t care what I was facing. I just wanted to reclaim one ounce of dignity. Why should I be the idiot, the plaything? I am a person, too! I looked at Damon, my eyes blazing with pure rage. He started clapping, a delighted laugh bubbling from him. “That’s it! The anger! I love it! But Ethan, what good is your anger now?” My voice was a low growl. “You’re right. Anger doesn’t help me. But what if—” I launched myself at him. You rely on your face, don’t you? Damon’s panicked scream was instant. My fist found its target. “My face! My face! Get off me! You despicable brute!” I didn’t care what he said. He had orchestrated the destruction of my life. He had to pay.

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Rhys Albright’s childhood legacy—a documentarian who had been in professional hibernation for years—needed a blockbuster hit to reclaim her former glory. So, Rhys, my boyfriend and my defense attorney, handed over the most humiliating details from my sexual assault case to Serena Sullivan, raw and unfiltered. He didn’t tell me about the documentary’s premiere. But I went anyway. On the colossal screen, the sheer, crushing despair of my violation had been meticulously edited, reframed as a sleazy, transactional exchange—me selling my body for cash. Meanwhile, the men who had shattered my life were somehow recast as mere “youths led astray,” unable to resist temptation. When the film ended, Serena was escorted to the stage, instantly surrounded by a constellation of admirers. She stood there, smiling down at Rhys, who was seated in the front row, and introduced him to the audience. “This is the attorney responsible for the case, the legal counsel for this documentary, and my constant source of inspiration—my muse.” The applause was deafening, a standing ovation. The host praised them, calling them a match made in professional heaven. Across the room, I watched Rhys’s face contort in alarm. In the stunned silence that followed my rising, I slowly, deliberately, raised my hand. “I have a question,” I said. “For the muse-slash-attorney.” 1 The host was visibly blindsided by the interruption but professional enough to pass a microphone toward me. “Yes, ma’am, what is your question?” I didn’t immediately take the mic. Instead, I stood my ground, staring across the sea of heads at Rhys. His lips moved slightly, forming a silent warning I knew all too well. Audrey, don’t do this. I gave a short, brittle laugh and accepted the microphone. “Mr. Albright,” I began, my voice quiet but amplified by the speakers, filling every corner of the theater. “I’d like to ask, as the legal consultant for this film, do you stand by the claim that all content is factually accurate, particularly concerning the victim, Audrey Shen?” I used my full name. Audrey Shen. The name he had, for a second time, personally shoved into the abyss and then nailed to a public pillar of shame. Rhys’s face went even paler. He looked as though someone had clamped a hand around his throat, utterly speechless. Serena, however, recovered instantly. She glided forward, gracefully taking the lead, her smile impeccable. “Thank you for your question, Miss. I can assure you that our team conducted rigorous verification of every single detail.” She paused, then looked at Rhys with an air of intimate admiration. “Mr. Albright, as the lead attorney on the case, provided us with the most authentic and authoritative material. It was only with Rhys’s help that we were able to get so close to the truth, wasn’t it, darling?” Rhys gave a stiff, mechanical nod. But his eyes were locked on mine, a desperate cocktail of pleading and warning. “Is that right?” I countered, a sharp laugh escaping me. I held the microphone closer. “Then why,” I asked, “do I know a completely different version?” Boom. The crowd exploded. This was more than just a question; it was a public execution. Flashbulbs started stroking the room like a sudden, aggressive thunderstorm. Reporters, sensing the scent of blood, surged forward like sharks. “It’s not a true story?” “Wait, is there a cover-up? This is the headline for tomorrow!” The host, panicking, tried to regain control. “Everyone, please! Quiet down! Miss, I need to ask you to—” “To what? Stop telling the truth? Should the truth be twisted to suit your narrative?” I moved. I started walking, step by deliberate step, toward the stage and toward Rhys. Security tried to stop me, but the frantic reporters shoved them aside. That winter, when I staggered out of the precinct, shaking, barely able to walk straight, Rhys had done the same. He had broken through the crowd, wrapped his heavy overcoat around me, and held my icy hands. “Don’t be afraid, I’m Rhys Albright, your lawyer. I’ll get you justice.” His warmth had been my only light then. Now, I was the one walking toward him. A mere foot separated us, and I could clearly see the cold sweat beading on his forehead. “Rhys,” I said, looking him dead in the eyes, asking each word like an accusation. “The film claims Audrey Shen accepted ten thousand dollars, and everything was consensual. Is that how it was recorded in the evidence you provided to Ms. Sullivan?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. His lips worked furiously, but no sound came out. “Speak up.” I took a final, forceful step closer. Confronted with my challenge, his face was wretched. Serena’s perfect composure finally cracked. She stepped in front of Rhys, adopting the pose of a fierce protector. “Miss, I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the documented facts of the event are clear. Please don’t cause a scene here—” “Get out of my way.” I cut her off, the chill in my voice unmistakable. “I’m speaking to my boyfriend. Who do you think you are?” Serena’s expression froze solid. “Boyfriend?” She turned to Rhys as if she’d heard an obscene joke, her eyes demanding an explanation. Rhys instinctively recoiled half a step, averting her gaze.

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Ethan Sawyer spent three years playing the penniless artist by my side. When I told him my mother desperately needed life-saving surgery, he doubled down on his act, pretending he’d just been fired and needed me to support him. I couldn’t play along anymore. I walked out. I dumped him and married the successful businessman who had been pursuing me. Then, I attended a client’s wedding. The groom was Ethan Sawyer. I heard his groomsmen taunting him: “Remember when Sawyer insisted on playing the ‘pure love’ game? And she still dumped him.” “What a pity. The ‘getting fired’ thing was actually his final test. If she’d just held on for a little longer, today’s bride would be her.” “If that gold-digger knew she tossed the heir to Sawyer Holdings, she’d be kicking herself, huh? Ha ha.” The funny thing is, I knew all of it. 1 My second encounter with Ethan Sawyer was at my client’s wedding. He was the groom. In an expensive custom suit, hair impeccably styled, he looked aristocratic and arrogant—nothing like the down-and-out man I’d shared a tiny apartment with. I had no intention of speaking to him. Our breakup had been anything but civil. I was the one who ended it. He’d knelt on the floor, weeping and begging me to stay, but I hadn’t looked back. His final words were a threat: “Audrey Miller, walk out that door, and don’t you dare regret it. Even if you crawl back to me, I won’t give you the time of day!” I bolted. Three years in that cramped rental was more than enough. I was over it. Reuniting at his wedding felt painfully awkward. I turned to leave, but then I heard the groomsmen circling Ethan, mocking him: “Remember when Sawyer insisted on playing the ‘pure love’ game? And she still dumped him.” “What a pity. The ‘getting fired’ thing was actually his final test. If she’d just held on for a little longer, today’s bride would be her.” “If that gold-digger knew she tossed the heir to Sawyer Holdings, she’d be kicking herself, huh? Ha ha.” Amidst the playful teasing of his friends, Ethan just gave a small, contemptuous smile. “Too late for regret,” he drawled. I knew they were talking about me. The gold-digger. It was clear they truly believed I left him because he was poor. The truth? I already knew. 2 About a year into dating Ethan, I was working a part-time job at a high-end hotel. I saw him sweeping through the lobby in a tailored suit, reviewing the staff. The manager called him “Mr. Sawyer.” That’s how I discovered the hotel was part of his family’s empire—Sawyer Holdings. They were practically East Coast royalty. My perpetually broke, struggling artist of a boyfriend was actually a wealthy golden boy. To me, it felt less like a dramatic movie plot and more like winning the lottery. I wasn’t the type of heroine who’d act high and mighty. Instead, I felt like I’d hit the jackpot. I was certain Ethan genuinely loved me. He was there to cheer me up when I was down and patiently cared for me when I was sick. Rich or poor, he was the best boyfriend. If he enjoyed playing the role of the impoverished romantic, I would continue to play along. But then my mother got sick and needed a huge sum for surgery, and he was still, merrily, testing me with his poverty game. I was done. The charade had lost its charm. I dumped him and married the rich man who pursued me. Ethan and his buddies could be disappointed all they wanted. I had zero regrets. Suddenly, the bride walked over, took my hand, and pulled me towards Ethan. “Ethan, look! This is Ms. Audrey Miller, the owner of The Horizon Gallery that I was telling you about,” she gushed excitedly. “I told you we look alike, but you didn’t believe me.” He lifted his gaze. After a momentary flicker of recognition, his eyes turned cold. “They do look similar,” he conceded, then added dismissively, “But not as pretty or as young as my wife.” 3 The bride, Lila May, was my client. She’d first visited my gallery two weeks prior, looking for pieces for her new marital home. When we truly saw each other, we both gasped. The resemblance was uncanny—at least seventy percent.

