Seven years after my divorce from Grayson Shaw, we met again in a flower shop in downtown Portman. He walked in under the dome of an expensive-looking black umbrella, a man who seemed entirely immune to the storm raging outside. His assistant scurried behind him, collapsing the umbrella with a neat thwump. And then there was me. I was wearing a faded t-shirt that had been through the wash one too many times and a pair of mud-caked rain boots. I was in the middle of a losing battle, haggling with the owner over a few sad-looking succulents that had been beaten down by the rain. I just wanted a touch of green for my tiny bakery. The clerk, who clearly recognized him, greeted him with a deferential, “Professor Shaw.” My back was to him, but my entire body went rigid. Grayson. The name was like a shard of glass I’d swallowed long ago, still lodged somewhere deep inside, scraping me raw with every beat of my heart. Today, he was the youngest tenured professor in the physics department at Portman University, a rising star with an international reputation. And I was the unassuming owner of a small bakery on a forgotten street in the south end. 1 “I’ll take a bouquet of Carolina roses, ninety-nine of them.” Then, a second thought. “Actually, my wife is pregnant. She’s sensitive to strong scents.” His voice was the same as I remembered—a cool, crisp tone with a magnetic undercurrent of authority. Hearing it, the still waters of my heart rippled with a faint, dead tremor. His wife. Pregnant. How nice for them. I lowered my head, picked up the cheapest cactus in the shop, and turned to pay. But in that single motion, as I pivoted, our eyes met. For the first time, I saw something other than detached brilliance on the face they called the “darling of the physics world.” I saw shock. Disbelief. And something that looked terrifyingly like panic. Those eyes, which had gazed into the vast, cold emptiness of star charts and cosmic theories, were now locked on me. “Ava?” I managed a tight, brittle smile and nodded. “It’s been a while, Professor Shaw.” Then, clutching my small, prickly cactus, I walked out into the curtain of rain without a backward glance. The rain was cold, but my heart had been frozen solid seven winters ago. 2 My bakery is called “Late Bloom.” It’s tucked away on an old street that still smells of real life—of charcoal grills and damp pavement. My only employee, Maya, is a sharp-witted twenty-year-old who’s quick with her hands and even quicker with her tongue. When I sloshed back into the shop, dripping all over the floorboards, she was perched on a stool, scrolling through her phone. She shot up immediately. “Ava, what happened? Did you fall into the river?” she cried, bustling around me. “Get out of those wet clothes before you catch a cold! And what’s this? Did you buy yourself a little ball of spikes? Who taught you that kind of romance?” She chattered on, pressing a dry towel into my hands, her eyes dancing with amusement as they landed on the cactus. I just smiled and didn’t answer. Late Bloom was my father’s legacy. Before he passed, he held my hand, his own rough with a lifetime of flour. “Ava,” he’d whispered, “this little bakery put you through school, and it fed that… that thankless boy. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry I ever brought that wolf cub home.” The wolf cub my father spoke of was Grayson. When he was eight years old, his drunk of a father beat him half to death and left him in the alley behind our bakery. I was eight, too. I gave him the dollar I’d been saving for candy and then cried and begged my parents until they let me bring him inside. My mother and father were good people. They saw a broken, starving kid and they opened their home. He took my mother’s maiden name, becoming Grayson Shaw, my unofficial brother. But my father quickly realized that this silent, scarred boy was something else entirely. He was a prodigy. The math and physics problems in my textbooks, which looked like a foreign language to me, were things he could solve in his head with a single glance. From that day on, my father poured every ounce of hope and resource into him. We weren’t wealthy. My parents ran the bakery from dawn until dusk, and from the meager profits they skimmed off, they paid for his private tutors and sent him to the best schools. And Grayson, to his credit, soared. He skipped grades, and at sixteen, he was accepted into Portman University’s physics program. The day he left for college, he stood on the worn linoleum of our small apartment above the shop and made me a solemn promise. “Ava, just wait. I’m going to give you the best life. I’ll never leave you.” I believed him. The same way I believed that fairy tales always ended with the prince and princess living happily ever after. “Ava? Hey, Ava! Earth to Ava, you’re a million miles away.” Maya’s voice pulled me from the past. I realized I’d been staring at the cactus, lost in thought. “Sorry. Just thinking about old times.” I set the plant on the windowsill. “How were sales today?” “The usual,” she said with a shrug. “Though we had a weirdo stop by earlier.” “A weirdo?” “Yeah. Pulled up in some kind of ridiculously expensive car I didn’t even recognize. He just stood under the awning, out of the rain, staring at our sign. Didn’t come in, didn’t leave. Just stood there like he was trying to solve an equation.” My heart gave a painful lurch. Before I could respond, the little bell above the door chimed. A tall figure stepped inside, bringing a gust of damp, cold air with him. It was Grayson. Maya’s mouth fell open into a perfect ‘O’. Her eyes darted from Grayson to me and back again, her expression a priceless mix of confusion and awe. Grayson’s gaze swept over the simple, worn tables and chairs of the bakery, finally settling on me. His expression was as complex as one of his unsolvable theorems. “I…” he began, his voice raspy. “Could I… get a loaf of the hearth bread?” I nodded calmly, turning to the kitchen as if he were any other customer. Maya followed me, her voice a frantic whisper. “Ava! Isn’t that Grayson Shaw? The genius physicist from the news? What is he doing in our little place? And how does he know you?” I ignored her, my hands moving with practiced ease as I took a warm, crusty loaf from the cooling rack, slid it into a paper bag, and handed it to her. “Take this out to him.” She did, glancing back at me over her shoulder with every step. From behind the kitchen curtain, I watched him. He sat at one of the chipped wooden tables, his posture ramrod straight, a man completely out of place amongst the flour-dusted, homey warmth of my world. He tore off a piece of the bread and slowly, deliberately, brought it to his lips. And then I saw it. The slightest slump in his shoulders. A subtle, almost imperceptible collapse. I knew. The recipe for our hearth bread hadn’t changed in thirty years. It was the taste he’d known from age eight to twenty-two. The taste of fourteen years of his life. The taste of home. 3 Grayson never finished the bread. He left a hundred-dollar bill on the table and walked out without another word, a kind of dazed, lost look on his face. Maya clutched the money, her eyes wide with gossip. “Okay, Ava, spill it. Confession time. What is the deal between you and the devastatingly handsome Professor Shaw? Ex-boyfriend?” I wiped down the table he’d just vacated. “Ex-husband,” I said flatly. Maya’s jaw practically hit the floor. The next few days passed in a quiet blur. Grayson didn’t return, and my life slipped back into its comfortable, predictable rhythm. Until a week later, when a ghost from my past—a person I had prayed I would never see again—walked through my door. It was a slow afternoon. Maya and I were in the back, kneading dough for the next day’s bake. A fire-engine red Porsche pulled up to the curb with an arrogant screech, and a woman in a Chanel suit, her belly swollen with pregnancy, emerged. It was Lily. Grayson’s wife. She clicked into my humble bakery on seven-inch heels, a triumphant smile playing on her lips, but her eyes were sharp with suspicion and challenge. “Ava, sweetie. It’s been so long. Are you… doing okay?” she asked, her tone dripping with false concern as her gaze swept dismissively over my flour-dusted apron. Maya was on her feet in an instant, planting herself between us. “Who are you? We don’t know you.” Lily shot her a contemptuous glance, then produced a sleek black card from her Hermès bag. She placed it on the counter and slid it toward me. “I know things must be hard for you, Ava,” she said softly. “There’s fifty thousand dollars on this. A little something from Grayson and me. Take it. Go somewhere else, start a new life. Just… close this bakery.” Her voice was gentle, but her words were poisoned darts. She was afraid of me. Afraid that this tiny, insignificant bakery would stir the embers of Grayson’s long-abandoned conscience. I looked at the card, and a dry, humorless laugh escaped my lips. “Lily,” I said, meeting her gaze, my voice level and cold. “The last time I saw you, you were wearing a white sundress I bought for you. You came to my house, crying, telling me you had nowhere else to go. You looked just as innocent and pitiful then as you do now.” The color drained from her face. Lily had worked at the flower shop near the university. Back then, Grayson and I were married. He was finishing his Ph.D., a brilliant mind on the fast track to success. I had given up a graduate scholarship of my own to take an administrative job in his department, just so I could be close to him, to manage our life so he could focus on his work. Grayson had a thing for plants. He said their growth patterns held a certain cosmic order. That’s how he met Lily. She was clever. She saw Grayson wasn’t just another grad student. She’d bring him books like A Brief History of Time, asking him to explain the concepts. She would look at him with wide, adoring eyes and say things like, “Dr. Shaw, the things you talk about are more beautiful than any flower.” All I ever asked him was, “Do you want pot roast or spaghetti for dinner?” Then, Lily told us she was dropping out of college because she couldn’t afford tuition. I looked at her innocent, tear-streaked face and my heart ached for her. I convinced Grayson that we should help her. We paid for her classes. I treated her like a little sister, inviting her over for meals, buying her clothes. I thought I was doing a good deed. Instead, I had personally invited the gravedigger to my own marriage. I’ll never forget that night. I came home from work early, wanting to surprise him. But as I reached our bedroom door, I heard voices that froze the blood in my veins. I pushed the door open to a scene that would be burned into my memory for eternity. And the white dress Lily was wearing? It was the one I had just bought for her the day before. My world shattered. I went berserk. I smashed everything I could get my hands on, tore every picture of us to shreds. I lunged at her like a wild animal, grabbing her by the hair, trying to drag her out of my home. But Grayson shielded her. He held her behind him, and the look he gave me was one I’d never seen before. It was cold, alien. He looked at me as if I were a complete stranger, a raving lunatic. “Ava, you need to calm down!” Calm down? How could I calm down? The man who was my entire universe, the foundation of my life, had betrayed me in the most intimate way possible. In the weeks that followed, I spiraled into a deep depression. I couldn’t sleep. My hair fell out in clumps. I would weep for hours for no reason, or break into fits of hysterical laughter. Grayson offered no comfort. He just started coming home later and later. Whispers started circulating around the university—that I was jealous, unstable, that I was no longer a suitable wife for a man as brilliant as Grayson Shaw. I tried to tell people the truth, but no one believed me. They only saw the charming, gentle professor and his unhinged wife. The final straw was my job. Grayson used his influence in the department to have me put on indefinite leave, citing my “unstable mental state.” He was systematically erasing me. He was going to destroy my career, my reputation—everything—just to get me out of his life cleanly. It all came to a head one afternoon when I tried to throw an ashtray at Lily. Grayson called an ambulance. Not a regular ambulance. One from a private psychiatric facility. I fought as two burly orderlies pinned my arms. I screamed his name, my eyes pleading with him. He stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the light, his face unreadable. All he said to the doctor was, “She’s sick. Very sick.” As they dragged me away, I saw Lily standing behind him, the faintest hint of a smile on her face. The days in that place were a gray, medicated fog. I was a specimen, the crazy professor’s wife. They fed me pills that made my mind feel like cotton. My parents came, tears streaming down their faces, and begged Grayson to let me come home, but he wouldn’t even see them. I thought my life was over. Then, one day, I got sick. A kind nurse, suspecting the cause, ran a test for me on the quiet. I was pregnant. The existence of that tiny, fragile life was like a single ray of light piercing through my suffocating darkness. For my baby, I had to get better. I had to survive. I started cooperating. I took the medication without a fight. I smiled. I did everything I could to appear “normal.” I called Grayson and told him about the baby, begging him to bring me home. Perhaps the word “child” still meant something to him. He finally agreed. I thought we could start over. I was so naive. When I got back to our apartment, Lily was there. Her own stomach showed the slightest swell. She clung to Grayson’s arm and smiled sweetly at me. “Congratulations, Ava. Now our children can grow up together.” I stared at her, then at Grayson’s silent, confirming expression. The world tilted on its axis. He wasn’t just keeping her. He was keeping her child. We fought. Of course we fought. In the chaos of our shouting, Lily suddenly cried out and crumpled to the floor, clutching her stomach. Without a second’s hesitation, Grayson rushed to her side, shoving me violently out of the way. I stumbled backward, the small of my back slamming hard against the sharp corner of our dining table. A searing pain shot through me. And then, a slow, warm trickle of blood ran down my leg. I lost my baby. And in that moment, I lost the ability to ever love him again. Lying on the sterile table in the hospital, as the life and the love bled out of me, I told Grayson, who was waiting just outside the door, “I want a divorce.” He was silent for a long time. Then he said, “Fine. But you leave with nothing.” … “…So now you’re here,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet, pulling myself back to the present. I looked at Lily, whose face was now ashen. “You’re standing in my father’s bakery, my only home, offering me fifty thousand dollars to disappear?” The raw hatred in my eyes made her flinch. But she quickly regained her composure, straightening her spine. “Things are different now, Ava. You can’t win. Grayson loves me. I’m carrying his firstborn son. And what are you? A washed-up crazy woman who runs a dingy little bakery.” Crack. The sound of my hand connecting with her cheek echoed in the small shop. I had held that slap in for seven years. It was for my lost child. For my ruined life. For my father, who died with a broken heart. Lily shrieked, her hand flying to her face. “You hit me! You bitch, I’ll kill you!” She lunged at me, her nails bared like claws. Maya reacted instantly, grabbing a rolling pin and holding it like a shield. Just then, the door flew open and a tall figure rushed in. He pulled Lily behind him, shielding her with his body, and snarled at me, “Ava! What the hell are you doing now?”

