I caught my husband and my best friend in the act. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I just coolly dropped a single line: “He’s all yours now.” My friends praised my composure, my ability to let go. They said I was like a badass heroine from a power-fantasy novel, brought to life. But my story didn’t end like a power fantasy. After a brief storm of public opinion, the two of them simply got married. The next year, my ex-best-friend gave birth to twins, a boy and a girl. My ex-husband’s startup took off, making him fabulously successful. They became the picture-perfect family everyone envied. And me? Shortly after the divorce, the emotional backlash hit me like a tidal wave. I was incinerated by the trauma of betrayal and the acid of humiliation. My faith that good is rewarded and evil is punished collapsed, and from then on, my career and love life withered. My life hit rock bottom. In a daze of prolonged despair, I was hit by a car while crossing the street. As I lay dying, my ex-best-friend came to see me. Her expression was a mixture of pity and wistful reflection. “I always knew you saw yourself as the bigger person, the ‘main character,’” she said. “That’s why I arranged for you to walk in on us that day…” I died drowning in regret and indignation. When I opened my eyes again, I was back at the scene of the crime. 1 I was lying in the emergency room, my life fading away. A moment ago, the doctor had delivered the grim news: my injuries were too severe. There was nothing more they could do. So this is it, I thought dimly. Then, the soft click-clack of high heels approached. Beth walked in. She was dressed in expensive clothes, her skin glowing and full, looking even younger than she had eight years ago when I’d caught her in my bed. She looked at me with a sorrowful, pitying gaze. “Stella, I never thought you’d end up like this.” “Fate is a strange thing, isn’t it? After all this time, I’m the one to see you off… Since we have a few minutes, let’s call it a confession, just between us.” I didn’t know why she was here. I tried to turn my head away, too tired to even look at her. But I couldn’t move. I was dying. Beth sat down by my bed and sighed dramatically. “I fell in love with Marc the moment I saw him,” she began. “But for years, all I could do was watch you two date, get married, watch your life get better and better than mine. A bracelet you bought on a whim was my entire month’s salary. I couldn’t understand it. We came from similar families, had similar educations, similar looks. Why? Just because you arrived at that coffee shop ten minutes before I did, Marc fell for you and not me?” “So I decided to correct fate myself.” “I found a way to sleep with him, but when he woke up, he was filled with regret. He actually offered me money to keep it a secret from you. And even though he couldn’t resist sleeping with me a second, then a third time, he was filled with remorse every single time.” She chuckled softly. “That just wouldn’t do, would it?” “I know you always prided yourself on your ‘main character’ energy. You always said that if your husband cheated, you wouldn’t scream and cry like other women. You’d divorce him immediately and never look back. So, I begged Marc to be with me one last time, and I… deliberately made sure you’d walk in on us.” I stared at her, my mind reeling in disbelief. After the divorce, I quickly discovered that the cool, collected demeanor of a ‘heroine’ was fleeting. The emotional backlash hit hard, and I was tormented day and night by the trauma of being betrayed by the two people closest to me, and the crushing social shame. Later, watching them get married, have children, and build a successful business, their lives flourishing while mine crumbled, was a special kind of torture. Because I no longer trusted in love, I couldn’t continue my work as a wedding designer, let alone start a new relationship. The contrast plunged me into a spiral of anxiety, self-loathing, and a shattered belief system. Every day was a fire in my gut, every night sleepless. I thought I was just unlucky, that I was weak. I even despised myself for my inability to recover. I never imagined it was all part of a calculated plot. “So thank you, Stella! You didn’t disappoint me. Your pride and composure gave us the dignity we needed. That’s why Marc and I were able to bounce back so quickly.” “Of course, I should thank myself most of all. I did so much, after all. Imitating your tone and mannerisms for Marc, paying people to get you fired from job after job, and—” She paused, a sly smile spreading across her face. “Going to an international sperm bank ahead of time, picking a donor who looked like Marc, and getting pregnant with twins…” My weak body had no strength left. But her words made my eyes fly open. After I had divorced him so cleanly, Marc had still refused to let go. He had knelt before me, crying that he only loved me, begging for another chance, swearing