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I was a D-list actress filming in a remote, mountainous region when the flash flood hit. Desperate, I called my patron, Rhys Hawthorne, for help, and that’s when I heard the shocking voice of the baby in my womb: [Mom! Don’t call him! Do NOT let Dad come save you!] [Dad is comforting his Golden Girl, Genevieve Sinclair. If he rushes over here, she’ll have a major depressive episode and it will kill her!] Rhys’s low, commanding voice cut through the static: “Skylar Reid, it is 11:59 PM Eastern. You better truly have a reason to be calling me right now.” [Mom! He will literally kill us both!] I swallowed my panic. “My mistake, sorry. Pocket dial. I’m fine.” Let him do whatever he wanted. I just needed to make sure he didn’t involve me or my child. 1 My phone’s battery was down to 6%. A few production assistants and I stumbled along the muddy trail, headlamps slicing weakly through the relentless downpour. I kept my eyes glued to the ground, but the knot of unease in my gut tightened with every step. [Mom, those PAs are working for Genevieve—she paid them to kill you. You have to sneak away, now!] I clamped a hand over my mouth and darted off the path, scrambling down a muddy slope into a thicket of overgrown shrubs. Moments later, the beam of a headlamp swept over the spot where I’d been standing. “Damn it! That bitch saw us,” one PA hissed. “There goes the million bucks.” I saw the cold glint of the knives they pulled out. Another second and they would have plunged those blades right into my abdomen. Before I could even catch my breath, my foot slipped. I lost my grip and slid hundreds of feet down the steep incline. Bushes and broken branches ripped through my thin raincoat, leaving behind stinging, bloody streaks. A terrifying, sharp ache seized my lower belly. Preterm labor. I fumbled for my phone and quickly dialed the director’s number. “It’s Skylar Reid, I’m still trapped on the mountain—” The person who answered immediately interrupted: “Are you sure about that?” It was Marc Knight, Rhys’s best friend and business partner. If anyone could arrange a swift, private rescue, it was Marc. “Yes, Marc, I am!” I rushed to reply. He sounded annoyed. “I checked with the PAs ahead of time. They told me you were already back safe hours ago!” His voice hardened. “Rhys was right. You’re playing games again, trying to pull off some scheme.” “That’s not true—” Marc scoffed. “You never quit, do you? Still trying to blow things up for attention?” He lowered his voice, the chill coming through the phone. “Let me tell you, the entire crew is busy dealing with the fallout from the flash flood. Nobody has time for your drama. I’ve ordered everyone in the crew to ignore your lunatic stories. Good luck, Skylar.” The cold wind howled, and the rain grew heavier. The mountain groaned with the sound of rushing water, a warning of the increasing flood danger. I tried a few more numbers—actors I was friendly with—but by the time the battery hit 3%, all I’d gotten were variations of “I’m sorry, I can’t help.” Panic flooded my chest. This child was my only family. I had to protect it. I struggled to my feet. I walked until my soles were a mass of bloody blisters, finally seeing a faint light ahead. But a broken branch tripped me. I fell face-first, and muddy water rushed into my lungs. My gasping cries were swallowed by the storm. [Mom, look out!] My baby was crying inside. I grit my teeth, grabbed a rock, and threw it with the last of my strength, hitting one of the figures ahead. That finally got their attention. It was a group of local villagers. “Wait, isn’t that the actress? The one filming in our town!” “Should we help her? This rain is too dangerous.” A kind-faced woman immediately pulled me up. “Come on! I’ll carry you! Don’t be afraid, child, we’ll take you home!” That simple act of kindness nearly made me weep. Swinging precariously on the woman’s back, I relaxed slightly—and that’s when the pain intensified. In my agony, the woman’s sturdy back momentarily morphed into Rhys’s. I remembered the director who had driven me to the brink of suicide; Rhys was the one who had carried me, step by step, out of that dark little room. The illusion shattered as my lower abdomen clenched. A large gush of warmth instantly stained my costume red. I touched my belly, my eyes wide with terror. “The baby… my baby…” Bright crimson blood dropped onto the ground. Everyone tensed. “We have to get her to a clinic, fast!” “Wait, we can’t! The village is flooded, the road to the county clinic is completely washed out!” “What do we do? We can’t just leave her to die!” I clung to the woman’s shirt, tears streaming down my face. “I’m begging you, please help me! I’ll give you five hundred thousand dollars… please… save my child…” They told me there was only one small wooden bridge that might still be passable. They didn’t dare risk it and dialed 911 for me. The dispatcher quickly connected with the relevant authorities. But as soon as they heard the name Skylar Reid, they instantly refused. “Ma’am, we suspect you are making a fraudulent call. Please don’t waste our resources again.” The line went dead. The surge of hope was instantly extinguished. Rhys and Marc, believing I was causing trouble, had successfully blocked every possible avenue of rescue. My hands trembling, I called Marc Knight one last time. “Marc, please, you have to help me. You don’t want Rhys’s child to be hurt, do you?” Marc paused. “Child?” “Yes! I’m pregnant!” The Hawthorne family has a difficult history with heirs. I knew a potential grandchild held immense importance. He couldn’t possibly ignore this. But he just scoffed. “A joke! You expect me to believe you?” “When Genevieve returned to the States, you promised Rhys you’d behave. But you immediately stole her campaign resources, and you pushed her into the pool, knowing she couldn’t swim! Your credibility is zero.” I didn’t waste time arguing. I switched to a video call. I pulled aside my heavy costume, revealing the deep, raw scrapes on my body, and then the wide stain of red between my legs—proof of the hemorrhage. The villagers spoke up for me. Marc’s voice finally changed, laced with a bitter snarl. “Fine. I’ll believe you one last time. I’m sending a car immediately.” I was overwhelmed with relief and started to thank him. But a few seconds later, the baby’s tiny voice filled my mind. [Mom, he’s lying to you. There’s no car coming!] [That bridge ahead is going to collapse in a few minutes! Get across, Mom, now!] I didn’t wait to explain. I sank onto the ground in front of the kind woman. “That bridge is going to collapse! Please, I’m begging you, take me across!” Marc’s voice crackled through the speaker. “You think you’re smart this time, hiring a crowd of villagers to stage a show for me? I’m recording this entire performance, Skylar. I’m going to expose you as the liar you are in front of Rhys!” Seeing the villagers hesitate, I slammed my head onto the muddy ground. Thud. “Please! Save my child, I’m begging you.” Blood instantly welled up on my forehead. The kind woman tried to pull me up. “It’s too dangerous to cross now. If the baby is gone, it’s gone, honey. Don’t risk your own life.” But I wouldn’t stop. I continued to smash my head against the ground with every ounce of my remaining strength. Finally, their hearts broke. A few of them hoisted me onto their backs and rushed across the fragile bridge. On the phone, Marc sneered. “Ha! That’s a thousand-year-old double-arch bridge! It’s going to collapse now? Who do you think you are? If it does, I’ll shave my head on a live stream!” The words were still hanging in the air when the bridge structure gave way with a deafening roar. Marc was stunned. “What… no way… that’s impossible.” Soon after, the villagers carried me to Marc’s high-performance SUV and we raced toward the hospital. I could hear him speaking to Rhys on the phone. “How bad is she?” “She’ll be fine. But the baby… she’s going to lose the baby.” The line was silent for a long moment. Then, Rhys’s voice came through, icy and remote. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just an accident. It has no right to be born into this world anyway.” His words were a knife twisting deep in my heart, tearing the tissue apart. The bleeding beneath me increased. The physical pain was nothing compared to the agony in my soul. [Mom, I’m so sorry, I can’t hold on much longer…] The baby’s presence grew fainter and fainter. Soon, no matter how frantically I screamed for him in my mind, there was no innocent voice to answer. I froze. Only a terrifying, dead silence remained in my heart. I was a failure, worthless trash. At three, my parents divorced; I was the abandoned baggage. At seven, my grandmother, dying of cancer, cursed me, calling me a calamity. At ten, staying with my aunt, she called me trash and a slut for ‘flirting’ with my uncle. I’d scavenged bottles, eaten out of trash cans, and worked illegal jobs to survive. But if I couldn’t even keep the one being who truly loved me, what was the point of surviving at all? Just before I faded away, I suddenly thought: My baby fought so hard to help me—he wants to live! A shard of clarity pierced the dark. No! I couldn’t give up now! For him, I had to hold on! In the end, perhaps my fierce will to survive moved the heavens. Just before I passed out, I heard the doctor let out a long sigh of relief. “We saved her. The child is safe.” I did not hear Marc, speaking to Rhys on the phone: “Congratulations, buddy. Your wife and child are both safe.” Rhys didn’t correct his language, but his tone was freezing. “She was out of danger that fast? That proves the injury wasn’t serious.” He paused. “Contact the best specialist immediately and arrange a termination.” He added a final instruction: “She is not to know anything about it.” I woke up in the hospital bed, clutching my stomach. “Baby! My baby!” [I’m here, Mom! But I heard Dad say he wants to abort me. What are we going to do?] My baby’s relayed words sent a chill through me. I couldn’t believe Rhys was so merciless that he would dispose of his own child. After a moment to calm down, I picked up the chicken soup the crew had sent. I looked up and met a pair of cold, hostile eyes. It was one of the PAs Genevieve had hired! I quickly pretended the bowl was hot, intentionally spilling the soup all over the floor. I didn’t know if Genevieve knew I was pregnant. If she did, she would stop at nothing to eliminate me. As I was formulating a plan, Rhys called. “Trapped on the mountain. Why didn’t you call me?” I was done pretending. I snapped back, “How could I dare interrupt your time with Genevieve?” “Don’t be childish, Skylar. You were playing with your life!” Rhys’s tone was so accusatory, it almost made me believe he genuinely cared. I pushed the ridiculous thought away. I offered a shallow laugh. “My deepest apologies, then. I am truly wicked.” A warning crept into his voice. “I’ve arranged for the best medical team to fly out overnight. You will not be injured again.” My heart wavered slightly. “Did you know that I was trapped on the mountain because of Genevieve…” Rhys instantly erupted. “Skylar Reid! Genevieve has been with me this entire week! Do not try to frame her!” He paused. “I am warning you. Do not say one more bad word about Genevieve!” I lowered my eyes and quietly replied, “Understood.” Just then, a soft, sugary voice cooed from Rhys’s end of the line: “Rhys, my tummy hurts, I need you to rub it.” Rhys immediately hung up. My heart ached fiercely, but not with the sharp, overwhelming pain of before. It was just a dull throb. Moments later, my phone pinged with messages from Genevieve Sinclair. Because my stomach hurt, the medical team had to stay to take care of me. So sorry for your luck. Oh, I forgot to tell you. Rhys and I are having an engagement party next week. Don’t forget to RSVP. She even attached a photo of her hand intertwined with Rhys’s. The massive ring on her finger was blinding. I just found her pathetic. The lack of a medical team was a blessing in disguise. I took the powerful sedative I’d had prepared for weeks. I watched through blurry eyes as the decoy body was consumed by the crematorium flames, then turned and walked away. The next day. Rhys Hawthorne arrived at my hospital room, carrying my favorite strawberry cake. He hadn’t seen me in a month, and he unconsciously adjusted his tie. All that awaited him was an empty room. The attending nurse entered. “Are you the family for Room Two?” “She passed away. The ashes were scattered in the mountains. My condolences.”

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Ten years. Ten years of playing wife to the man my runaway sister abandoned, mother to the child she left behind. And all it took to shatter that fragile peace was sitting in her armchair. The boy I raised pushed me from the third-floor landing. My spine was splintered, my body slick with blood, yet when I pleaded with him to call for help, he just looked down and sneered, a perfect echo of his father. “You don’t get to touch my mom’s things. Ever. I’m telling you, you will never be Audrey!” “You want help? I hope you end up paralyzed. I hope Dad throws you out on the street!” I stared up at the child who, since the moment he was handed to me in a blanket, had been my sole responsibility. The agonizing pain of my broken body was nothing compared to the slow, relentless flaying of my heart. After the emergency surgery, still woozy from the anesthesia, I found the strength to make a single international call. “Professor Warren,” I whispered into the receiver. “I’m ready to come home.” 1 I hung up just as Preston, Mom, and Dad swept into the room, Leo trailing behind them, his face a mask of furious, self-pitying innocence. “Why should I apologize to that… woman!” Leo snarled, pointing a vicious finger at me. “She went and sat in Mom’s chair first! I just shouted, and she got scared and fell down the stairs. She wasn’t even bleeding that much at first. I thought she was just putting on another one of her pathetic little shows.” The words grew crueler, yet the adults didn’t stop him. They just stood there, their expressions cold and accusatory, focused entirely on me. I didn’t bother to defend myself, just stared blankly out the window. Preston’s voice was a low, familiar burn. “Ainsley, Leo is talking to you. Look at him. What kind of mother ignores her own son?” I laughed, a dry, bitter sound. “What kind of son stands over his mother’s injured body, insults her, and never asks if she’s in pain?” Preston’s impatience sharpened. “That’s only because you’re not affectionate enough, Ainsley. You’re always trying to guilt him with your exaggerated dramatics.” Exaggerated dramatics? Leo was born with a delicate constitution, constantly battling illness. I was the one who kept vigil for ten years, learning specialized acupuncture and massage, brewing every obscure Chinese tonic and medicated broth imaginable. My long, pianist fingers—the ones that earned me a scholarship—were now calloused and swollen from endless hours of domestic labor. Leo once admitted he was scared of the dark, and I didn’t close my eyes for three straight days and nights, simply sitting by his crib. But Preston never saw it. Leo never saw it. “Ainsley,” Preston lectured, cutting into my thoughts, “when you married into the Hawthorne family, I had one requirement: Take care of Leo. Was that truly so difficult? If you couldn’t even manage that, then I told you I’d divorce you—” “Then let’s do it,” I cut in, my voice level. “Divorce me. I don’t want to be Mrs. Hawthorne anymore.” Preston froze, stunned. He hadn’t expected that. After all, my family had begged for this marriage. Ten years ago, my sister, Audrey, had married Preston—the original plan—but then her ‘Holy Grail,’ the one she’d always loved, came back to the States. Audrey abandoned her newborn son and vanished without a trace. The Hawthorne family was furious. My parents, desperate to save the Caldwell family business, tricked me. They lured me home from my Ph.D. program, drugged me, and pushed me into Preston’s bed. The scandal was massive. With an infant Leo needing care, Preston had no choice but to marry me. We had an agreement: ten years. When Leo was old enough, the sham marriage would end. But in every argument, Preston weaponized that promise, using divorce as a threat. Well, the threat had lost its power. My parents erupted first. “Ainsley, what are you talking about? You can’t leave! Who will take care of Leo if you go?” Their faces, etched with disappointment, were the same ones I’d faced when I initially refused to give up the engagement. The contract was originally for me, Ainsley Caldwell, the daughter my mother carried when the deal was struck. But later, when Audrey was heartbroken by her forbidden romance and impulsively decided to marry, my parents demanded I step aside. Seeing my silence, my mother quickly softened her tone. “Alright, alright. You’re hurt, so we won’t make you apologize to Leo. Just swallow your pride, honey. We’ll even give you your house keys back. You can come and go as you please.” After I married Preston, they took my key to the Caldwell family home. They instructed the security and the driver to deny me entry unless I was with Leo. “Ainsley, you have to burn your boats. You must have no retreat, no home base, only then will you truly treat the Hawthorne house as your own and Leo as your own son.” They were true to their word; once, when an enraged Preston threw me out, I spent the night on the porch in the rain, and they never let me in. Preston, seeing my silence, misread it as calculation. He offered a cynical olive branch. “Fine. It’s just a few cracked ribs, it’s not a big deal. Stop pouting. When you’re better, I’ll take you to get wedding photos done.” In ten years, we hadn’t taken a single photograph together. If a photo-bombing party guest accidentally caught us in the same frame, Preston would snap at me for trying to steal a moment. But now, I wanted none of it—not his mock affection, and certainly not my parents’ false pity. “It won’t be necessary,” I said flatly. “I’ll be gone next month.” The room plunged into a suffocating, dead silence. Then, my parents’ and Preston’s fury washed over me. “Are you listening to yourself, Ainsley?” “Leo has his Math Olympiad next month! Who will tutor him? Who will manage his schedule?” “You’re a mother! How can you be so selfish? Abandon your child over a stupid tantrum?” A mother? I looked at Leo, whose eyes were still burning with resentment. For a decade, he’d only called me ‘Ainsley-Auntie.’ For the past two years, he wouldn’t even use a name, preferring ‘that woman.’ He had called me ‘Mom’ once, when he was just learning to talk. Preston had exploded. He ripped the child from my arms and banished me from the house. “Don’t waste your energy, Ainsley. Leo only has one mother!” Even after Audrey had abandoned him, Preston reserved that title for her. Every time Leo slipped up and called me ‘Mom,’ Preston would punish him. Ten years, and I was just a highly paid, perpetually ignored nanny. But it was almost over. I faced them, calm now. “You all said it yourselves: I was only fit to occupy this position for ten years. The time is up. I’m leaving.” My parents looked at me with disappointment and irritation. “Nobody is forcing you out! Why bring that up now?” They were only worried about the Caldwell-Hawthorne business ties. Preston, surprisingly, did not look relieved. He frowned. “What kind of excuse is that? If you’d just begged, would I really have kicked you out?” He spoke with the entitlement of a king granting a favor. “Fine, if you’re worried about what people will say, I’ll post a single status update on social media. I’ll announce that you are officially the Mrs. Hawthorne.” He hadn’t even given me a wedding. When business partners or friends came over, he introduced me with a casual wave: “The one who keeps the house and watches the kid.” Everyone knew I was the desperate gold-digger who failed to climb the social ladder and whose decade-long grace period had expired. But a title was meaningless to me now. I replied with a cool detachment. “The doctor said I might have a permanent limp. A woman with a physical disability can’t possibly be the ideal Hawthorne wife, and she certainly shouldn’t raise the heir to the Hawthorne name.” Preston relaxed, assuming he had solved the riddle of my anger. “You’re worried about that? Don’t be silly. With my resources, no one will dare speak ill of you, and we can hire the best doctors. Stop sulking, Ainsley. What are you going to do, anyway? You’ve been a homemaker for ten years; you won’t survive without the Hawthornes or the Caldwells.” He continued, condescendingly, “If it means that much to you, I’ll have my secretary buy you a diamond ring. We’ll have one family dinner, and you’ll be the ‘official’ Mrs. Hawthorne. As for the public announcement? You can forget it. What if Audrey sees it? What if she decides not to come home?” He ushered my parents and Leo out, leaving only his secretary to discuss my recovery. Oh, and the offered ring. The secretary, aloof and judgmental, approached the bedside. “Miss Caldwell, Mr. Hawthorne approved a budget of one million dollars for the ring. We can only get you a ready-made piece. If you don’t know much about jewelry, just pick the most expensive one. It will count as your personal asset, by the way.” Preston always believed I was a mercenary woman who slept my way into his life, which is why he only allowed me a meager three-thousand-dollar monthly allowance from the house manager. The secretary obviously thought a million was an astonishing show of generosity. Yet the custom-made armchair I dared to sit in—the one commissioned for Audrey—cost ten million. The master suite, a room I had never been allowed to enter, was filled with Audrey’s sacred belongings, easily worth ten times that. I pushed the secretary’s tablet away. “Just pick something. I don’t care.” That ring, like everything else Preston had ever given me—even the cheap corporate gift baskets—would likely just be destroyed by Leo eventually. Besides, I wouldn’t be wearing it. Just as the secretary left, Leo came back. He opened a thermos and threw the scalding oatmeal at me. “You better wise up and disappear fast, or next time I’ll use something worse.” He was small, so the oatmeal mostly hit the sheets, but a few drops splashed my forearm. It was the same oatmeal I had woken up at four in the morning to prepare for him, yet it burned my skin like acid. Seeing the angry red marks, Leo’s face broke into a satisfied smirk, and he left. The nurse came in, changed the linens, and applied cream. As she was leaving, she paused, then spoke softly. “Some children, Miss Caldwell, are simply ungrateful.” I looked down at the bandages covering my body, and the tears finally started to fall. A stranger could see it, but I had blindly believed for ten years that genuine kindness would be returned in kind. But whether it was Preston, my childhood friend, or Leo, the boy I raised from birth—my sincerity was always met with malice. They didn’t visit me once during the next two weeks. I hired a private aide, and on the day I was released, I returned to the Hawthorne house in a wheelchair to collect my belongings. I opened the front door and saw them all in the living room, laughing, surrounded by warmth and joy. In the center, radiant and glowing, was Audrey, my sister, who hadn’t been seen or heard from in a decade. My parents clutched her, their eyes red. “Audrey, darling, you’re back. That’s all that matters. What do you want to eat? Your mother will cook it for you.” Leo was clinging to her like a baby koala. “Mom, you’re finally home! I won’t be the boy with no one who cares about him anymore.” Even Preston, the ice king, was smiling with undisguised adoration. “Audrey, I knew you couldn’t stay away from me.” They were united, ecstatic, as if Audrey’s sudden disappearance—the event that had nearly ruined them—had never happened. When my parents begged me to step in, one had claimed a heart attack and the other had cried until her eyes were nearly blind. They told me Audrey had no soul. I helped stabilize the family business, negotiated with the Hawthornes, and walked into what I knew was a marriage of fire, only because they pleaded with me. Preston, too, had spiraled into an alcoholic depression after Audrey left. I had stayed by his side, Leo in my arms, and helped him climb out of the darkness. He had solemnly promised me we would make a real life together. And Leo, when he finally realized his mother had abandoned him, had a massive breakdown, weeping day and night until I swore I would never leave him. Ten years of devotion, completely erased by Audrey’s sudden return. The sound of my wheelchair entering the room drew their attention. My parents’ faces flushed with embarrassment. “Ainsley, you’re back? Why didn’t you call ahead?” They looked at me as if I were a ghost who had ruined their perfect family portrait. I instructed my aide to push me toward the stairs. “I couldn’t reach any of you. I called hundreds of times.” I needed their signatures on medical forms. I needed to discuss Leo and Preston’s arrangements after my departure. Every message I sent over the past two weeks had vanished into a black hole. Yet now, they were angry at me for not calling. Preston looked away uncomfortably. “It was just a busy couple of weeks. Go on up and rest, Ainsley. Don’t strain yourself.” Rest? Since when was he attentive? He was only worried about me interrupting his reunion with Audrey. But I no longer cared. Leo spoke up from behind me, his voice dripping with malice. “Go crawl back into your hole! My real mother is home now. You coarse, ugly woman. You can’t compare to her little finger.” Audrey was dressed impeccably, her makeup flawless, her long, manicured nails sparkling. She did look beautiful compared to my makeup-free, oversized sweatshirt look. I used to care about my appearance, but I stopped when I was caring for Leo—I worried my long hair would tangle in his tiny fingers, my nails would scratch his delicate skin, and my perfume would irritate his lungs. Leo, apparently, never noticed or cared. I ignored him and continued upstairs. I had a phone call with Professor Warren, finalizing my arrangements. He asked one last question, his voice hesitant. “Ainsley, are you truly sure? That’s the boy you raised for ten years. And Preston… you two were childhood sweethearts. After a decade, those bonds only deepen.” Deepen? The moment Audrey appeared, I was instantly obsolete. “Professor,” I said firmly. “I’ve made up my mind. I don’t belong here.” I hung up and sat in silence. I turned and saw Preston standing in the doorway, watching me. Seeing my startlement, he scoffed. “Oh, come on. Stop acting. You make such a dramatic exit, and now you’re suddenly talking on the phone about leaving the country? It’s all for show, isn’t it? Audrey is back, so now you’re playing the run-away bride, trying to get me to chase you.” His familiar contempt was a dull ache. For a second, a complex mix of feelings—anger, nostalgia—floated up. Preston hadn’t always been like this. He had trusted me unconditionally once. When my parents tried to force me into a boarding school a thousand miles away to clear the field for Audrey, Preston had refused to eat for three days and risked losing his inheritance until his family finally agreed to send him to my school. I truly believed we would have a fairytale ending. I fought with all my strength against my parents’ attempts to cage me, to break my will and force me out of the engagement. But when I finally escaped the basement where they were holding me, the first thing I saw was him on bended knee, slipping a ring onto Audrey’s finger in a lavishly decorated hall. My parents told me Audrey was simply better than me, and Preston finally saw it. I tried to tell myself it wasn’t true, but the pure joy on Preston’s face when he held Audrey was undeniable. When my parents begged me to clean up Audrey’s mess, a selfish impulse was mixed into my agreement. I thought I could still get the old Preston back. Ten years of cold indifference had taught me the truth. Preston only had eyes for Audrey. “Dad! Did you go up to get that smelly woman to cook? What’s taking so long? Mom’s hungry downstairs!” Leo’s shrill voice cut through my memory. Preston glanced at me. “Stop playing your little games. Audrey specifically