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I’m the kind of director who makes studios rich. The kind whose name above the title guarantees a hit. So when my fiancé, the show’s primary investor, demanded I cast his childhood sweetheart, Mia Sutton, as my leading lady, I should have known it was trouble. I refused, citing that she was utterly wrong for the part. As a consolation, I gave her the role of the villain—the second female lead. When the show became a runaway success, Mia’s portrayal of the venomous antagonist was so convincing that the internet turned on her. She was dragged on social media, trolled relentlessly, and even received death threats. That was when my fiancé decided I needed to be taught a lesson. He found a group of men to defile me, and he had them film it. The video went viral. Overnight, I went from being Hollywood’s golden girl to a pariah, branded a slut, a whore who’d slept her way to the top. One of Mia’s obsessed fans, convinced I had bullied his idol, found me on a rainy street and stabbed me until I bled out on the pavement. And then, I opened my eyes. I was back. 1 “Camera A is set! Stand by, Camera B!” The assistant director’s frantic voice echoed in my ears. I blinked, my heart hammering against my ribs as I took in the painfully familiar scene around me—the controlled chaos of a film set on the first day of shooting. I had been reborn. I was back on the day we began filming The Gilded Cage. In my first life, my fiancé, Ethan Croft, had forced his little pet project, Mia Sutton, into my cast. He had insisted she play the lead. I’d said no. But to appease him, to keep the peace and the funding, I’d offered her the part of the vindictive lady-in-waiting. The show was a sensation, bigger than anyone had imagined. But Mia’s performance was too good. The audience’s hatred for the character bled into reality. She ran to Ethan, weeping, claiming I had set her up, that I’d deliberately given her an unlikable role to sabotage her career and expose her to public hatred. And Ethan, my Ethan, believed her. He decided I needed to be punished for my “retaliation.” So he hired a group of thugs to corner me. They filmed what they did to me and plastered it all over the internet. In a single night, I was destroyed. My career, my reputation, my sense of self—all of it gone. I was no longer an A-list director; I was a “desperate slut,” a “casting couch whore.” And Mia? She spun the narrative masterfully, emerging as the sympathetic victim, the innocent starlet bullied by a jealous director. Her career skyrocketed. It all ended on a storm-slicked street, with a knife in the hands of her crazed fan. “Ava? Are you alright? You look pale,” my assistant’s voice cut through the memory, pulling me back to the present. I shoved the searing hatred down, letting it cool into a block of ice in my chest. My eyes hardened. I shook my head, my gaze sweeping across the bustling set until it locked on the main makeup trailer. I pushed the door open without knocking. And there she was. Mia Sutton, draped in the magnificent gown meant for my lead actress, sitting in the star’s chair as if it were her throne. She was barking orders at the makeup artist. “The eyeliner needs to be sharper. More of a wing. I want it to look seductive, understand?” “And this lipstick is all wrong. It’s too pale. It washes me out. I need a classic red.” “Honestly, the team you’ve assembled is just subpar, Ava. I’m surprised at your standards.” My actual lead actress, a talented newcomer I had fought to cast, was huddled in a corner, her eyes red-rimmed, twisting the fabric of her simple costume in her hands. She was fuming, but powerless. I walked toward them, the sharp click-clack of my heels on the linoleum floor announcing my arrival. Mia saw my reflection in the mirror. Instead of contrition, her chin lifted in a gesture of pure defiance. “Ava, you’re just in time. Take a look. This new girl you picked? She has no screen presence at all. Don’t you think I’m a much better fit?” I looked at her face, a perfectly painted mask of ambition, and I smiled. The next second, my hand was a blur. CRACK. The sound of my palm connecting with her cheek echoed through the trailer, silencing everything. The makeup artist’s eyebrow pencil clattered to the floor. In the corner, the young actress gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Everyone froze. Mia clutched her face, her eyes wide with disbelief. A beat passed before the shock curdled into outrage and she let out a piercing shriek. I flexed my stinging hand, admiring the five perfect, red fingerprints blooming on her skin. “The makeup’s not bad,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Let me just add a finishing touch.” 2 “Aaaah—!” “You hit me! You actually hit me!” Mia’s scream was the perfect summoning spell for Ethan. The trailer door burst open, and he stormed in, his eyes immediately finding Mia, who was already performing the role of a lifetime, clutching her face, tears welling. He rushed to her side, gathering her into a protective embrace before turning his glare on me. His eyes were filled with a familiar disgust. “Ava, what the hell is wrong with you? Why would you hit Mia?” I crossed my arms, watching his little show with a cold detachment. “Why?” I repeated. “Because I’m the director on this set. I’m teaching her about the rules. Is there a problem?” My words stopped him short. His face darkened. From the safety of his arms, Mia began to sob. “Ethan, I didn’t mean any harm… I just thought the costume was beautiful, and I wanted to try it on… I don’t know why Director Renner got so upset with me…” Ethan’s resolve softened instantly. He murmured comforting words to her, his gaze on me turning venomous. “Ava, how many times do I have to tell you? Mia and I grew up together. She’s like a little sister to me. Can’t you just look out for her?” “It’s a leading role, for God’s sake. What does it cost you to just give it to her?” “And don’t forget,” he added, his voice dripping with condescension, “I’m the one signing the checks. Is it really that hard to do this one little thing for me?” That tone of absolute entitlement. It was the same one he’d used in my past life, over and over again. The last flicker of warmth in my heart died out. “Let’s get something straight, Ethan. This is my set. I am the director. And I call the shots.” “If you don’t like it,” I said, my voice dropping to a deadly calm, “you can take your little pet project and get the hell out. Right now.” Every word was a shard of ice, delivered without a trace of mercy. Ethan’s face twisted in disbelief. He had never heard me speak to him like this. The woman he knew was pliable, gentle, eager to please. “What did you just say to me?” I met his rage with an equal and opposite force, pointing a finger toward the door. “You heard me. I said, take her, and get out.” “Fine,” he snarled, a cruel smile spreading across his lips. “Just fine!” He jabbed a finger at me, his voice a low threat. “I’m calling my father right now. I’m telling him to pull the funding. Let’s see who’s calling the shots then!” A wave of panic rippled through the trailer. The crew members exchanged anxious glances. The young actress in the corner slumped, the hope draining from her face. Mia’s eyes, however, flashed with triumph, a smirk playing on her lips. They all expected me to fold. In my last life, Ethan always used his father as a weapon. And every single time, for the sake of my project, for the sake of my art, I had swallowed my pride and given in. I buried the resentment, the humiliation, the pain. But I wasn’t that woman anymore. I calmly pulled out my own phone and dialed a number before he could. “Hello, Arthur? It’s Ava.” The steady, powerful voice of Arthur Croft came through the line. “Ava, my dear. Is everything alright? Is the first day going smoothly?” Ethan froze, stunned that I would dare to go over his head. I shot him a cool glance, my voice a mask of professional concern. “Not exactly. Ethan is here on set, insisting that I cast his friend in the lead role. He’s now threatening to have you pull the funding.” “As you know, this is a project you personally championed. We have significant sunk costs. Replacing the actress I carefully selected to fit the role will not only compromise the quality of the film but will also cause delays and budget overruns.” “I’m just a director, Arthur. I’m afraid I can’t take responsibility for those kinds of cost overruns. I felt it was my duty to report the situation to you directly.” I didn’t embellish. I didn’t need to. I just stated the facts. Arthur Croft was a shark. He understood profit and loss better than anyone. There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. Then, his voice boomed, a roar of pure fury. “That goddamn idiot! Put him on the phone!” I hit the speakerphone button and held the phone out to Ethan. Arthur’s enraged voice filled the entire trailer. “Ethan! Are you out of your goddamn mind? Ava is the director! Casting is her decision! What the hell do you know about it? I’m telling you right now, if you delay this project by one single minute, I will personally break your legs! Now you apologize to Ava, you hear me? Apologize now!” The color drained from Ethan’s face, replaced by a mottled, furious red. He never, in his wildest dreams, imagined that his doting father would humiliate him so thoroughly. For me. 3 Arthur slammed the phone down, the disconnect tone echoing in the dead silent trailer. The atmosphere was thick with humiliation. Mia’s face was pale. She quickly wiped away her triumphant smirk, replacing it with a mask of trembling contrition. “Director Renner… I’m so sorry. This is all my fault…” She bit her lip, tears falling like perfectly timed pearls. “I never wanted the lead role, really. I would be happy with a walk-on part. I truly don’t mind…” She claimed she didn’t mind, yet she wept as if her heart had been shattered. It was a masterful performance. Ethan, seeing her distress, felt his own humiliation flare into protective anger. The rage his father had ignited now had a new target: me. He took a deep breath, his tone shifting to one of strained negotiation. “Ava. Mia already said she’s sorry. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” “She won’t be the lead. Fine. But what about the second lead? That’s not too much to ask, is it?” I laughed. The second lead. The very role that had set in motion the tragedy of my last life. History wasn’t just repeating itself; it was mocking me. “No.” My refusal was swift and absolute. “Not the second lead. Not a walk-on with no lines. She will have no part in this production.” My words were like a bucket of ice water dumped over Mia’s head. Her crying stopped for a split second before resuming with even greater intensity. Ethan’s control finally snapped. “Ava! Don’t push me!” He slammed his hand down on the makeup counter, sending bottles and brushes scattering across the floor. “I’m telling you right now, if Mia doesn’t get the part of the second lead, then nobody is shooting anything today!” He spun around and roared at the open door. “Get in here!” On his command, two large men in suits—his personal security—barged into the trailer. “Smash it,” Ethan ordered, pointing at the meticulously designed props and set pieces nearby. “Smash it all.” The men moved to obey, but I lunged forward. “Stop it! Ethan, have you lost your mind?” Before I could intervene, the bodyguards grabbed me, one on each arm, holding me fast. My heart ached as I watched them begin to destroy my work—the culmination of months of planning, of sourcing investments, of poring over scripts with my writers. The crew shrank back, terrified. The other actors stood frozen, too intimidated to move. Ethan strode toward me, his face alight with a sick, vengeful pleasure. “You see this, Ava?” he hissed. “This is what happens when you cross me. I want you to watch as I tear down everything you’ve worked for.” Trapped in their grip, I could only watch the carnage, my face a cold mask. “Think about what you’re doing, Ethan. This isn’t just my project. This is your father’s reputation on the line!” He scoffed. “He won’t blame me.” “Are you sure about that?” I asked, my voice chillingly calm. My eyes flickered to a figure standing in the doorway, a figure Ethan hadn’t noticed yet. It was Arthur Croft, his face a thundercloud. Ethan, lost in his own arrogance, didn’t see him. “Please. My father? My grandfather could show up, and it wouldn’t stop me. If this film bombs, it’s on you, Ava, the great director. It means he made a bad investment. If it’s a hit, it’s because I was here, managing things.” He puffed out his chest. “That old man just knows how to throw money around. You think he’d ever set foot in a dump like this? He should be thanking me for being here, making sure no one is taking advantage, or bullying the new talent.” His voice dripped with disdain, completely oblivious to the man standing behind him, his father’s face growing darker with every word. “You arrogant little fool,” Arthur’s voice boomed, thick with menace. “Listen to the garbage coming out of your mouth.” Ethan whipped around. The moment he saw his father’s furious expression, his face froze. “Dad?! Wh-what are you doing here…?”

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I woke up in a room I didn’t recognize, the air thick with a rising heat that had nothing to do with the temperature. I was drugged. And I wasn’t alone. The red pinpricks of high-definition cameras in the corners confirmed the nightmare: a live feed, streaming right now, straight onto the darkest corners of the internet. The viewers—thousands of them, the digital leeches of the dark web—were buzzing, placing bets on how long we could hold out. I had two choices laid out for me in this agonizing space. I could let the drug burn me alive from the inside out, a fever of chemical torture. Or I could sacrifice every shred of my dignity, and put on a show for the anonymous masses with the man standing a few feet away. 1 “Heh heh, welcome, everyone, to ‘How Long Can They Last?’” “Tonight, we feature the famously aloof artist and the notoriously untouchable CEO!” “We’ve been planning this event for an entire year! Hope you enjoy the show!” The synthetic, electronically processed voice echoed off the concrete walls. With a sharp clack, the enormous screen mounted on the wall flickered to life. Four brutal, industrial spotlights immediately skewered my vision with blinding white light. The searing pain made me hiss in discomfort. “Awake?” The man’s voice was rough, like gravel had been dragged across his vocal cords. I turned my head and my breath hitched, then stopped completely. It was Ethan Rhys. The heir to the Rhys BioPharma empire in Boston, known for his utterly impenetrable aloofness. We’d only met twice before, briefly, at a gallery reception for the new packaging illustrations I’d done for his company’s latest drug—an approval I’d just secured. We hadn’t exchanged more than three complete sentences. “Mr. Rhys, where are we?” “An abandoned warehouse. And we’re being streamed, live.” He spoke, then immediately shuffled backward, retreating into the farthest corner he could manage, his breathing heavy. “Does it feel hot in here to you?” I fanned myself nervously, taking in the scene. He shot me a look of pure, mortifying awkwardness, his lips moving as if to speak, but he said nothing. Odd. But he wasn’t wrong. It was a broadcast. HD-800 models—a dark web favorite, meaning the transmission distance wasn’t great, maybe a couple of miles. A peculiar, unwelcome heat was beginning to rise under my skin. I forced myself to breathe deeply, trying to distract my mind from the intensifying sensation. “Mr. Rhys, how did you get caught up in this?” It was easy enough to target an independent artist like me, with no security. But Ethan Rhys? Surrounded by security and corporate muscle? Taking him down would have required a massive operation. Why us? Why the two of us together? A suppressed groan of agony escaped Ethan’s throat. “Someone set me up…” “Who’s the bankroller? The person behind the curtain?” Anyone who could pull this off against him must have invested a fortune. “I don’t know,” Ethan ground out, each syllable a struggle to escape his gritted teeth. “But I will.” 2 On the massive screen, a dense, frantic scroll of comments flashed. [WTF! Isn’t that Sienna the Illustrator? The one they call the ‘Untouchable’?!] [Heard half of Boston’s A-list has chased her, and she’s shot them all down.] [Yep, notoriously hard to get!] [And the other one is the Hermit CEO, Ethan Rhys? They’re playing for real stakes!] [Holy hell, I’m so stoked!] [Dark web is killing it! They managed to snag these two for a live stream!] [Rumor is, they planned this for a year!] [The Ice Queen meets the Hermit. Perfect pairing!] [Heh heh, I love watching the ‘prim and proper’ finally get ‘down and dirty’…] Those comments felt like dirty, invisible hands, stripping me bare and tossing me onto the street. “Let us out of here! This is illegal!” I instinctively curled my body inward, but my voice still came out in a terrified tremor. The synthetic voice gave an exaggerated, mocking laugh. “Help me! I’m so scared!” “Heh heh, friends, guests! The countdown starts now: 30 minutes! Place your bets! Let’s see how long they can resist the urge. And… who gives in first~~~” The comments grew more brazen, more vile. [Oh, spare us the high-and-mighty act. When the drug hits, you’ll be crying for him.] [They’ve been locked up for almost half an hour. Why hasn’t the show started yet?] [Is this a fake?] [I bet twenty minutes! The girl’s dose hasn’t fully kicked in.] [Both of them are total smoke shows. Worth every penny.] [Stop messing around! Get on with it! I’m putting $200k on them not lasting.] The drug? The drug? The one I’d only read about in trashy romance novels? I risked a glance at Ethan Rhys. He was in far worse shape than I was. Cold sweat beaded on his temples. He was propped against the wall with one hand, his knuckles white and protruding. The muscles in his exposed forearm were taut and subtly shaking, like he was wrestling a silent, invisible beast. I finally understood the meaning of his earlier, hesitant look. He couldn’t speak. He was beyond opening his mouth for a casual chat. I ran to the heavy iron door and started beating on it like a maniac. “Is anyone out there? Open up! Open the door!” “Stop, Sienna… that will only make the drug take hold faster.” Ethan’s voice cut through my panic. It was raspy, yet possessed a dangerous, compelling magnetism. His breathing was ragged and hot. In this suffocating, drug-fueled situation, his voice was like a lethal aphrodisiac. A mortifying thought flashed through my mind: If he lunged at me, would I fight him, or… I shivered, realizing I had already started spiraling into the forbidden thought. I kicked the door harder. “It’s been welded shut…” Ethan spoke again. I spun around to face him, my heart hammering in my chest like a runaway train. “Then what are we supposed to do? Wait to be burned to death by this chemical torment? Or couple like animals in front of a thousand people?” The words were out before I could stop them, and I instantly regretted it. The bloody redness in his eyes flared, but he bit down hard, turning his face away. His Adam’s apple convulsed violently, almost tearing through the skin. He was clearly struggling far more than I was. My words sounded like an accusation that he would take advantage of me. “I’m sorry,” I looked down, my voice catching on a sob. “I’m just… terrified.” “Don’t worry,” Ethan said, his fists clenched so tight his skin stretched white. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, soaking the back of his shirt. “I will not touch you.” 3 “Too loud! Hmm, seems like my hospitality was lacking. I didn’t give you enough of the good stuff!” The electronic voice was cold and sinister. The next second, a cloud of rose-tinted gas hissed from the ventilation duct. It smelled sickly sweet, like melted honey and a chemical burn, snaking its way into my nostrils. My fingertips immediately started to tingle with a terrifying, delightful numbness. Ethan spun around violently, his eyes fixed on me, pupils contracted to pinpricks. My heart seized. My body trembled uncontrollably, and I felt a surge of utterly shameful anticipation. “Don’t inhale!” He roared and lunged, moving so fast he was a blur. His hand, burning hot, clamped over my mouth and nose. His touch was scalding. The calluses on his thumb grazed my lips, an act of sheer, terrifying aggression. I instinctively recoiled, but ended up driving my head straight into his chest. His face was inches from mine. His breath, erupting in ragged bursts, was a fiery, medicated inferno. The comments section exploded: [Finally! Mr. Rhys, hold her tight!] [Look at his hand! He’s about to crush her face!] [Get on with it! Stop pretending to be a gentleman!] Ethan’s fingers suddenly tightened, and I let out a sharp, muffled cry of pain. “Sorry.” He seemed to snap out of a trance, abruptly releasing me. He stumbled back a huge step, his body slamming violently against the iron door. BAM! A low, guttural moan of pain ripped from his throat. A shard of sharp, upturned metal on the door sliced a deep gash into his forearm. Blood instantly gushed out, streaming down his arm and dripping onto the pale concrete floor—a shocking, aggressive red. I gasped in horror. “Don’t be afraid!” He retreated to the corner, and I watched, paralyzed, as he dug his own fingers into the fresh wound on his arm. He let out a suppressed roar, a sound of pure, tearing agony. He was using the pain to force himself awake, to force himself away from me. The comments instantly turned crueler: [Oh, look! He’s actually bleeding! Is he trying to look pathetic? Trying to make the girl pity him?] *[Get her to lick the wound! And get it on!] * [He’s about to blow, but he’s still playing the saint. Give it up, Romeo!] 