he would never see Beth again. Until Beth told him she was pregnant with his child… “Anyway, over the next few years, especially after our two beautiful babies were born, Marc became better and better to me. He really, truly fell in love with me!” “Stella, I finally have your life. I changed my own destiny with my own two hands. My only regret was that no one knew. Thank heavens for giving me this chance to tell you everything before you die. Stella, for my honesty, I hope you won’t hold it against me in the afterlife. Rest in peace.” She rose gracefully, her face beaming with triumphant satisfaction. “Oh, right. You must be wondering how I ended up here?” “My favorite patisserie closes at nine, and my driver was rushing so I wouldn’t be disappointed. I hope you won’t blame him either. It was an accident. He’ll probably be quite traumatized by this. Of course, I’ll provide you with legal and reasonable compensation. After all, whatever the amount, hah, it’s probably less than the cost of one of my handbags.” “It’s just…” She tilted her head, feigning a dilemma. “You’re all alone now. No family, no one. Who do I even pay the compensation to?” She shook her head, a smile playing on her lips, and walked out, the click-clack of her heels echoing down the hall. My soul screamed as my eyes closed for the last time. … When I woke up, I was standing at the top of a staircase. Downstairs, I could hear the lively chatter of my friends. From inside the bedroom… Two naked bodies were tangled together, their passionate gasps and moans filling the air. I stood frozen for two seconds, then raised my hand and slapped myself across the face. It stung. Good. The sting was real. The next second, I gathered every ounce of strength in my body and shrieked: “YOU SHAMELESS—” “CHEATING SCUMBAGS!” 2 Two flushed, panting faces whipped around to look at me. The moment Marc saw me, his pupils shrank. A tremor went through him as he finished in a panicked rush. Beth let out a sharp gasp, then pulled the covers over both of them. Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Stella, wait, don’t do anything rash!” “It’s all my fault! I seduced Marc! Don’t blame him! If you want to hit someone, hit me!” Last time, Beth had said the exact same thing. Back then, I was a successful wedding designer with a happy marriage. For me, love and marriage had to be flawless. If a man was tainted, if his heart had strayed, he was worthless. So, despite my fury, disappointment, and disgust, I had acted like the heroine in a novel. I’d given them a look of pure contempt and coldly tossed out, “He’s all yours now.” I hadn’t even entered the room. I’d just turned and walked away. Now, Beth’s eyes darted towards me, clearly anticipating the same reaction. But this time, I launched myself into the room. First, I grabbed the water kettle from the nightstand and hurled it at Marc’s face. After a dull thud, hot water splashed over him, and he screamed, clutching his head. Simultaneously, with the agility of a monkey, I scrambled to Beth’s side of the bed. My left foot kicked the pile of clothes on the floor under the bed, while my right foot braced against the mattress. With both hands, I grabbed a fistful of Beth’s long hair and yanked with all my might. It was her prized, meticulously cared-for hair. Thick, long, and perfect for getting a good grip. She started this. She would be the first to pay. I twisted my wrist, wrapping her hair tighter, and then, looking at her still-flushed face, I slapped her. Smack, smack, smack, ten times in a row. When one hand started to ache, I switched to the other and delivered ten more. The series of actions was seamless, as if genetically encoded in my very being. Beth was half-dangling off the bed, her earlier seductiveness gone, replaced by a wide-eyed terror as she stared up at me. A continuous, sputtering sound escaped her lips, like a deflating balloon. On so many nights, consumed by the emotional fallout, I had endlessly regretted walking away. Why hadn’t I made them face public humiliation right then and there? Why hadn’t I broadcast their filthy affair to the world? After countless mental rehearsals, I’d concluded that nothing was more satisfying than slapping faces and pulling hair. So, when the sounds of my screaming drew everyone from downstairs, this was the scene that greeted them— I was pulling Beth’s hair like I was in a tug-of-war. Beth, being naked, was desperately clutching the blanket. And Marc, one hand covering his blistering face, was instinctively grabbing the other end of the blanket to cover himself. The three of us were locked in a bizarre, undignified stalemate. Our friends stood at the door, their jaws on the floor. We had all planned a weekend getaway at a rental cabin. I had a last-minute work thing and was supposed to arrive the next day, but Beth had called to tell me Marc had too much to drink. So I’d changed my plans and rushed over. Now, Beth, suspended in