asked for your cooking. Go make her dinner. If you perform well, I might consider letting you stay on the property.” I gripped the arms of my wheelchair, choking down the rage. “I’m injured. You want me to cook for Audrey in this condition?” Leo shrieked again. “You don’t have a real injury, you fake! Stop pretending to be an invalid!” A few more hours, and the injury would have been permanent. That’s what the doctor said. That severe injury, in Leo’s eyes, was a minor inconvenience. I looked at the face I had woken up to every morning for ten years, now contorted with contempt. I couldn’t find a trace of the sweet boy who used to cling to me and say, “The heavens made a mistake. I chose you to be my mom.” I pushed the emotions down. Preston and Leo stood there, expecting compliance. The bitterness was overwhelming. “Fine,” I said, a self-deprecating smile touching my lips. “At least push me down there.” Preston scoffed and called the housekeeper. “Don’t try to find excuses to get close to me, Ainsley.” In the kitchen, Audrey strolled in like the queen returning to her throne. “Thank you so much, Sister, for watching the house. I’ll make sure Preston gives you a generous severance when you leave.” She then proceeded to list her dinner request: “Just keep it simple, you know my tastes. Bird’s nest porridge, braised sea cucumber, King Crab. Don’t make a fuss.” The housekeeper whispered nervously, “But Miss Caldwell, these are complex dishes. They require four to five hours of preparation, and you said we couldn’t help…” Audrey raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Are you saying my sister is too good to make me dinner?” My parents’ voices boomed from the living room. “Ainsley, your sister has just come home! Are you going to deny her this small request?” I had told myself I was numb, but their blatant bias still stung. This is the last time. I looked straight at Audrey. “I leave tomorrow. You don’t need to try and torture me anymore.” Audrey’s face instantly lit up. “You said it, not me! I’m not running you off.” She glanced at the housekeeper. “Fine, let them help you.” She then flounced off, responding to the urgent calls of Preston and my parents. With the housekeeper’s pitying gaze on me, I started to cook. Even with help prepping the ingredients, operating from a wheelchair was exhausting. After what felt like an eternity, and with my injured leg throbbing, the feast was complete. I rolled out of the kitchen. The villa was silent. The house manager approached me, looking troubled. “Miss Caldwell, Ms. Audrey said she wanted a late-night street food snack three hours ago. Mr. Hawthorne and your parents drove her out to get it.” I felt nothing. Not surprise. Not despair. I gave a quiet sigh. “I see. Please push me upstairs. I need to pack.” The next morning, before the sun was fully up, my arranged car arrived. The driver gasped as we were about to pull out. “Whoa! What’s this kid doing?” I craned my neck. It was Leo, standing directly in front of the car. He was still in yesterday’s crumpled clothes, shivering in the cold morning air.

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My roommate was the kind of genius artist who blooms early, dazzling everyone. She came from an old-money New England art dynasty—her father, a powerful figure on the Board of the Met, her mother, a former starlet with a permanent glow. She had been four years old when she first held a brush, ten when her first solo exhibition sold out in Chelsea, and by eighteen, her Instagram following rivaled a pop star’s. So, when I reported her to the school’s Ethics Committee for stealing my winning entry, everyone—from our department head to the campus security guard—thought I was delusional. A classic case of the untalented underdog cracking under pressure. I refused her hush money, trying to claw back my integrity, my truth. In return, she slammed the heel of her hand into my chest and sent me tumbling down the marble staircase. In the final, fading moments, I heard her voice, sharp and cold as shattered glass. “An orphan like you, with nothing but hand-me-down dreams? A joke.” When I woke up, the familiar, stale scent of our dorm room air conditioning filled my lungs, and the clock on the bedside table read: September 14th. Two days before the submission deadline. This time, I didn’t hesitate. I walked straight to my easel and slashed the painting to shreds. Now, it was her turn to panic. 1 The first time I stood up to her, after she’d won the Kestrel Prize with my canvas, the internet turned me into a villain overnight. It was all because of who Audrey Thorne was. The golden girl. Born into that rarefied air, she seemed to embody everything the art world adored. She was the one all the other girls at Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) wanted to be. No one, from her devoted fans to the casual onlookers, could believe that she, the luminous, gifted artist, would ever stoop to plagiarize. She was too good, too pure for such a tawdry scandal. To make matters worse, Audrey had used her acceptance speech to call for kindness, softly urging her fans not to “attack” me. “Sienna is a talented but clearly troubled soul,” she’d murmured, her voice laced with that perfected, gentle sadness. While the comments section flooded with praise for her beauty and “noble heart,” the digital detectives dug up my past. Orphan. Raised in a small-town group home. Didn’t even start oil painting until high school on a teacher’s advice. The narrative solidified instantly. “She’s got to be unstable. Why would someone like the great Audrey Thorne need her work?” “A desperate clout chaser. Going for the ‘black-and-red’ route—trying to build a career on controversy. Pathetic.” “Poor Audrey. She has to live with a toxic parasite like that. The school should just expel her for this character assassination!” The insults and fabrications hit me like a dense, driving rain. I sought help from our academic advisor and the other two roommates, Harper and Chloe, begging them to set the record straight. After all, they had seen me hunched over that easel for months. But I didn’t know what kind of deal Audrey had cut with them. They weren’t just unwilling to help; they were actively turning the screws. They did a joint Instagram Live, putting on a show of concern, tearfully urging me to “see the light.” “Just apologize, Sienna. Admit you were mistaken. Audrey is a kind person; she said she’ll forgive you and drop it,” Harper wept into the camera. I couldn’t do it. How could I confess to a lie I didn’t tell? The internet remembers everything. If I admitted to “slander,” that scarlet letter would brand me forever. The public didn’t see it that way, especially after Audrey leaked screenshots from her private fan group. The “evidence” showed her discussing creative ideas that seemed to align perfectly with the winning piece’s concept. Even I hadn’t realized how meticulously she’d planned this from the first day I laid down paint. A furious mob descended on the school’s social media, demanding my expulsion. On campus, students pointed and whispered, their eyes slicing me to pieces. Worst of all, the most extreme Audrey fans found the address of the old group home—The Haven—where I’d grown up. They splashed the main door with foul-smelling red paint and hurled abuse at the Director, Mrs. Sterling, and the younger kids. They screamed that the home raised “bad seeds,” and I was the proof: a “morally bankrupt trash” of a former resident. I could handle the attacks aimed at me, but The Haven had done nothing wrong. They didn’t deserve to be dragged into this firestorm. What I couldn’t wrap my head around was why Audrey, with her innate talent, would need to steal anyone’s art. The answer, I realized, was hiding in the last three years of dorm life. The brilliant child prodigy was gone. Fame and early worship don’t just elevate; they can also corrode the will. For years, Audrey had been too busy attending exclusive parties, filming perfectly filtered vlogs, and signing endorsement deals for luxury brands. She hadn’t spent more than a handful of dedicated days in the studio all semester. She couldn’t even replicate the quality of her own earlier work, let alone generate a new masterpiece. I cornered her one afternoon, warning her that I would call the police if she didn’t end the charade. Audrey threw her head back and laughed—a high, brittle sound. “Oh, stop. Name your price, Sienna.” Shedding her gentle façade, she spoke with a sickening superiority. “Having your little sketch crowned with my name? That’s your biggest break, kid.” “Keep fighting, and I have a hundred different ways to make you disappear.” I was done arguing. I pulled out my phone. That action—that simple gesture of defiance—was what truly enraged her. She lunged, shoving me back with a shocking violence. My head cracked against the corner of a step, and immediately, the slick, copper scent of blood filled the air. My legs were numb. As the world swam into a hazy, darkening canvas, I tilted my head and saw Audrey standing above me on the landing, arms crossed, her expression a mask of cold disdain. “An orphan like you, with nothing but hand-me-down dreams? A joke.” A storm of fury and profound injustice closed my eyes. The next time I opened them, I was back. The clock on the wall was mocking me: September 14th. Two days before the submission deadline. 