4 My own condition was no better. The earlier struggle, the panic, and now the second dose had sent the drug racing through my bloodstream. It was a waking beast, consuming my will. I bit down hard on my tongue until I tasted metal. The coppery scent of my own blood filled my mouth, a feeble attempt to use pain to fight off the shameful, burgeoning desire. Worse, my body had already surrendered. A million invisible ants seemed to crawl beneath my skin, urging me toward that specific source of pure, overwhelming male energy. Ethan’s wound was still bleeding, staining half of his shirt sleeve crimson. I gathered the last of my strength and ripped the lace trim from the hem of my cocktail dress. “Use this to tie it up.” My legs were jelly, my voice trembling and unrecognizable. I stumbled two steps and held it out to him. Ethan’s body instantly froze. He turned, his eyes bloodshot and feral, like a beast on the verge of losing control. His gaze dropped first to the scrap of fabric I offered, then slowly moved up, locking onto my face. The intensity of his stare terrified me. I instinctively tried to pull my hand back, but he suddenly clamped down on my wrist. His fingertips brushed my skin, sending a jolt of electrifying numbness up my arm. My rational mind screamed at me to push him away, but my body was a shameful traitor. All I wanted was to burrow into his arms, to feel his heat. “Please…” I bit my lip, my nails digging into my palm, clinging to the last sliver of control. “Don’t, Ethan.” The comments section went completely insane: [He finally put his hands on her! Pin her against the wall!] [The girl’s melting! What’s with the act?] [I bet they don’t last 10 seconds. Wager: $100k.] [Go! Go! Go! Stop wasting time!] A sob escaped me, and a single, scalding tear rolled down my cheek, splashing onto the back of his hand. He flinched violently, as if my tear had burned him. He abruptly let go, gasping as he staggered two steps back. “I’m sorry!” He averted his eyes, a flicker of panic in his voice. “Thank you, but I don’t need the bandage.” We both knew the score. If we gave in to this physical need, we would be reduced to rutting animals, coupling under the jeers and scorn of countless strangers. The dark web would record our humiliation and sell it. The price of a momentary surrender would be a lifetime of shame and regret. 5 Having been denied the spectacle they craved, the comments hissed like venomous snakes, dripping with malice: [Oh, he actually refused? What a pretentious gentleman!] [Loser! Can’t even get a girl when she’s doped up!] [Look at Mr. Rhys’s back! He must be rock-hard. Why the saintly act?] [Damn it! I’m out hundreds of thousands because they’re dragging their feet!] [The girl should stop faking it! Her face is flushed—she definitely wants it!] [Go jump him! Solve the problem for both of you! We’ll light up the rockets!] Just then, the warehouse loudspeaker boomed to life. The same cold, synthesized voice spoke: “Heh heh, now entering the ‘Close Proximity Challenge’ segment.” “Rule: Do what I say, or we will release more ‘Pink Bubble Air.’” Ethan’s head snapped up. Like an enraged bull, he bellowed into the speaker. “Go ahead! I’d rather die than let you scumbags get what you want!” “And what about Miss Sienna?” The voice was playfully taunting. I was riding the peak of the drug’s effect, fueled by the rush of male hormones. I could barely speak, using every ounce of my diminishing strength to hold myself together. I just shook my head violently. The electronic voice suddenly turned chilling. “It seems you two aren’t getting the hint. Very well. Miss Sienna, they say a man pursuing a woman is like climbing a mountain, but a woman pursuing a man is like pushing aside a veil. How about you take the initiative?” “Don’t rush to refuse. Do you… recognize this?” The image on the screen abruptly switched from our live feed to a close-up shot—a pink hair tie with a tiny, silver rabbit charm dangling from it. My heart sank like a stone. It was my sister Layla’s hair tie. I’d given it to her for her birthday last year, and she wore it every day. The electronic voice carried an awful, malicious chuckle: “If you don’t want anything to happen to her, you’ll kiss him. And don’t tell me you don’t want to kiss him right now.” The comments section went ballistic: [Aha! Time for the big guns!] [Kiss! Kiss! Quick!] [Whose life is more important, your sister’s or your virginity?] [Hurry! I’m betting on the position already!] [I’m betting $500k on the missionary position.] 6 Staring at that familiar hair tie, the blood ran cold in my veins. Layla was the most important person in the world to me, second only to my father. I felt like I was going insane. The last flicker of my sanity was being extinguished. “Who? Who paid you to do this?” Ethan ground out, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles twitching. The synthetic voice remained cheerfully indifferent: “That’s none of your concern, Mr. Rhys! We take people’s money; we deal with people’s problems.” “I’m starting the countdown now. If you don’t complete the task in ten seconds, I will kill the little girl! Heh heh…” I shuddered, my mind clearing slightly. “Stop! That hair tie might look like the one I made, but there are similar ones! How do I know Layla is actually with you?” The electronic voice let out a sinister laugh. The screen flashed, cutting to a new image: a familiar figure tied to a chair, gagged with cloth. Seeing the camera, she shook her head frantically, tears streaming down her face. “Layla!” I screamed, trying to rush forward, but Ethan pulled me back instantly. “Ten… Nine…” The screen instantly returned to the live feed, and the synthetic voice started counting. “Ethan!” I pleaded, my voice choked with sobs and completely shattered. “Please…” I had broken. Under the dual torment of the drug and the threat, I abandoned my last shred of struggle. Ethan looked up at me sharply, his eyes wide with shock, and a trace of barely concealed heartbreak. The comments section was in a frenzy: [She’s finally come around!] [Mr. Rhys, stop standing there! Kiss her!] [Kiss her, then go straight for it! No holding back!] [Go! Go! Go!] “Eight…” But Ethan didn’t move. He turned his head away, biting down hard, trembling slightly. We both knew what that one kiss would lead to.

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Five years into my marriage with Adrian Lopez, his long-lost love, Marilee, miraculously came back from the dead. She moved into my home, kissed my husband, and my son even started calling her “Mommy.” Adrian told me she had cancer and that he needed to make it up to her. He told me to be the bigger person. My son, Leo, said to me, “You’re just not as gentle or pretty as her. And she doesn’t have any scars.” So I gave them what they wanted. I faked my own death and disappeared, finally starting the quiet life I’d always longed for. More than a decade passed in a blur. Then, Leo Lopez enrolled in the university where I teach. He found me, his eyes red-rimmed with tears, and demanded, “If you never wanted me, why did you even have me?” 1 It was the break between classes, and the grounds below the lecture hall were swarming with students. Leo ignored the curious stares, his fingers clenching the fabric of my sleeve. The heat of his gaze made me feel like I was being roasted over an open flame. I lowered my eyes, fighting to appear calm. “You must have the wrong person, young man. I’ve never been married, and I don’t have children.” His voice was deceptively steady. “Really?” he shot back. “The same face, the same build, even the same first name. Did I get it wrong, or are you just too scared to admit who you are?” It was a dramatic twist of fate. After faking my death, I fled the country and ran into the Reeds, a couple mourning the recent loss of their daughter. They saw the resemblance between us and asked me to take on her identity. By some cosmic coincidence, her name was also Ava. Sometimes you just have to accept that another “you” exists somewhere in the world. As Ava Reed, I finished my doctorate abroad and eventually became a university professor. When Mr. Reed passed away, his final wish was to be buried back home, so I returned to the States with his wife. Not long after, she passed away too. Once again, I was alone in this vast world. As for Leo, the child I had left behind, I never imagined I would see him again. His sudden appearance caught me completely off guard. I used to imagine what he’d look like when he grew up. But standing here, he didn’t seem to resemble me or Adrian. I searched my mind, but the image of his younger self was already a blur. When I walked away from the Lopezs, I left with nothing but the clothes on my back, a clean, sharp break. Every photograph I had cherished, every memory I’d saved—all of it had been turned to ash in the fire. My thoughts were a chaotic whirl. Leo’s grip on my sleeve tightened, as if he feared I would vanish the moment he loosened his hold. A colleague I knew passed by on her way to class and, seeing the situation, came over to intervene. “Mr. Lopez, I think you’ve made a mistake,” she said gently. “It’s just a resemblance. You shouldn’t hold up Professor Reed’s lecture.” Doubt flickered across Leo’s face, and his grip slackened. I seized the opportunity, pulling my arm free and hurrying up the stairs. At the landing, I glanced back. Leo stood there, a lonely, dejected figure. He was as striking as Adrian, the kind of person you could spot in a crowd instantly. He looked heartbroken. But I felt no pang of sympathy. I just told myself, Ava, you can look back, but you can never, ever go back. 2 Teaching always consumed me, and I quickly pushed the morning’s interruption to the back of my mind. Back in my office, the heating was on full blast. I took off my coat but left my scarf on. A new professor in the office across from mine pointed it out kindly. “Professor Reed, you forgot to take off your scarf.” I just smiled without a word. I prepped my lessons, reviewed a thesis, ate lunch, and settled in for a nap. Leo’s