mid-air, managed to mumble a plea for help through her swelling, pig-like face. “Help… help me!” No one moved. Disgust and contempt were written all over their faces. It wasn’t like this last time. They hadn’t seen the act itself, only pieced it together from our expressions and clipped words. Seeing it and not seeing it were two completely different things. The visual impact was a whole different beast. The level of disgust was off the charts. In fact, years later in my previous life, when Marc’s business took off and Beth became a wealthy socialite, some of these same people had even sighed in admiration: You two proved that true love conquers all! 3 “Stella, please… just calm down…” Marc’s voice trembled. His face and neck were beet red, the handsome features now covered in shiny, weeping blisters. Steam was literally rising from his hair. He looked like a boiled lobster. Years ago, Beth and I had planned to meet at a coffee shop. She was running late, so I opened my laptop to work on my thesis while I waited. Marc, sitting at the next table, had smiled and asked me: “Are you a design student, too?” Beth was ten minutes late. In those ten minutes, Marc and I became so engrossed in conversation that when she finally arrived, I didn’t even notice the way her eyes lit up when she saw him. Marc was an exhibition designer. Everyone saw him as a kind, gentle, talented man who was sensitive and soft-hearted. He was the type of person who always carried a small bag of cat food for the strays on the street. But his soft heart was his fatal flaw. In my past life, he had knelt before me, sobbing and confessing. He said Beth had gotten drunk one night and told him she’d been secretly in love with him for years, that she had even saved herself for him. She had cried and said she didn’t want a future, just one night. He’d refused her many times, until he found her attempting suicide. In a moment of weakness, he had given in. At the time, the story had filled me with such revulsion that all I wanted was to get as far away from those two as possible. I’d divorced him within a month, splitting our assets quickly and cleanly. Now, however, I only wished I had more than two hands, so I could dig my nails into his face and pop every single one of those blisters. But I couldn’t be hasty. This was Beth’s one big shot. If I let her get away, I might not get another. And Marc… Marc had to come home with me. “Calm down? How?” I snarled, glaring at him. His face flushed a deeper red. “Stella, please, just let her go. Let us get dressed, I’m begging you…” I laughed coldly. “You want to play the hero? Fine. Beth and I once swore an oath that if one of us ever betrayed the other, she would get thirty slaps. I’ve delivered twenty. I’m tired. You can deliver the last ten. Once you’re done, I’ll let her go.” Marc shook his head frantically. “Stella, that’s not what I—” “Do it,” Beth suddenly sobbed. “I seduced him! I drugged him! I’m the shameless, disgusting one! I’m the homewrecker! It has nothing to do with him! Just do it, my stomach… my back… I can’t hold on much longer!” Her voice was pathetic and helpless. It was partly an act for Marc’s benefit, but it was also true that she couldn’t hold that position for long. After all, she was currently pregnant with twins. Our friends were all crowded in the doorway, occasionally murmuring things like “Don’t be rash,” and “Let’s talk this out.” But no one intervened. They were all watching the show with rapt attention. I thought Marc would hesitate. He was, after all, a kind and soft-hearted man. But to my surprise, before Beth had even finished speaking, he shuffled over to her, still wrapped in the blanket. Then, the crisp sound of slapping echoed through the room. One of the slaps was a little too light. I narrowed my eyes, and Marc immediately hit harder. As blood trickled from her nose, Beth’s expression flickered with surprise and a hint of pain. But she had planned for this for a long time. She knew her goal. This was the price of admission. After the ten slaps were done, she managed to squeeze out a smile at the panting Marc from her swollen face. “I don’t blame you,” she mumbled, her words slurred, giving him the look of a tragic heroine being tormented by evil forces. But Marc turned his face away. A few seconds later, he looked at me, his eyes trembling. “Stella… is it enough?” My face was a blank mask. “Of course not. You put this disgusting green hat on my head. If I only punish the other woman and not you, people will think I’m one of those women who only takes it out on her own sex.” Marc immediately nodded, closing his eyes and tilting his face up. “Stella, just do it. I just want you to get your anger out. We can talk about everything else when we get home.” I looked at the increasingly translucent blisters on his face, imagining them popping and spraying God knows what. I changed my mind. I looked down at Beth. “You do it.” She looked shocked, then shook her head miserably. “No… no!” Marc suddenly roared, “Just do it! Get it over with! Anything is better than this!” So, in an awkward, contorted position, Beth began to slap him, her face a mask of sorrow. “Are you two flirting?” I asked. Marc gritted his teeth. “Harder!” When Beth pulled her hand back, I saw it was smeared with a sticky, opaque fluid. The grotesque scene finally ended with Marc and Beth, one wrapped in a blanket and the other in a bedsheet, crawling on the floor to retrieve their clothes from under the bed. My vengeance meter… finally filled up by a tenth. 