2 “Sienna, how’s your Kestrel entry coming along?” “You know you can’t slack off. If you win, you’ll get the automatic Master’s placement—no GRE, no portfolio review. It’s huge.” “Just focus, sweetie. I know you can do it.” The earnest, concerned voice washed over me. I flinched, turning toward the sound. Audrey Thorne stood before me, her smile a perfect, radiant curve. She held out a pink, meticulously crafted strawberry tart. “I grabbed this for you. No pressure, just a little fuel for the final push.” I stared, frozen. I couldn’t reconcile this gentle presence with the face I’d seen twisted in sneering cruelty a moment before. Wait, where was I? One second I was dying on a cold staircase; the next, I was back in our cramped, brightly-lit dorm room. Before I could process the terrifying whiplash, two other voices chimed in. “Ugh, hello, catch it, Riser.” That was Harper, always snide. “Seriously, no manners. Typical. Didn’t they teach you how to accept a gift at the… home?” Chloe finished the sentence, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. Harper and Chloe had made it a point to freeze me out since they found out I was a scholarship kid from a group home. It wasn’t physical bullying, but their words were always barbed, meant to inflict a thousand tiny cuts. I usually shot back, refusing to be their doormat, but we’d kept up this toxic cohabitation for three years. This time, I ignored them. I launched myself off my chair, knocking the strawberry tart and the hand that held it aside as I bolted into the bathroom. Behind me, I heard Harper’s shriek. “Oh my god, Audrey, are you okay?” “The hell, Sienna! What is your problem? Did she just assault you in a daytime seizure?” Chloe raged. Audrey sucked in a theatrical gasp of air, but her reply was soft, forgiving. “It’s fine, girls. Sienna is probably just stressed about the deadline. There are so many of us submitting this year. Let’s not make it harder for her.” Same old Audrey. Always the martyr, the perfect, understanding friend. My past life screamed at me: She is a wolf in silk clothing. Chloe’s voice rose to a furious pitch. “I swear, she’s just jealous of you! You’re so nice to her, and this is how she repays you? She needs to apologize, right now! This is not over!” The two of them stomped off their beds, heading straight for the bathroom door, ready to drag me out and force a confession. But I had already locked it. I leaned against the sink, ignoring the banging and the muffled shouts. I looked into the mirror: my face was full, alive, bright. I reached up and touched my forehead. No blood. No sickening, deep gash. I clenched my fist and drove my nail into the sensitive flesh of my palm. The pain was immediate, sharp, and undeniable. I was back. I had a chance. The piece of art had not yet been submitted. I hadn’t been cyberbullied into oblivion. The Haven had not been vandalized. The rhythmic pounding on the door intensified. “Sienna, what is it? Did I do something wrong? Please, let’s talk. Don’t bottle things up.” If I hadn’t seen the truth, I might have been moved. But now, my only thought was a cold, sharp resolve: Audrey Thorne would never climb to the top on the back of my work again. After a moment, I opened the door. Audrey instantly moved in, her eyes wide with manufactured concern. Harper and Chloe hovered behind her, shooting daggers at me. I walked past all three of them, straight to my desk. I picked up my utility knife, flipped back the protective drop cloth, and, in a single, decisive motion, sliced my finished masterpiece to ribbons. Silence. Shock. Then, Audrey let out a sound so sharp it felt like a shriek. “Sienna! What is wrong with you?” She clutched her hair. Her voice was too loud, too distraught. “That painting was incredible! You—you just ruined it! The deadline is in two days! What am I going to submit?!” The word hung in the air: submit. In her panic, she’d forgotten the script. I had known she planned to steal it, but seeing her claim it so naturally, so instantly, made my blood run cold. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “It’s my painting, Audrey. I’m the one who decides what’s wrong with it. And what you submit is none of my business.”

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The moment the car crash took my parents, the clock stopped. I was eighteen. The world didn’t just end; it became a tidal wave of creditors and debt notices. I begged, tear-streaked and desperate, but the friends and “family” who had once filled our house vanished like smoke. Then, out of the wreckage, Audrey Sinclair appeared. She was my father’s former student, now the heiress to the Sinclair Empire. Under the cold, regal guise of the future Mrs. Maxwell, she paid off the last of the debt and silenced the collectors. But for the next ten years, we remained nothing more than engaged. A decade of standing on the sidelines, trapped in a bizarre holding pattern because I hadn’t yet “passed the Sinclair trials.” On my ninety-ninth failure—my body bruised and aching, a custom funfetti cake tucked under my arm—I accidentally overheard her talking to a friend. “Seriously, Audrey, how many times has Ethan failed the ‘trials’? I’ve lost count.” “He’s pathetic, Maya. There are no ‘Sinclair trials.’ It was a convenient fiction to stall for time and keep Leo Harrington within reach. How has he not figured that out?” Audrey’s voice was ice. “Ninety-nine, and counting. Pity isn’t in my vocabulary.” “But you’ve been engaged for ten years. The trials have to end sometime. What happens when he finds out? I heard Leo is flying back tonight.” “Leo isn’t the penniless grad student he was ten years ago, he’s a Wall Street golden boy. Our companies are already merging. The Sinclair heir’s spot was always meant for The Golden Standard, Maya. For Leo. I did what I had to do to hold the line until he was worthy.” The designer cake bag crumpled in my fist. A decade. A farce. My entire salvation, the lifeline I had clung to, was just a waiting room for her real love. The trials? A punchline. Tears fell, hot and bitter. My savior was nothing more than a magnificent liar, a director who’d cast me as the star of her decade-long distraction. I wasn’t playing this role anymore. 1 “But—” Maya’s voice was cut off. “Even if I hadn’t gotten engaged to Ethan, the family would never have let me be with Leo back then. My only option was to wait until he was the kind of man the Sinclairs would accept. As for Ethan—ten years of the Sinclair name was my biggest return to him.” Maya looked sick. “You gave him access to so many resources, and he turned them all down. Then he specifically demanded Ethan be the one to broker the final deal. He’s deliberately trying to hurt him, Audrey.” “If Ethan finds out, you’ll lose him completely. He might even hate you, and you know he has nobody else.” Audrey stood up, staring out the window. “I know all of it. But I just want to be with the man I love. Is that so wrong? The next trial will be impossible. He’ll walk away. It ends there. Don’t bring this up again.” “Making it impossible doesn’t mean the past disappears. Ethan fought through ninety-nine failures to marry you. He won’t just hand you over to Leo. He’s human, Audrey. He’ll break.” “Enough. I never belonged to him, so there’s nothing to ‘hand over.’ After Leo and I marry, I’ll send Ethan overseas for his doctorate. He always wanted to follow his father’s work. I’ll fund whatever he needs.” “You’re really going to see this through, aren’t you? Ethan has been the one by your side for a decade. How do you know Leo is still The Golden Standard you remember?” Maya sighed. “Fine. I won’t say anything else. Do what you want.” The silence that followed was heavy. The funfetti cake, which I had spent two hours trying to keep perfect, now lay on the ground, a colorful smear on the Persian rug. It was the perfect metaphor for my love for Audrey. Crushed, unrecognizable, a sticky, bitter mess. Ten years ago, the bailiffs were at the door, and my life had imploded. I was just a terrified kid who only knew how to study. Audrey had talked me down from the roof. She went from my father’s student to my fiancée. When the Sinclairs pushed back, she spun the story of my father’s life-saving kindness to her, securing her own father’s reluctant consent. I thought our bond was a sacred debt of gratitude. But then she told me I would be the best son-in-law, put me through business school, and let me shadow the Sinclair corporate affairs. She even kissed me sometimes, a quick, intoxicating brush of lips that felt like a reward. The suspicion about the trials had always been there, but the memory of those kisses, that brief taste of us, made me swallow it all down and try again. It had all been a lie. I scrubbed the tears from my face, straightening up and forcing myself to walk away. With every step, a piece of my affection for Audrey dissolved. Before I’d made it far, I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Ethan? What are you doing out here?” I turned and faced her, forcing a hollow smile. I pointed to the pitiful mess on the ground. “I was bringing the cake. Tripped right by the door, and it slipped. Heading back out to get a new one now.” The tension instantly left her face. She spotted the scrapes and cuts on my arms. Her eyes softened with practiced concern. “You went to another trial? I told you it doesn’t matter if you pass, I’ve already chosen you. You don’t need to—” The genuine concern I saw on her face the previous ninety-eight times now felt revolting. One second she was sighing over her long-lost love, the next she was pouring out this saccharine affection for me. You’re a phenomenal actress, Audrey. I watched her cold performance, avoiding her hand as she reached for my wound. I knew I couldn’t break the illusion yet. “I’m fine. Just clumsy. Sorry, I failed this one, too.” She was a professional. Despite my obvious coldness, she insisted on dragging me back to the Sinclair manor. She frantically searched for the first aid kit, treating my wounds as if I were a piece of priceless crystal. “Blow on it. The pain goes away.” A month ago, that sweet, maternal gesture would have melted me. Now, it made my stomach churn. This was the gilded cage she’d used to keep me compliant. She didn’t notice my inner chill. She kissed my palm—the familiar, sickening comfort of it—and then she said it. The line I’d waited a decade for. “Ethan, let’s get married.” My hand, which I was about to pull away, froze. She gripped it, looking straight into my eyes. “We’ve been engaged for ten years. People are gossiping that I’m unreliable, that I’ve moved on. We’ll have a spectacular wedding. The kind that shuts up every single person who has something to say.” I watched the self-serving fantasy play out in her eyes. “But I haven’t passed the Sinclair trials? Your father wouldn’t—” She cut me off with a kiss. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you pass the final one. I promise.” It was the ninety-ninth lie. If you don’t love me, why do you care what happens to me? “Ethan? You don’t want to marry me?” Her question broke my internal loop. To hide my true expression, I pulled her into a tight hug. But the warmth of my embrace was all a performance, and my eyes were utterly cold. She mistook it for passion and launched into a breathless description of the wedding planner. The distraction was a phone call. She glanced at the screen, and her lips curved into a smile she couldn’t hide. “Ethan, work emergency. I have to go now. You stay here and rest.” She rushed off, the joy in her expression undeniable. The identity of the caller was painfully obvious. I watched her retreating back, silently reciting my eulogy for our relationship. Audrey, you saved my life. I gave you ten years of my life as a repayment. The debt is settled. After she left, the immense space of the house felt desolate. I went straight to her private study, intending to draft a separation agreement. We didn’t have a marriage license, but ten years of entwined life meant we had ten years of separation to untangle. The moment I logged into her computer, I froze. Her messaging app was open. The thread was with Leo Harrington. His contact name was an emoji of a black knight. ‘Can’t miss the Princess’s birthday. Your Knight is flying in fast!’ Audrey’s reply: ‘Waiting for the Knight for the tenth time. ’ I scrolled, numbly, frantically, until the mouse slipped from my hand and I sagged onto the floor. I had known where she was going, but the sight of the evidence was a physical tearing in my chest. This was the truth of her “not-love.” She hated texting, she said. Too impersonal. We were always calls. Always voice. Always the distance. But here? Ten years only held 3,650 days. Their messages numbered in the tens of thousands. Daily. Intimate. Love was in the volume. Love was in the banality of their daily life. The clock struck midnight. A ding from the laptop. Leo’s Instagram post. ‘Happy Birthday, My Princess. Ten years of holding the line. Get ready for the most important day of our lives, three days from now.’ The photo: Two hands, clasped. His left index finger. The small, distinct crimson mole I’d seen a hundred times on campus. I wasn’t going to bless them. I picked up my phone and sent a text to a number I hadn’t dialed in a decade. ‘Are you still waiting? Do this one thing for me. Then I fulfill my promise.’ The reply was instantaneous: ‘Yes.’

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I wanted to stroke the campus heartthrob’s cat. It was the middle of the night, and I couldn’t stand it anymore. I shot him a text. Avery: Hey, can I stroke it? Just once! His reply was immediate, and predictably formal. Rhys: Avery, that’s a bit forward. I pressed on. I knew I was good with my hands. Avery: I’ve got a great touch, I promise I’ll make it purr! One hand from head to tail, right? Silence. An hour later, he finally replied. Rhys: One hand won’t do it. Rhys: You won’t be able to grasp it. 1 Avery: No way! Avery: I can definitely grasp it! To prove my point, I immediately took a close-up photo of my hand and sent it to him. In the picture, my hand was cupped, angled just so to make my fingers look extra long and nimble. Avery: See? Plenty of room. I wasn’t delusional. His cat, Figaro, was only three months old. A tiny little thing. How could I not be able to grasp it? The top of the chat box flashed: Rhys is typing… It started, then stopped. Stopped, then started again. For a solid three minutes. All I could think about was the cat. I was getting impatient. Avery: How about you send me a close-up picture so I can check if it’s grown? 2 Rhys’s reply this time was surprisingly fast. Rhys: I’m a traditional man. I frowned, staring at the screen. What did being “traditional” have to do with sending a picture of a kitten? Rhys: It’s not appropriate at night. It’s already asleep. I was even more confused. Avery: Don’t lie. It’s definitely wide awake right now. Nighttime was prime zoomie-time for any kitten. I suspected Rhys was just using excuses. After that, he stopped replying. Rhys Alderidge was a legend in our department. First, because of his face—a chiseled, untouchable beauty that landed him the unofficial title of Campus Heartthrob. Second, because of his personality—infamously stiff, unapproachable, and stubbornly old-school. He’d broken a thousand hearts without even trying. We were in the same college, but different majors, so besides large lecture classes, we had zero overlap. Texting him at midnight about stroking his cat was, admittedly, a breach of social contract. This is going south, I thought, letting out a heavy sigh. Just as I was about to give up, my phone vibrated. Rhys had actually conceded. Rhys: If you want to stroke it so badly… fine. Rhys: But you have to come to my place. He added a familiar line. Rhys: I’m a traditional man. !!! He’d said yes! I was elated, scared he’d change his mind. Avery: Deal! No problem! Avery: Wherever you want to stroke it is fine by me! I’m flexible! The screen went quiet for a few seconds. Rhys: When did you… take an interest in it? 3 Why was I so obsessed with stroking Rhys Alderidge’s cat? Because it was my cat. Rhys was a kidnapper. He had effectively catnapped my beloved son, Figaro. Figaro was a scrappy, long-haired calico I’d found living under my dorm. He had a weird, chaotic patchwork of orange and black that made him look a little like a walking paint-spill—which is why no one adopted him. I’d been his biological human since he was a month old. I paid for his vet visits, built his little shelter, and fed him by hand. I couldn’t bring him into the dorm because my roommate was allergic, so I was saving up my scholarship money to rent an apartment. Rhys, however, had beaten me to it. He skipped straight past “adopt” and went directly to “steal.” But an opportunist never quits. I instantly developed a perfect new plan: Get close to Rhys. Lull him into a false sense of security. Then, steal my son back. 4 When did I take an interest in it? I thought back. Avery: Two months ago. Two months ago was when I first met Figaro next to the dumpsters behind my dorm. The top of the chat box flashed: Rhys is typing… After a long pause, he sent three words. Rhys: Me too. My fist clenched. What did that mean? He saw Figaro two months ago but didn’t take him in? He just watched while I did all the hard work—potty training him, getting him fed, turning him into a plump, healthy little creature—and then swooped in to claim him? This was a blatant theft of hard-won victory. It was infuriating. But I forced myself to calm down. Bigger picture, Avery. Bigger picture. I put on a friendly facade. Avery: Well, looks like we’re completely in sync then, aren’t we~ Avery: So, when can I come over and stroke it? 5 That night, Rhys just replied, It’s moving too fast, and then went radio silent. No specific date, no time. That wouldn’t do. A dedicated plotter like me hates uncertainty. I had to push him. The first thing I did in the morning was film myself applying hand cream and sent the video. In the clip, I massaged the milky lotion into my palms, smoothing it over my knuckles. Avery: Look, my hands are super soft. It’s going to be in pure ecstasy when I touch it. The chat box flashed Rhys is typing… for nearly a minute. Nothing ever came through. Why did he keep doing this? A bold thought crossed my mind—maybe Rhys just wasn’t good with phones. I decided to be more direct. Avery: Can you send me a video of you stroking it? Just to tide me over? (Stars-in-eyes emoji) He was silent for a while. Then, a familiar line popped up. Rhys: I’m a traditional man. Avery: … Was that a default auto-reply? Was something wrong with him? I didn’t know how to respond, so I just didn’t. About ten minutes later, my phone vibrated. Rhys had actually sent a video! 