appearance hadn’t disrupted my life. My routine was unshakable. At least, that’s how it seemed. I reclined my chair, pulled a thin blanket over myself, and checked that my alarm was set. I closed my eyes, the familiar drowsiness creeping in. But I had underestimated the psychological toll of Leo’s sudden return. For the first time in years, I dreamt of Adrian and Leo. My marriage to Adrian was a business arrangement. My father had done a great favor for Adrian’s father back in the day and never asked for anything in return. But then my father’s business ran into trouble, and he had no choice but to turn to the Lopezs for help. Mr. Lopez agreed, on the condition that our families be joined by marriage. Back then, I had a secret crush on Adrian. But I knew he was in love with a girl named Marilee Sterling, so I never dared to reveal my feelings. In the world we lived in, marriage was rarely about love. When I found out I was going to marry him, I was so ecstatic I couldn’t sleep all night. I thought I could work my way into his heart, slowly, patiently. But halfway through our wedding ceremony, news broke that the plane Marilee was on had crashed. She had been leaving the country, heartbroken, and the flight went down into the ocean. No survivors, no remains. Adrian calmly let the wedding proceed. But I knew a wall had just been erected around his heart. And the eternally young, eternally perfect Marilee was now enshrined within it forever. I suggested we live as husband and wife in name only. Instead, he descended on me with a chilling darkness, without a hint of tenderness. He whispered venomously in my ear, “Does it hurt? Good. Suffer. Marilee is dead because of your family. You all brought this on yourselves.” The night after that, my family’s company went bankrupt, and we vanished from the city’s high society. My father, in his despair, jumped from his office building. My mother suffered a mental breakdown and was committed to a sanatorium. I remember the night my father died. Adrian came home, staggering drunk. He stormed into my bedroom and ravaged me like a man possessed. “Ava,” he snarled, “I’m going to make you hurt a hundred, a thousand times more than I do.” I thought about ending it all. But Adrian saw right through me. “If you don’t want your mother to suffer, you’ll stay alive,” he threatened. “You know I have my ways.” I was trapped. I couldn’t die, but living was agony. 3 My marriage to Adrian was a suffocating, airless prison. In public, we were the perfect, loving couple. We attended galas and entertained guests, always by each other’s side. The media often snapped photos of him buying me luxury brands or bidding on priceless jewels at auction, dubbing him the ultimate doting husband. But behind closed doors, he would take out his rage on my body, hissing that I was no better than a whore he’d paid for. After each time, he would toss the expensive jewelry at my face. “Here’s your service fee,” he’d sneer. “At least you’re a high-class one.” I didn’t know when this life would end, or how much longer I could endure it. Then, a small mercy: my mother’s condition improved, and she was discharged. I didn’t want her to worry, so I’d tell her how thoughtful and considerate Adrian was, what a wonderful man he was. But no matter how well I acted, how could a mother not see the truth? She left me a letter, telling me to find my freedom. Then she followed my father. My spirit shattered completely. I stopped eating, stopped drinking. No tears, no outbursts. I just faded. Soon, I fell into a coma, my vital signs slipping away. My mind, however, was crystal clear. I developed a sick, twisted craving for death. It was the only way out, the ultimate release. But Adrian wouldn’t allow it. Every time I drifted close to the edge, a pair of hands would pull me back. I could hear Adrian’s voice in my ear, choked with sobs. He spoke with a gentleness and desperation I had never heard before. He said he had lost. He said that through the endless, torturous days, he had somehow fallen in love with me. How absurd. After being revived yet again, a doctor gave me the news: I was pregnant. A fruit had grown from the flower of my suffering. I felt like my life was now shackled forever. I didn’t want this child. I secretly scheduled an abortion at a different hospital. But Adrian found me. He locked me away, with guards watching me twenty-four hours a day, until I gave birth to Leo. 4 The dream was long and torturous, pulling me back into the depths of my old pain. Thankfully, my alarm went off, yanking me back to reality. After my afternoon lecture, I headed to the parking garage. As I passed the athletic fields, a basketball came flying straight at my head. My mind went blank. I instinctively threw my hands up to shield my face. The impact I braced for never came. I opened my eyes. Leo stood in front of me, clutching his head where the ball had hit him. I found myself in a tangle of emotions. As much as I wanted nothing to do with him, I couldn’t just walk away from a student who had just protected me in front of everyone. I took him to the campus clinic. After he was patched up, I turned to leave. “Professor Reed,” Leo called out. “I helped you. Don’t I deserve a thank you?” I stopped and turned back. “I already said thank you.” “A verbal thank you is so boring. How about something more tangible?” He sauntered over to me. “It’s my birthday today. Could you… could you have dinner with me?” His words unlocked a flood of memories I had kept sealed away. Though I hadn’t wanted Leo’s birth, perhaps it was the agonizing, difficult labor, or perhaps it was just maternal instinct, but I came to love him fiercely. Once, when he was a toddler, he almost knocked over a kettle. Without a second thought, I lunged forward and wrapped him in my arms. The entire pot of boiling water cascaded down my neck and chest. Afterwards, to soothe the terrified child, I held him and sang to him for four hours straight. I missed the optimal window for treatment. The burn left a permanent, ugly scar. I didn’t care about the scar. All that mattered was that my son was safe. For him, I put on a performance, playing the part of a loving wife to give him a happy home. And we were, for a time, happy. Until he turned four. That was when the facade was ripped away. After Leo was born, Adrian had grown to love our family life. He’d often suggested having another child, but I always refused. As a result, he doted on our only son. Leo’s birthday parties became more extravagant each year. For his fourth, he invited Leo’s entire preschool class to a private amusement park and ski slope that his grandfather had built specially for him. Halfway through the party, an unexpected guest arrived. It was Marilee Sterling. I had seen her photos on Adrian’s phone. She was beautiful and elegant, and now she had an added layer of mature grace. Perhaps the shock of seeing a ghost was too much, because Adrian just stood there, staring in disbelief. It was only when she called his name that he instinctively dropped my hand. It turned out Marilee had missed her flight that day, rebooking on a later one and escaping the crash. She said she hadn’t wanted to disrupt Adrian’s life, so she had stayed away. A recent job transfer had brought her back to the city, and she just wanted to see him. Old friends reunited. There was much to catch up on. Adrian set Marilee up in one of his private apartments. He didn’t come home that night. I knew my life was about to be thrown into turmoil again. I just didn’t expect that the one thing I held onto—my only anchor—would be taken from me too. 5 A confused Leo once asked me who Marilee was. I didn’t know how to answer. “Let’s wait for Daddy to tell you, okay?” I said. The next morning, Adrian came home, his steps weary and unsteady. Leo, a milk mustache on his upper lip, asked the question again. Suddenly, Adrian’s temper flared. “You’re disgusting, Ava! Using our son to manipulate me!” he yelled. “Marilee has cancer! What’s wrong with me taking care of her? You already have so much! Why can’t you just be a little more generous, a little kinder?” I glanced at the faint, tell-tale red mark on his collar and said nothing. His outburst sent Leo into a fit of terrified tears. Sanity returned to Adrian, and he apologized. I remained silent. Marilee’s company had business with Adrian’s, so they started seeing each other more and more. Without me realizing it, Leo had also grown attached to her. I first noticed something was wrong one night as I was reading him a bedtime story. After only a few sentences, he started fussing, insisting that he wanted Marilee to read to him. I had no choice but to let him have his way. It was only later that I realized the three of them had built a whole world behind my back. Soon after, Marilee invited us to her birthday dinner. Fueled by alcohol, she wept as she recounted the hardships she had faced over the years. Leo, his face etched with sympathy, walked over, took her hand, and kissed her on the cheek. “Don’t cry, pretty lady,” he said. “Mommy stole Daddy from you, so Leo will give himself to you.” A cold premonition washed over me. I sensed a distance growing between me and my son. But I clung to a sliver of hope—he was my child, born from my body. That bond was unbreakable. That last sliver of hope was shattered the day I heard Leo call her “Mommy.” 6 It was an ordinary Friday. I made sweet and sour pork ribs, Leo’s favorite. I simmered a chicken soup, the kind Adrian loved. I waited for my husband and son to come home. Instead, all three of them walked in together. Marilee and Adrian were holding Leo’s hands, laughing and talking as they entered. A perfect, happy family of three. “Mommy, I was a good boy at school today! You promised you’d give me a reward.” I froze. I didn’t remember making any such promise. A moment later, Marilee’s gentle voice drifted over. “Of course, sweetie. Mommy already has it ready for you.” Adrian looked up and saw me. My expression must have been ghastly, because he felt the need to walk over and explain. “Marilee took Leo hiking the other day,” he began. “They stopped at an old monastery, and a monk there said that Leo and Marilee were mother and son in a past life. So I had Leo officially recognize her as his godmother. Don’t worry, no matter what, you’ll always be his real mother. That will never change.” A sarcastic smile touched my lips. What a flimsy excuse. And it had changed. “Godmother” and “Mommy” were worlds apart. Leo pouted. “If you don’t like it, Mommy, I can just use their names when I talk. You can be Mommy Ava, and she can be Mommy Marilee.” I rose from the sofa. “Don’t bother. From now on, you only have one mother.”