4 The meltdown was just that—a meltdown. It was about letting out the rage I had suppressed last time for the sake of appearances. But I couldn’t spend this new life just losing my mind, could I? So what if I lost face? People would forget. Marc was an independent designer, respected in the art world for his talent and portfolio. An affair wouldn’t ruin him; it would just become another colorful story people told about him. I knew Marc better than anyone. The most important thing in his life was his career. In my previous life, he had secured angel investment from an arts-focused venture capital group. He’d founded his own company, become a multi-millionaire, and lived a glamorous life. And Beth had become a wealthy socialite right alongside him.

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After getting rejected by the campus belle, Seth hired me to be his sycophant. My job description included, but was not limited to, shamelessly fawning over him to restore his shattered male ego. Finally, the day came when the campus belle got jealous. I excitedly pulled up my payment QR code. “Money! Pay up!” Seth’s face darkened, and he snapped my phone in half. 1 The night Seth confessed his feelings to the campus belle was quite the spectacle. Rumor has it he worked three part-time jobs around the clock for three months to buy 999 roses. The result? The campus belle elegantly flicked her long hair and gently declined: “Seth, why do this? This kind of grand romantic gesture is clearly beyond your means. It doesn’t move me; it just makes me feel pressured.” That night, the school forum exploded: 【Who does that broke loser Seth think he is, even dreaming of the campus belle?】 【The campus belle is so beautiful and kind. She must be so annoyed by shameless poor guys like him, but she was still so polite!】 As evening fell, the crowd on the athletic field dispersed, leaving Seth’s solitary figure behind. He smoked for half an hour, then suddenly turned and kicked at the magnificent bouquet of rainbow-dyed Ecuadorian roses. “Dude, watch the flowers—” I yelled, waving my arms. Seth’s raised leg froze mid-air. He teetered for a moment before regaining his balance. He lifted his heavy eyelids and looked at me, his lips pressed into a thin line, saying nothing. I trotted over. “Hey, if you don’t want these flowers, can I have them?” Seth frowned in annoyance, turned, and walked away. A grin split my face. I took off my jacket and gathered the massive bouquet in my arms. Ignoring the thorns pricking my skin, I hauled the flowers to the night market next to the school. “The Rolls-Royce of roses, Ecuadorian rainbow roses! Freshly flown in from South Africa! Not 199, not 99, just 9 bucks a stem today! Come and get ’em!” I work part-time at a flower shop. I was the one who delivered Seth’s confession bouquet. 999 roses, at $199 a stem. My boss had offered Seth a discount. Seth refused. “My love doesn’t need a discount.” My boss was thrilled to have found such a sucker. He told me I could clock out after the delivery. Since the delivery was on campus, I decided to stick around and see who the lucky girl was. Unsurprisingly, it was the campus belle, Amelia Thorne. She’s been the campus goddess since freshman year—gentle, elegant, with a legion of male admirers. I had no idea Seth was one of them. I’d heard his name before. He was famous, mainly for his looks. He had the sharp, defined features and broad-shouldered, long-legged build of a comic book hero. Drop-dead gorgeous. But he was supposedly poor. Hence his nickname: the “Handsome Pauper.” But that afternoon, I’d seen him drop twenty grand at the flower shop without batting an eye. I had no idea what kind of part-time job paid that well in three months… or what it involved. It was Valentine’s Day, and the night market was bustling. Lots of girls were selling roses, but their ordinary red roses were no match for my luxury galaxy-themed bouquet. My phone kept chirping:【Venmo payment received: $9.】 It was the sweetest sound. I was in the middle of a transaction when Seth pulled up on his electric scooter. He put one long leg down, stopping right in front of my stall. His expression was unreadable. My phone chirped again:【Venmo payment received: $9.】 