6 My heart did a little jump. I quickly tapped play. The frame held only a pair of hands. The fingers were long and slender, with distinct knuckles. Pale skin with faint blue veins underneath. The fingers were moving, sliding up and down in mid-air, a study in elegant motion. But they were trembling slightly, as if recording this brief clip had been a massive psychological barrier to overcome. I was momentarily confused. Why was he showing me his hands? Was I the type of person who just drooled over handsome men? I wanted the cat! With no Figaro content from Rhys, I resorted to trawling his old social media posts. I found an old video of him petting the cat. In the clip, Rhys was sitting down, his eyes lowered, silver-rimmed glasses resting on his nose. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up twice, exposing a clean, firm forearm. He looked gentle and studious. His long fingers were lightly petting the kitten’s head. The next second, the cat twisted its head and swiped a claw across his forearm, leaving a clear red scratch. He didn’t seem annoyed; a tiny, affectionate smile even touched the corner of his mouth. My roommate leaned over my shoulder. “He’s so handsome, and so emotionally regulated… I wish I were his cat.” She paused, then observed, “Look, he was just scratched and he’s still smiling.” She smirked suggestively. “Maybe he is a bit of a masochist. They say the quiet, buttoned-up ones are always the wildest ones in the sheets. Girl, whoever lands him is going to eat well.” Her words made me realize the reason for Rhys’s hesitation. 7 I sent a probing text. Avery: You never bring people you aren’t close with back to your place, do you? Rhys replied with a single word. Rhys: No. Aha! Case closed. He was so stiff and formal that he felt we weren’t close enough for me to come home and stroke his cat. I clicked over to his profile again, carefully scrolling through his posts. I needed a way to accelerate our relationship status. 8 Clutching a small pink gift bag, I found Rhys in his large lecture hall during the busiest break between classes. He was sitting alone, reading. He looked like a very serious ragdoll cat. “Rhys!” He visibly flinched when he saw me, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. His earlobes flushed pink. I pressed the pink bag into his hands, smiling brightly. “Open it, Rhys. See if you like it.” He took it, glancing nervously at the surrounding students, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Are you sure… you want me to open this in front of everyone?” I nodded enthusiastically. “Of course! Open it.” He carefully peeled back the tissue paper. Inside lay a small, hand-knitted scarf that I’d stayed up all night to finish. “Happy belated birthday, Rhys!” The afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, catching my radiant smile. Rhys froze, staring at me. When he finally registered what I’d said, his ear tips turned even redder. He adjusted his glasses to cover his confusion. “…Thank you.” The surrounding spectators immediately became alert. “Rhys actually accepted a gift from a girl?” “The Heartthrob is blushing…” I gave myself a mental high-five. Plan: Aced. Now that he’d accepted a gift and I’d wished him well, we were officially friends, right? It was time to claim my prize. “I knitted it myself,” I emphasized. He stroked the scarf, his eyes avoiding mine. “I love it.” “I was up all night working on it,” I pressed, following the momentum. He looked up at me, his eyes dark. “I understand your intentions.” The moment was now. I lowered my voice. “So, about what I asked last night…?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. He looked away. “I’m a bit traditional. I need some time. Maybe next month…” My smile instantly faltered. He saw my face drop and pursed his lips. “Next weekend,” he revised quickly. I immediately deployed the innocent, doe-eyed appeal, gently tugging the sleeve of his shirt. “The day after tomorrow! Tomorrow! Please?” He seemed burned by my touch. He grit his teeth. “Fine.” “Thank you!” My mood instantly shifted, and I beamed. “I’m going to make sure I’m completely ready!” He looked at me, his gaze heavy, and his voice held a strange, determined finality. “I will be, too.” I didn’t understand what he needed to prepare for. 9 On the walk back to the dorm, my roommate linked arms with me, shaking her head in amazement. “Avery, do you know what Rhys said when a freshman tried to give him a gift last month?” She mimicked Rhys’s stiff, upright posture. “‘I do not accept bribes for my position.’ He refused without even looking at it.” “He’s pathologically good.” She suddenly leaned in, elbowing me. “But he took yours and said he liked it!” I thought she was overthinking it. “He just likes hand-knitted things.” My roommate sighed, utterly defeated. “Avery, you are a ruthless opportunist, but also a monumental idiot.” “Poor Rhys.” I tuned her out. I only had one thing on my mind: Figaro. Tomorrow, I could finally go to Rhys’s place and stroke him! I hadn’t seen him in so long; I was going to inhale his scent until I passed out. 10 I was too excited to sleep. Tucked under my covers, I suddenly remembered an important detail. I texted Rhys. Avery: Did you shave its butt hair? If not, I can come over and clip it tomorrow. Figaro was a long-haired cat; his rear end needed regular maintenance, or things got messy. On the other end, Rhys seemed to be struggling. After a long input delay, he replied. Rhys: Isn’t that… moving a bit too fast? I frowned at the screen. I told him the truth. Avery: I can’t wait any longer! This time, his input was even slower. So long that I thought he might have fallen asleep. Finally, the message popped up. Rhys: I’ve never done it before, but for you… I can try. Rhys: I’m very much looking forward to it. I was wondering why he’d be looking forward to clipping a cat’s butt hair. Then, another message arrived. Rhys: Since I’ve agreed to all this, can I ask for a small favor in return? I bit my bottom lip, hovering my finger over the screen. After three seconds of deliberation. Fine, I need the cat more. Avery: Sure. He almost instantly replied. Rhys: Can I call you ‘Babe’? I was confused. Avery: Why? He replied with utter seriousness. Rhys: It seems like people in our situation often use that term for each other. Our situation? 11 I stared at the words, my brain momentarily fried. Then, a sudden realization struck me—I understood! We were cat-buddies! People online who shared pictures and advice about their cats often called each other “Babe” or “Sweetie.” The logic was flawless. Relieved, I readily agreed. Avery: Okay, sure. Go for it. He immediately sent a strange, slightly outdated floral emoji with the caption, “Happiness Lasts Forever,” radiating a kind of rigid, uncontainable joy. My goal achieved, I decided to end the conversation. Avery: Goodnight, see you tomorrow. I was about to put down my phone when a voice note popped up. I tapped it. His low, rich voice poured into my ear, sounding as if he were right behind me. “Goodnight, Babe.” “See you tomorrow.” 12 Following the address Rhys had sent, I found myself standing in front of a substantial, secluded villa. “This is next-level luxury,” I murmured, taking a deep breath before ringing the doorbell. The door opened. Rhys stood in the frame, his hair damp. He was wearing a white terry-cloth robe, and he’d taken off his glasses, making his features look sharper and his thick eyelashes more prominent. He seemed edgier than usual. I froze for a second. He spoke first. “My parents are at a visiting professorship abroad.” “…Oh.” So, he was completely alone? He held out a pair of fuzzy white kitten slippers. They were identical to the black ones he was wearing. I started to bend down, but he knelt first. “Let me.” “You don’t have to…” Before I could finish, his fingers deftly untied my shoelaces. His robe gaped slightly with the movement, and I accidentally glanced inside, catching a flash of taut, slightly pink-tinged muscle. My face went hot, and I snapped my head away. After I put the slippers on, Rhys gentlemanly ushered me inside. “So, can I stroke it now?” I asked, eager for the cat. “Has it gotten a lot bigger?” 13 Rhys’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He cleared his throat. “Y-yes,” he managed. I was impatient. “Where should I stroke it?” “You… where do you want to? Anywhere is fine.” “The living room couch, then.” I went straight to the point, plopping down and rubbing my hands together excitedly. “Bring Figaro out!” Rhys lightly coughed, the tips of his ears flushed red. He looked incredibly serious. “It’s not small,” he said solemnly. What did that mean? Was he bragging about how well he’d fed Figaro? As I wondered, Rhys very deliberately reached for a remote and closed all the living room blinds. ?? Then, he turned on a dim, amber-colored mood lamp. ??? I didn’t understand, but I respected the man’s eccentricities. The entire space was bathed in a hazy, slightly ambiguous light. He walked over to the sofa. Taking a deep breath, as if making a monumental decision, he sat down next to me. The bottom of his robe had slipped open slightly as he spread his legs. He leaned back against the cushions and lifted an arm to cover his eyes. He looked like a portrait of submission. His damp, dark hair, the half-open robe—in the dim light, he appeared both incredibly restrained and deeply ready to let go. I was stunned. This was what he meant by “traditional”? After a moment, he didn’t feel any movement, so he lowered the arm covering his eyes and looked at me, his expression wet with a kind of resigned vulnerability. “You… you don’t want to start?” I was just as antsy. “You have to bring Figaro out! If you don’t, how can I start?” The air froze.

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