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My first day in the book, I was kneeling in the Great Hall with other new ladies before I even knew the palace layout. The King, unlike his “patient and wise” reputation, pointed at the pale girl beside me and roared, “Ill omen. Kill her!” Trembling, I watched her be sentenced. When my turn came, the tyrant smiled cruelly at my fear. “This one stays.” That night, he dragged me to his chambers and tormented me endlessly. Afterward, he used me wherever he pleased. I suffered silently as his plaything. Then, the day I gave birth, I saw a furry wolf cub between my legs. Shock overwhelmed me. A court drama, not a fantasy zoo! Was this heaven’s way of ending me? 1. Fear sent my mind into overdrive. Shaking, I frantically dug through my hazy memories of the original novel. The book had an unfinished, rushed ending. The main character, King Cyrus, presented a facade of a diligent and benevolent ruler. In reality, he was a dark, violent tyrant who killed without a second thought. And the original owner of this body, Clara—which was now me—was nothing more than insignificant cannon fodder. After her first night with the King, she had secretly drunk a contraceptive tonic. Cyrus caught her in the act. “Since you love your medicine so much,” he’d said, his voice cold as ice, “We shall let you drink your fill.” And so, the original Clara was forced to drink an entire barrel of the bitter tea until her stomach literally burst. The bloody lesson was seared into my brain. To survive, I had spent the last year being utterly, meticulously obedient. If he wanted a bed warmer, I’d be silent as a stone. If he commanded me to submit, I wouldn’t dare resist. If he wanted me on my stomach, I wouldn’t dream of turning over… I had tried so hard. I had been so compliant! And for what? Staring at the furry little wolf cub between my legs, I managed a weak, desperate smile. This wasn’t just deceiving the Crown; this was corrupting the entire royal bloodline. This was witchcraft. A dark omen that would throw the kingdom into chaos! Would that damn King feed me to the wolves? Or worse… tie me and this little cub to a stake and burn us alive? Was this my punishment for trying to change the plot? My mind was a tangled mess. I watched as the little cub clumsily rolled over. It stuck out a tiny pink tongue and began licking its soft fur. He was… almost cute? No! Get a grip, Clara! That thing is your death sentence! Just as I was staring at the “evidence” on the bed, paralyzed with terror, a voice from outside sent a chill down my spine. “How is Lady Clara?” “Your… Your Majesty, the child is born, but…” The servant’s voice trembled like a candle flame in the wind. “As long as the child is born, that is all that matters!” Cyrus’s voice actually sounded… pleased. Almost eager. Don’t tell me he was excited to be a father. “All that matters?” If you knew what I gave birth to, you’d be saying, “As long as they’re both dead!” The footsteps grew closer. My body was as taut as a drawn bow, my heart hammering against my ribs. 2. There was no time for maternal bonding. With the fastest hands I’d ever had, I snatched the wolf cub by its tail and shoved it deep under the bed. “Be a good boy,” I whispered frantically. “Don’t you make a sound, or the royal kitchens will be serving a new special tonight! Wolf stew, and you’re the main course!” The cub let out a tiny, wounded whimper and then, miraculously, fell silent. Cyrus strode into the room. Though he was in his plain robes, the oppressive aura around him was as potent as ever. His eyes scanned the empty bed, a flicker of impatience crossing his features. “Where is the child?” Lie? Lie to this man, whose face could silence a crying child? I couldn’t do it! “The… the child… didn’t… didn’t…” The gruesome image of the original Clara’s death played on a loop in my head. The fear was bone-deep. My lips trembled like dead leaves in a gale. The words “make it” were caught in my throat, refusing to come out. Cyrus’s brow furrowed in annoyance. He closed the distance between us in a single step and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Well? I asked you a question. Where is the child?” His fingertips were like ice, sending a shiver through my entire body. I squeezed my eyes shut, swallowed hard, and summoned every ounce of acting talent I possessed. “It is my fault, Your Majesty,” I sobbed, my voice cracking with anguish. “I was too weak… I couldn’t save our child…” Cyrus froze. The light in his eyes instantly died. I knew that look. I knew it all too well. The royal family had always struggled to produce heirs. A new child was a matter of national importance. Cyrus had been selecting new ladies for his court for years, yet at over thirty, he was still childless. To finally have a child, only to have it “not make it”… Of course he was devastated. CRASH! A deafening sound exploded next to my ear. The disappointment on Cyrus’s face vanished, replaced by a storm of cold, violent rage. He sneered and kicked over a nearby wardrobe with brutal force. “Good! Excellent! A fine job!” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Couldn’t save him, you say…” The King’s fury was a terrifying thing. Outside the room, a chorus of shrieks and pleas for mercy erupted. “Your Majesty, calm your anger! Please!” A cold sweat drenched my body. I was paralyzed by a fear so profound it felt like I was drowning. Then I heard Cyrus let out a sharp, chilling laugh. His voice dropped to a frigid whisper. “You have the face of an angel, the body of a goddess… but you’re just as useless as the rest.” Tears streamed down my face. Useless? Who was it that held me all night, taking me seven times without stopping? Now that he’s pulled up his trousers, he doesn’t recognize the work I put in? The room fell into a deathly silence. The Lord Chamberlain spoke up, his voice trembling. “Your Majesty, what shall be done with Lady Clara…?” Cyrus didn’t even bother to look at me again. He released my chin, his tone as flat and lifeless as stale water. “Since she is so useless that she cannot even secure a royal heir… leave her here. Let her rot.” A massive weight lifted from my chest. Thank God! My life was spared! Let me rot? Wonderful! No more early morning greetings, no more bed-warming duties! And no more dealing with this unpredictable, terrifying man! I fought to keep the corners of my mouth from turning up into a grin and bowed my head to the mattress. “This servant… thanks Your Majesty for his grace.” 3. Within half a day, the Rose Pavilion was stripped bare, as if it had been looted. As for the terrified midwife, I had worried she would talk. But Cyrus had acted first. She was executed for “incompetence,” leaving no loose ends. And so, clutching the furry little wolf cub in my arms, I officially began my life in the forgotten North Tower. At first, it was grim. The food was barely fit for pigs. But my spirits were high! No bed-warming, no boss to please, and I could sleep in every day! It was the retirement I’d always dreamed of! Then, one night about a month later, a guard on patrol knocked on my door. His name was Ethan, and he had been my childhood sweetheart before I was brought to the palace. His eyes were full of a complex mix of emotions as he looked at me. I learned he was now married, with a child of his own. Though things had changed, Ethan was a good man. Seeing my difficult situation, he started leaving a basket of hot food outside my door during his nightly patrols. It was risky, but the temptation of a decent meal was too much to resist. Besides, with some proper food, the little wolf cub could grow strong, couldn’t he? I named the cub “Howl.” Howl was incredibly smart and grew astonishingly fast. Before he was even a year old, he was already the size of a large puppy. He seemed to understand everything I said. He would trot over with pretty flowers in his mouth to cheer me up and would sleep dutifully at the foot of my bed when I was scared at night. The North Tower was deserted, so as long as Howl didn’t make too much noise, he went unnoticed. The days drifted by peacefully. More than half a year passed, and it felt as if the tower and its inhabitants had been completely forgotten. Until the Harvest Moon Festival in August. The moon outside was huge and perfectly round. As I lay on the hard wooden bed, a strange unease crept over me. Howl was unusually quiet tonight, already curled up asleep on his straw mat in the corner. Drowsiness eventually won. I yawned and closed my eyes. In the hazy space between waking and sleeping, I thought I heard a long, mournful wolf’s cry. Before I could make sense of it, the rickety door to my room was kicked open with a violent BANG! A tall figure, reeking of alcohol, stumbled inside. It was Cyrus. He stood by my bed, his eyes bloodshot, radiating a familiar, predatory aggression. I shot upright, my heart pounding. He lunged forward and tied a silk ribbon over my eyes, plunging my world into darkness. I shifted nervously, instinctively reaching to tear it off. “Touch it, and you die.” Right. Got it. Blindfolds. The damn King had learned a new trick and decided to practice on me in my exile. My mind raced with sarcastic comments, but my body was frozen in fear. His movements were rough and urgent, leaving no room for refusal. I could only bite my lip and endure. To be fair, though the King was a tyrant, he was… well-endowed and technically skilled. A rare specimen of the dominant-yet-restrained type. After half a year of a vegetarian diet, this was a feast. My head was spinning, and I soon found myself lost in the heat of the moment. Just as I was completely surrendering to the dizzying pleasure, my hand brushed against something soft and furry. The texture… it was unmistakably Howl’s fur! What was Howl doing on the bed?! A violent tremor shot through me, and a cold sweat trickled down my spine. 4. “Your… Your Majesty! Wait!” I gasped, pushing against his chest. “Hmm?” Cyrus murmured against my lips, not slowing down in the slightest. I twisted my body, struggling with all my might. “Not tonight… we can’t!” In a panic, I tried to rip the blindfold off, but he caught my wrist in a crushing grip. His voice was a low growl, laced with lust and annoyance. “Can’t what? Are you hiding something?” I had always been docile in his bed. This was the first time I had ever fought back. My voice trembled. “No… nothing, it’s just that this place is so dirty, I fear…” Before I could finish, a steady knock came from the door. It was my kind-hearted childhood friend, Ethan. “Clara? It’s the festival today. I brought you some mooncakes and roasted meats.” He must have been confused by my silence. After a pause, his voice took on a worried tone. “Clara? Are you asleep? Is everything alright?” When he still got no answer, the door creaked open. “Cla—” He only managed to get one syllable out before an enraged Cyrus sent him flying with a vicious kick. In the next instant, Cyrus dragged me from the bed and threw me to the floor. “Hah…” He stared down at me, a horrifying, cold smile on his face. “No wonder you were so content to rot in this tower. You had a lover!” he snarled. “Bringing you food in the dead of night? How touching!” I hit the ground so hard that my vision went black. It was over. It was completely and utterly over. “No… it’s not…” I shook my head desperately, coughing until tears streamed from my eyes. “Not?” Cyrus’s voice was laced with ice. “If I recall correctly, this is the boy you were promised to before you came to the palace, is he not? Can’t forget your old flame, can you? Daring to carry on right under my nose!” A massive wave of terror seized me. I crawled forward and clutched the hem of his robe, my voice shaking. “It’s not like that! He was just… just bringing me some food! We’ve done nothing wrong!” Ethan scrambled to his knees, banging his head on the floor. “Your Majesty, I swear! There is nothing between Lady Clara and myself! I was only—” “Silence!” Cyrus roared, kicking the delicate food basket and sending its contents scattering across the floor. “A man and a woman, alone in the middle of the night! Do you take me for a fool?” His chest heaved with fury. The murderous intent in his eyes was unmistakable. “Guards! Seize this adulterous pair!” Two guards immediately entered, their swords drawn. Cyrus leaned down, his icy fingers digging into my chin. “Clara, the one thing I despise above all else in this world is being deceived.” At that critical moment, a small, childish voice cut through the tension. “Don’t you bully my mommy!” Everyone froze. A small boy, no older than two or three, rushed out from the shadows of the antechamber. He was wearing the little tunic I had sewn for him, his face tight with anger. He bravely planted himself in front of me, glaring defiantly at Cyrus. Staring at this child who had appeared out of nowhere, my mind went completely blank. “H-Howl?” I whispered in disbelief. Howl glanced back at me, his voice ringing with courage. “Don’t be scared, Mommy! I’ll protect you!” Cyrus’s gaze darted between me and the boy. First came shock, then a dawning, terrible understanding. “So that’s it… no wonder you were so desperate to get rid of me!” He laughed, a sound that seemed to crawl up from the depths of hell itself. He lunged down and wrapped his hand around my throat, his voice a demonic whisper. “You were afraid I would discover that you and your lover… had already produced this… this abomination?!” “No… it’s not…” I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. The injustice and terror were suffocating me. “Bad man! Let my mommy go!” Seeing Cyrus choking me, Howl leaped forward and sank his teeth into the King’s arm. Cyrus grunted in pain. The fury in his eyes intensified, and with a powerful wrench of his arm, he flung the boy across the room. “Ah—!” Howl’s small body hit the far wall with a cry of pain. The moment he landed, something impossible happened. A brilliant silver light erupted from his body, flooding the room like liquid moonlight. Within the light, his small form shifted and changed— In the blink of an eye, he had transformed into a wolf cub, his fur the color of pure, polished silver. Its fluffy wolf ears twitched with rage, and a long, gray tail stood erect behind it. It bared its fangs, snarling viciously at the King. The entire tower was plunged into a dead, terrifying silence.