I panicked, wishing I could muffle the sound. Seth’s eyebrow twitched. He gave me a thumbs-up. “Impressive.” Then he got back on his scooter and rode off. 2 With less than a hundred roses left, Seth returned. This time, he wasn’t on his scooter. He was driving a flashy blue Aston Martin. The roar of the engine made my customers turn their heads. Seth beckoned to me. “Hey, you. Get in. I need to talk to you about something.” “I can’t,” I refused. “I haven’t sold all my flowers.” “I’ll buy the rest.” He scanned my QR code with his phone. 【Venmo payment received: $1,990.】 Holy crap! He really was the purest-bred sucker I’d ever met. Buying back the flowers he’d thrown away, at the original price. I gathered the remaining flowers and scrambled into his car like the good little lackey I was. Seth took me to a high-end, minimalist bar. “What’s your name?” he asked, fiddling with his car keys and glancing at me. “Lily Bell,” I answered. “Alright, Lily Bell. You need money? I’ve got a job for you. Interested?” “I don’t sell my body or my ‘talents’,” I said, crossing my arms. He scoffed. “You? Not my type.” Seth laid out his plan. Tonight’s public rejection had been a major blow to his pride. So, he wanted to hire me to be his fawning, sycophantic girlfriend. He wanted to get his dignity back. “Why me?” I asked. “You’re the most shameless girl I’ve ever met. You’re perfect for the job.” “If you’re so rich, why were you pretending to be poor?” A faint blush crept up his neck. “In high school, I got tired of all the attention. I just wanted to be a normal person.” But with his looks, “normal” was never an option. The “Handsome Pauper” title was born. And tonight’s confession had been the ultimate humiliation. “To hell with the ‘Handsome Pauper’!” Seth cursed. “Lily Bell, your job is to fawn over me as much as you can. You get paid per fawn. Five grand a month, base salary.” “We need a contract,” I said. “Done. It’s effective tonight.” 3 We signed a six-month contract. That night, I posted on my social media: 【Even my dreams smell like you~ Seth, won’t you please look at me?】 The picture was of me, holding the hundred-plus roses, looking utterly captivated. The scene of Seth’s confession had already been plastered all over the school forum. The sea of galaxy-themed roses was unforgettable. So, it didn’t take long for people to recognize the flowers as the ones Amelia had rejected. Someone screenshotted my post and put it on the forum. The comments were brutal: 【Seriously? Picking up someone else’s rejected flowers? Where’s your self-respect?】 【The sycophant’s sycophant. Lily Bell is officially at the bottom of the food chain.】 #Seth’sSycophantLilyBell went viral. None of it bothered me. I sent a screenshot to Seth. RedRose:【How’s that? Satisfied with the results?】 Seth immediately sent me a thousand dollars:【Not bad. Keep it up.】 RedRose:【Should I bring you breakfast tomorrow? I’ll be at your dorm at 6 a.m. sharp. I’ll make sure every guy there is jealous of you.】 Seth sent back a sparkling gold thumbs-up emoji. I smiled. This is what you call professional competence. 4 The next morning, I was waiting outside Seth’s dorm with an assortment of breakfast foods. Students passing by pointed and whispered: “Look, that’s the shameless Lily Bell.” “Wow, she’s here this early to bring Seth breakfast. What a suck-up.” I calmly took out my vocabulary app and started studying. Seth didn’t emerge until 7:50. I immediately plastered a huge smile on my face and rushed over. “Seth! I brought you breakfast! I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a little of everything.” Seth’s voice was icy. “Don’t do this again. I’m not interested in you.” My eyes immediately welled up. “Liking you is my decision. I don’t need you to respond.” The guys behind Seth looked like their eyes were about to pop out of their heads. “Damn! Seth’s got some serious game!” “Isn’t that Lily Bell the top student in the software engineering department? I heard she’s a campus beauty too. And she’s willing to throw herself at him like this.” Seth snatched the breakfast from my hands and tossed it to his friends. “It’s all yours.” “Thanks, Seth!” they cheered. Then, Seth and his entourage walked away, leaving me biting my lip, my gaze following him until he was out of sight. Once he was gone, I pulled out my phone. RedRose:【How was that? My acting skills are pretty good, right?】 Seth sent me five hundred dollars:【You deserve an Oscar.】 Seth:【I have an early class in Building One tomorrow. Save me a seat.】 RedRose:【You got it!】 After Seth had parked his luxury car on campus last night, his rich-kid status was undeniable. So, a new prefix was added to my title: Gold-Digging Sycophant. The next day, I went to Building One early and saved him a seat in the front row, center. Prime real estate. As I looked up, I saw Amelia Thorne, floating into the classroom in a white knit dress, looking ethereal. I think she glanced at me, but I’d just spilled soy milk on my pants and was busy wiping it off. Seth strolled in right as class was starting. I waved enthusiastically. He saw me, his expression unreadable, glanced behind him, and then reluctantly sat down. “Boss,” I chirped. He sent me the money, then gritted his teeth. “Lily Bell, I told you to save me a seat. You saved me a seat in the front row?” “Huh? Where did you want to sit?” I was confused. “The back row, you idiot.” “Does the back row even need saving?” “Of course it does!” He then ignored me. I thought for a moment, then poked his arm. “Boss, your goddess is sitting behind us.” Seth’s expression flickered. He shot me a look. “Quick, fawn over me!” Sycophant Lily, at your service. I stuck a straw in an unopened carton of soy milk and offered it to him. He reluctantly took a sip, then pushed me away with a cool air of indifference. I gave him a pathetic, wounded look, making sure the students in the back got a good view of my crestfallen profile. Then, I tore open a chocolate bar and tried to feed it to him. He just kept twirling his pen, ignoring me. I gently nudged his arm. Before Seth could say anything, the old professor at the front of the room exploded: “If you want to have a lovey-dovey moment, do it outside! Don’t disrupt my class!” The classroom erupted in laughter. I blushed and hung my head. The professor wasn’t done. “And you, young lady, I don’t believe you’re in this major, are you?” The next second, I covered my face and ran out of the classroom. The laughter grew louder. Someone even started banging on their desk. The whole fiasco was quickly posted on the school forum. 【Seriously, does Lily Bell have no shame? I’m embarrassed for her!】 【Seth’s Aston Martin is worth over seven hundred grand, and he’s so hot. Of course Lily Bell is going to cling to him for dear life.】 【Gold-digger! Sycophant!】 I sent a screenshot to Seth:【Boss, look, the results are amazing. And when I ran out, I saw the look on Amelia’s face. She was glaring at me. You know what that means? She totally regrets rejecting you. Boss, you’ve got a shot!】 A moment later, two thousand dollars appeared in my account:【Stay calm. Don’t get cocky. Pride comes before a fall.】 RedRose:【You’re so wise, boss!】 5 Saturday afternoon was the big basketball game. Seth was the star player. As a dedicated sycophant, I naturally had to perform my duties in public. I stood on the sidelines, holding a bubble tea, my face a mask of excitement. “Go, Seth, go!” Hearing me, Seth took off his baseball jacket, revealing his muscular biceps. I, along with all the other girls in the stands, let out a collective, star-struck shriek. Seth just smirked and tossed his jacket at me. It landed on my face. Besides the pleasant scent of his laundry detergent, there was something hard and sharp in his pocket that hit me right in the corner of my eye. Tears sprang to my eyes. My grip loosened, and the bubble tea spilled all over my chest. I was wearing a light blue shirt. The brown stain spread quickly, leaving a dark, embarrassing mark on my prominent chest. The referee blew the whistle, and the crowd cheered. The game had started. Hiding my face under Seth’s jacket, I carefully put it on, backward, to cover the stain. By the time I’d blinked back my tears and re-emerged, my face was once again a mask of carefree adoration. “Go, Seth! I love you!” Seth raised an eyebrow and gave me a condescending smile. Of course, this micro-expression was immediately captured and posted on the forum. 【Damn, Seth couldn’t care less about her, and Lily Bell just keeps on fawning.】 【She’s actually wearing his jacket? Is she that desperate?】 【She’s so pathetic.】 During halftime, Seth ran over for a drink. I handed him the bubble tea. He took one sip, and his face darkened. “Who told you you could wear my jacket?” His voice was stern, angry. “My shirt got wet, so I—” Before I could finish, the coach called him back to the court. As he left, he shot me a warning look. “Lily Bell, don’t cross the line.” We’d played this game many times before. I fawned, he acted disgusted. It was all a performance. But this time, I knew he wasn’t acting. He was genuinely angry. The condescension, the derision in his eyes—it was real. There was also a hint of the cold, detached superiority of someone who was used to being on top, who saw right through me. A chill ran down my spine. A wave of shame I couldn’t name washed over me. I clenched my fists and texted my roommate, Chloe. RedRose:【Code red! Spilled bubble tea on my shirt. Can you bring me a jacket?】 Chloe:【Babe, I’m out right now, but I just ran into Leo. I told him to go save you.】 RedRose:【You’re a lifesaver.】 A few minutes later, Leo arrived at the gym. His voice was warm, his demeanor gentle. “Your roommate said you got your shirt wet. I was worried you’d catch a cold, so I rushed over. You can wear mine for now.”