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1 I was out shopping with my best friend this morning when I saw him—Kris Lockwood, my cool and composed husband, standing at the Chanel counter. He was buying the very haute couture gown I’d had on reserve for weeks. That evening, the gown appeared on his executive assistant. I didn’t make a scene. Instead, a playful, dangerous smile touched my lips. I had every identical Chanel gown from every boutique in the city delivered and piled up in front of him. Let him buy them all. My best friend, Nicole, had already drafted the divorce papers for me overnight. I have the money and the looks. The one thing I’m not short on is men. At the annual company gala, I drifted through the crowd, a glass of red wine in hand, laughing with the division heads from our various branches. The dance floor was just starting to fill as the music swelled. That’s when Kris made his grand, belated entrance, his assistant on his arm. I watched, from across the hall, as he stopped at the entrance to adjust the Chaumet brooch on Cathy’s dress. A faint smile played on his lips, his eyes full of doting affection, clearly pleased with his handiwork. Kris always did have an impeccable eye for detail; with that small adjustment, Cathy’s delicate features were instantly elevated, making her almost worthy of the Chanel gown she was wearing. In that single moment, every fantasy I’d clung to shattered. When I’d seen him leaving the boutique that morning, I’d been so sure he was picking up the dress for me. My heart had felt so full, so happy. I’d even had my makeup artist create a look specifically to match it. But as the minutes ticked by and the gala began, the dress never arrived. I called him, my tone light and probing, asking if he had a surprise for me. He brushed me off with a few words about being busy, but I caught it—the sweet, saccharine voice of another woman in the background. “Mr. Lockwood, do you think Mrs. Lockwood will be upset?” “Don’t worry,” he’d replied. “She has enough clothes to open her own boutique.” It was then I understood. The man I married was no longer purely mine. Now, Cathy stood before me, her face tilted up in a sweet smile, a pair of familiar, charming dimples deepening in her cheeks. “Mrs. Lockwood, you look stunning tonight.” Her compliment did nothing to soften my gaze. My eyes turned cold, raking over her from head to toe. “That’s a lovely dress. It’s the same model I had on order from Chanel.” We were all smart people here. Some things didn’t need to be spelled out. A fresh college graduate, not even a year into her first job, couldn’t possibly afford a twenty-thousand-dollar gown. My stare made her squirm. Cathy bit her lip, her hands twisting nervously in front of her as she shot desperate glances at Kris. Kris met my eyes, his expression as placid as ever. “Anna, don’t misunderstand. Cathy mentioned she’d never been to a gala like this, never worn couture.” He gestured vaguely. “She’s been working so hard, showing so much initiative. I just grabbed it for her on a whim.” I arched an eyebrow and nodded, then gave my assistant a subtle signal. A moment later, a line of thirteen Chanel sales associates, all dressed in immaculate uniforms, marched into the hall. Each carried an identical gown, and they advanced in a formidable, smiling line until they stood before Kris. He looked at me, confused. I leaned against a carved pillar, my arms crossed, a smirk playing on my lips. “Time to pay up.” I let my gaze sweep over the other executives in the room. “All thirteen of our division heads brought their assistants tonight. Every single one of them is hardworking and full of initiative. You wouldn’t play favorites, would you, Kris? Not and give a gift only to your own assistant?” Cathy knew I was publicly humiliating them. The color drained from her face, leaving it a stark white. When she spoke, her voice was thick with unshed tears. “Mrs. Lockwood, please don’t make things difficult for Mr. Lockwood. It’s all my fault. I’ll return the dress right now.” Listen to that. As if I was the one making a scene, the cruel wife tearing apart two innocent lovebirds. “Cathy, is it?” I said, my voice dangerously soft. “You’re overthinking things. Thirteen dresses is hardly ‘making things difficult.’ Kris grew up with someone to pick the bones out of his fish for him. It’s perfectly normal that he wouldn’t understand the implications of a man giving a woman a dress.” My eyes narrowed. “But you’re his personal assistant. You’re supposed to be more aware of these things. Didn’t you know better?” Cathy dropped her head in panic, mumbling apologies. Kris Lockwood—his looks, his family, his career—was the complete package. He was a star, brilliant and untouchable for most of his life, with countless women vying for his attention. Yet, for years, he’d maintained a cool, detached independence. Any woman who tried to get too close was met with nothing but a cold, distant stare. He was the one who had held me in his arms on countless nights, whispering softly in my ear that I was the only thing in his world worth cherishing. But everything had changed. Now, I could see it in his eyes: a flicker of pity and protectiveness for another woman. With a faint, resigned smile, Kris shook his head. He pulled a black card from his jacket and handed it to the lead sales associate. Then he walked over to me, his arm sliding around my waist, his gaze locking with mine. Over the swell of the music, his deep, pleasant voice murmured in my ear. “It’s just a dress, Anna. I didn’t realize you cared so much. Scaring the poor girl is one thing, but I’d hate to see you get so worked up. It breaks my heart.” His tone was light, almost joking, as if this were all a trivial misunderstanding. He effortlessly shifted the focus away from Cathy. A cold smirk spread across my lips. My fingers, pale and slender, curled around his silk tie, and I pulled him closer, inch by inch. “Cathy has a crush on you. You’re a smart man, Kris. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.” I paused, letting the words hang between us. “I know a couple million is nothing to you. But this is the first time something like this has happened. I expect it to be the last.” The employees around us, assuming we were flirting, erupted in a chorus of good-natured hoots and whistles. We were so close I could feel his breath on my skin. A flush crept up Kris’s neck, and the first crack appeared in his carefully composed facade. He frowned, a hint of discomfort in his eyes. “Anna, not here. What will the staff think?” “There’s nothing between Cathy and me besides a professional relationship. You’re imagining things.” I let out a soft scoff and released his tie. Humiliating him here would be easy, but it wouldn’t do me any favors either. Getting into a public feud with some bland, watery girl was beneath me. I’d made my point. For now, I decided to let it go. Besides, I had no concrete proof of an affair. Taking his arm, I walked with him to the stage to deliver the annual address on our company’s stellar performance this year. The other executives’ assistants, all savvy women, delightedly collected their new gowns. They made sure to parade past Cathy on their way out. “We have you to thank, sweetie. If it weren’t for you, we’d probably never get to wear something so expensive in our lives.” “To Mr. Lockwood, giving away a dress is like handing a piece of candy to a child. You’re not going to get any silly ideas about him, are you?” “My, those eyes… and those dimples… they look so familiar. No wonder Mr. Lockwood took a special interest in you.” One after another, their faces were masks of mockery, their words dripping with warning. Cathy had probably never been humiliated like this in her life. Her head sank lower and lower, as if she wished the floor would swallow her whole. Fat tears splattered silently onto the marble. As soon as the crowd thinned, she fled the hall with red-rimmed eyes. She didn’t come back. After the dinner, we made a tactful early exit, leaving the younger employees to enjoy the rest of their night. The moment I got in the car, I knew something was wrong. My passenger seat had been adjusted. And stuck to the corners of the sun visor were several cute anime girl stickers. No one but me ever dared treat Kris as a chauffeur, and no one was clueless enough to sit in my seat. I knew exactly who had been here. A sudden, inexplicable rage ignited within me. I hated to admit it, but in that moment, my scalp tingled with fury, my reason slipping away. Finding out he’d given my dress to Cathy had been one thing—a waste of a good gown. But this—her leaving a trace of herself in my private space—was a declaration of war. In five years of marriage, I had never been this angry. I wanted to slap him across the face, kick him out of the car, and then drive at top speed to wherever Cathy was and give her a piece of my mind. I was about to confront him when his phone rang. Kris, completely oblivious to my simmering rage, answered the call. It was Cathy. I started yanking at the seat controls, my movements jerky and aggressive. “Okay, don’t worry,” I heard him say. “I’m on my way.” My hand froze. I slowly lifted my head and stared at him. He frowned slightly. “Cathy’s at the boutique trying to return the dress, but she doesn’t have the receipt. I need to go.” He was already looking past me, his mind elsewhere. “Anna, I’ll call the driver to pick you up. You go on home.” The words caught in my throat. “You’re leaving me here? For something so trivial?” “Anna, don’t make this difficult,” he sighed. “The girl’s pride is wounded. After what you did, she cried until her voice was raw. All she wants now is to return that dress.” “Is her pride wounded, or is she just provoking me in front of you? Couldn’t she just come and get the receipt herself?” Kris rubbed the bridge of his nose, his voice weary. “Anna, is it really necessary to torment a new hire like this? When did you learn to throw your weight around? This isn’t like you.” The white-hot anger that had been consuming me vanished, replaced by a wave of crushing disappointment. It was almost laughable. “Throwing my weight around?” I echoed. “Kris, you have never, not once, defended another woman to me—not even your own mother. This is a first.” A flicker of confusion crossed his handsome face. “When we got married,” I continued, my voice dangerously calm, “we made a deal. For the sake of both our families’ reputations, you wouldn’t play around, and I wouldn’t waste my nights in clubs. Are you really going to break that rule for her?” His gaze turned deep and cold. He was silent for a long moment before finally dialing the number for our family driver. Then, he leaned over, unbuckled my seatbelt, and spoke in a flat, even tone. “You’re always so forceful, Anna. We’re husband and wife, not just strategic partners. Outside of work, can’t you be a little more like other wives? Can’t you try to rely on me, to yield just a little?” He pulled back, his decision made. “I’ll handle things with Cathy, then I’m going to spend the night at my parents’ estate. I think we both need some time to cool off.” So that was it. He was tired of me. Bored. And now he was desperate to feel his masculine power with some other woman. He used to tell me he admired my decisiveness, my sharp, take-charge attitude more than anything. What a pathetic, high-minded excuse to pin all the blame on me. I got out of the car without another word, watching the black Maybach disappear from sight. I had given him a chance. He didn’t take it. I pulled out my phone and dialed my best friend. “Nikki,” I said, my voice steady. “Draft the divorce papers.” I never wanted it to come to this. Our families, the Lockwoods and the Archers, had been friends for generations. Kris and I were childhood sweethearts, though we’d lost touch for about a decade when he went abroad for his studies. We reconnected at the dinner our families arranged to discuss our engagement. He was polished and charming, handling the elders’ questions with an easy grace. In the years he was gone, I’d thrown myself into the family business, but I’d also spent my fair share of nights at high-end clubs, decompressing with male models. I thought things would be awkward between us after so long, but when we were alone, I discovered a witty, humorous soul hidden beneath his composed exterior. That old, familiar feeling from our youth came rushing back. We were both ambitious, at the peak of our careers. We admired each other, and soon, we were engaged and married. Our union was more than a marriage; it was a merger. Lockwood Industries and Archer Enterprises became intertwined, our stocks mutually held. Divorcing him would be a financial nightmare. Back at home, I showered, drank a glass of warm milk, and prepared for bed. My phone buzzed with a message from Kris. Goodnight, it read, followed by a kissing emoji. Even in the midst of a cold war, he never failed to perform the perfunctory duties of a husband. The next morning, as I was walking into my office building, a young man with bleached-blond hair nearly knocked me over. My Hermès Himalaya bag slammed onto the pavement, scuffing the exotic leather. The coffee and breakfast he was carrying flew through the air, splashing all over the hem of my cashmere coat. The two security guards at the door saw what happened and rushed over, scolding the kid for not watching where he was going. Panicked, he scrambled to pick up my bag and tried to wipe the coffee stains off my coat with a napkin. When he saw it was hopeless, he dropped to his knees, begging me to forgive him. It was the dead of winter, and he was only wearing a thin jacket and sunglasses, which didn’t quite hide the dark bruises under his eyes. I ignored the ruined coat, my heart aching as I frowned and gently wiped at the scuffed leather on my purse. And of course, Kris, who always arrived at work at the same time I did, saw the whole thing from across the street. Lockwood Industries was just opposite Archer Enterprises. He stood there, watching silently, his face a mask of stern disapproval. For the first time, I saw disgust in his eyes. He probably thought I was on another power trip, enjoying this poor kid groveling at my feet. I ignored his silent judgment. I took a step back, waved off the approaching guards, and pulled the young man to his feet. “I don’t know what you’re going through,” I said, my voice firm but not unkind, “but a man’s dignity is precious. You can lose anything, but you can’t lose your spine. That’s the only thing that truly belongs to you.” He mumbled a stream of apologies and thank yous as he cleaned up the mess on the ground, then scurried away. Just as he rounded the corner of the building, he shot a quick look back over his shoulder, a strange, unreadable smile on his face. Back in my office, I sat at my desk and examined the damaged bag. The scuff wasn’t large; you wouldn’t even notice it if you weren’t looking for it. But once a flaw appears, it can never be perfect again. It was so valuable that even this tiny imperfection would be nearly impossible to repair. Harder to fix than my bag was my marriage to Kris. The look in his eyes that morning was a thorn lodged deep in my heart. Our lunch was a long-standing ritual. The Lockwood family chef would prepare it and have it delivered to my office, and Kris would come over to eat with me. Today, I waited until one o’clock, assuming he wasn’t coming. Just as I opened the container, he walked in. Cathy trailed behind him. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she kept her head bowed, looking meek and fragile. I put down my chopsticks and simply watched them. Kris sat down beside me and sighed. “Because of last night, Cathy is being targeted and ostracized at the office.” I picked up my spoon and began to ladle some soup into my bowl, not even bothering to look up. “Is that so? She’s the President’s executive assistant. Can’t she handle a little office drama?” His voice grew tight. “What I mean is, I want you to call your people off. Stop tormenting a young girl!” It was an unspoken rule of our corporate marriage: we each had our own loyalists planted in the other’s company. He was accusing my people of defending my honor by going after Cathy. Last night’s gala was a joint event; nearly every employee from both companies had been there. It was inevitable that Cathy’s behavior would become a topic of gossip. I stirred my soup and took a sip. “First,” I said calmly, “I haven’t instructed anyone to target your assistant. You should know that’s not my style. Second, whatever she’s facing today is a direct result of her own lack of boundaries. Kris, you still don’t understand people. Your special treatment, your tolerance for her behavior—you’re the one making her a target. You are the one who will ruin her, not me.” Cathy, who had been standing silently, suddenly took two steps forward. “It has nothing to do with Mr. Lockwood,” she blurted out. “Mrs. Lockwood, I know what happened yesterday was my fault. It was the first time I’d ever received such an extravagant gift, and I got carried away. I offended you, and I sincerely apologize.” I paused, then laughed. “Kris, your assistant is fascinating. She doesn’t seem to understand plain English, but she’s certainly quick to defend you.” I didn’t accept her half-hearted apology, nor did I intervene to stop the office gossip. Cathy’s tears and victimhood finally snapped something in Kris. For the first time in our relationship, he lost control. He slammed his soup bowl onto the floor at my feet, the porcelain shattering. He demanded that I apologize to Cathy. I had done nothing wrong. Why should I apologize? That day, we parted on the worst terms imaginable. That very afternoon, Kris left on a business trip, taking Cathy with him, away from the toxic environment he had created. That night, I was drinking with Nicole. She complained that I was too sharp, too intimidatingly competent. That’s why a “dumb beauty” like Cathy had managed to catch Kris’s eye. My mother died when I was young, and my father never remarried. I was raised to be the heir, groomed from childhood to carry the weight of the entire Archer family on my shoulders. Feminine softness was a luxury I couldn’t afford; it was a weakness that would only hold me back. I could stick to my principles for thirty years without wavering. Why couldn’t he? In the end, it was simple. He just didn’t love me anymore. And I have no interest in things that don’t belong to me. “I actually went to Lockwood Industries today to get a look at this famous assistant,” Nicole said, swirling the ice in her drink. “And wow. At first glance, she’s practically a knock-off Annabelle doll. Especially her eyes and those dimples—they’re just like yours. I don’t get what’s going through Kris’s head. Why ignore the real thing to coddle an imitation? Does he love you, or does he not?” Her words cut through the alcoholic haze, sobering me instantly. No wonder I’d felt a strange, foggy sense of familiarity when I first saw Cathy. I let out a bitter laugh. “Who knows? Maybe the knock-off is gentler. More understanding.” My head was pounding. Nicole drove me home, her driving exceptionally smooth because she knew I was feeling sick. “The divorce papers are ready,” she said as she pulled up to my villa. “When are you going to give them to him?” “Mid-month,” I said. “He’ll definitely be back for the family dinner with his grandfather.” Every month, without fail, we would go to the Lockwood family estate for dinner with his grandparents. Divorcing Kris was no small matter. I needed this time to secure my position and prepare for every possible outcome. Cathy, meanwhile, wasn’t staying quiet. Her social media was a constant stream of updates. Breakfast with the handsome CEO. Working late into the night together. Standing atop the city’s tallest skyscraper, looking down on the world. Her first time skydiving, her first time seeing a real coral reef, her first time witnessing the ethereal beauty of the Northern Lights. This business trip was giving her a lifetime of experiences she could never have dreamed of, and her feed could barely contain her joy. I used to be the only one who did those things with Kris. Now, the looks my colleagues gave me were a mixture of pity and caution. Kris was allowing her to use this to humiliate me. It was a flawlessly cruel, soul-crushing move. For the next few days, Nicole practically lived with me, helping my legal team sort through the financial entanglement of my marriage. One afternoon, she stormed into my office, her face a mask of fury, clutching a manila envelope. “Anna, that bastard Kris has gone too far!” I was signing a contract and looked up, startled by her rage. “What is it? Is he back?” Nicole slapped the envelope down on my desk. A memory card and several photos slid out, showing Kris and Cathy in a hotel suite. Kris was shirtless, and the angry red marks on his chest were a glaring accusation. “He’s not back,” she seethed, “but his sex tape is!” My shoulders, which I always held so straight, slumped. My heart felt like it was being squeezed in a vise, each beat a throb of pain. With a trembling hand, I picked up the memory card and inserted it into my laptop. The video showed a rooftop terrace at dusk. Kris was holding Cathy’s face in his hands, gazing at her with an almost obsessive look. Behind them, the sky was a fiery orange, the sunset weaving a tapestry of color behind them, lovers embracing against the sky like a scene from a romantic painting. Just as their lips were about to meet, I snapped the laptop shut. My voice trembled uncontrollably. “Who sent this?” “It was couriered. The front desk signed for it.” I took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly let it out. Methodically, I gathered the photos and put them back in the envelope, tucking them away in a desk drawer before I could regain my composure. “Don’t say a word about this to anyone. Find out who sent it.” “Who else could it be?” Nicole spat. “That shameless homewrecker is desperate to climb the ladder!” The angle of the video looked like it was secretly filmed, not staged. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Kris, my husband, was now truly tainted. Tomorrow was the middle of the month. It was time for all this rot to end. The next day, Kris returned to the office. The first thing he did was hold a company-wide meeting where he made an example of three employees, firing them on the spot. They were the ones who had been most vocal in mocking Cathy. Two of them were my people. I wasn’t surprised that he would defend her so brazenly. After all, they were sleeping in the same bed now. What did surprise me was that he brought her to the family dinner that evening. Cathy had brought a pile of expensive health supplements and gifts for my mother-in-law, clearly having done her homework. She charmed her completely, and Kris’s mother was beaming. When I arrived, my mother-in-law sent someone to fetch my father-in-law and Kris from the study, telling them it was time for dinner. She took my hand and began chattering away about trivial things. Kris entered the dining room, glanced at me once, and then looked away. Cathy followed close behind him and, without a moment’s hesitation, sat down in the chair next to him—the seat that had always been mine. Kris froze for a second, but said nothing. We weren’t divorced yet. We were still legally husband and wife. Yet here he was, with his assistant by his side, bringing her home to the family estate, letting her occupy the seat that had always been mine.

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