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The night I was supposed to introduce Chris to my parents, he disappeared. He rejected every single one of my calls. But in the dead of night, I saw a video posted by Chris’s stepsister, Lila. 【My heart’s been acting up today, but thank goodness for the fish soup big brother made me~】 【Brother watched the fireworks with me. So beautiful.】 Her camera panned over the creamy white fish soup in a thermos on the table. Then to the fireworks blooming outside the window. It finally settled on the hospital bedsheet, on a man’s hand—all sharp knuckles and long fingers—gripping the girl’s delicate wrist. Chris’s hand. 1 When Chris finally walked through the door, he paused, frowning as he waved a hand in front of his face. His voice was cold, a world away from the gentle tone that had called out “Lila” in the video. “Aubrey, you promised you wouldn’t smoke.” I watched the smoke curl around my fingertips. “And you know a thing or two about keeping promises?” Chris flinched. The look on his face told me he’d only just remembered what day it was. Our families were worlds apart. I had poured my heart and soul into convincing my parents to accept him, and yet, he had always refused to meet them. He had finally agreed this time, and I was so ecstatic I could have set off fireworks across the entire city. But after my countless calls went unanswered, I was forced to feed my mother the same excuse I’d used a dozen times before. She listened quietly, not calling me out on the lie, just sighing. “Aubrey, is he worth it?” Was he worth it? I didn’t know anymore. Chris’s tone softened a little, his apology stiff. “Aubrey, today was my fault. We’ll go see your parents another time.” I said nothing. He was used to my endless forgiveness. To him, that “it was my fault” was a monumental concession. When I remained silent, he rubbed his temples, a flicker of impatience in his voice. “You know how fragile Lila is. Can you stop being so dramatic?” “Oh,” I said. “So your concern for her clouds your judgment.” His lips thinned, a clear sign he was suppressing his anger. “I’ve told you a hundred times, even if Lila and I aren’t related by blood, I’m the only family she has left. Can you stop being so sordid?” He took a sharp breath. “Aubrey, not everyone is like you, unable to live without a man in their life.” The ash from my cigarette fell onto my fingers. I didn’t feel the burn. All I heard was a faint ringing in my ears. Slowly, I lifted my head and looked at him. “What did you just say?” 2 For me, it was love at first sight with Chris. My family’s wealth gave me the freedom to do whatever I wanted. I grew up surrounded by luxury, majored in Art History on a whim, and chased thrills with extreme sports at home and abroad. The plan was to graduate, enter an arranged marriage, and live out my days. I saw nothing wrong with that. Until I met Chris. He was the art school’s resident ice king. Incredibly handsome, immensely talented, and as cold as frost. His only family was a sick younger sister. I couldn’t explain what was so special about him, but every time I saw him, it felt like a thousand butterflies erupted in my stomach. I pursued him earnestly for a year. I gave up extreme sports because I started to fear death. I switched my major to business and demanded an internship at my family’s company. After learning about his financial situation, I wanted to offer him a secure future. I even got a job at the coffee shop where he worked part-time, just to be near him. Of course, having never worked a day in my life, I was a clumsy disaster. On my first day, I managed to burn my hand. Chris had always kept me at arm’s length, coolly rejecting every one of my advances. But that day, seeing me hiss in pain, he did something unprecedented. He brought me burn cream. He knelt before me, his long, cool fingers gently dabbing the ointment onto my skin. As he worked, he mumbled, “You should stop coming here.” After a year of getting nowhere, even my best friend, Echo, teased that the great Aubrey Thorne had finally hit a wall. I was starting to lose hope. I threw caution to the wind, staring at the crown of his head as I made my last stand. “Make me your girlfriend, and I’ll stop.” Honestly, if he’d said no, I would have given up. “Okay,” Chris said. It took me a second to process. My mouth hung open, utterly dumbfounded. Chris looked up at me and, for the first time, smiled. It was like watching ice melt in the spring sun, and I was completely mesmerized. He had his pride. Lila’s illness was a constant drain on their finances, but he would rather bury himself in commercial projects and part-time jobs than accept a single gift or penny from me. That meant he had very little time for dates. I respected his choice. I had a lot of catching up to do in my new major anyway, so I spent my days at the coffee shop, working on assignments while waiting for him. Sometimes, I’d fall asleep from exhaustion. I would wake up to find the café’s bright lights dimmed to a soft, warm glow, a soft blanket with a kitten pattern draped over my shoulders. My long, tedious essay would be finished, written in his neat script. A sticky note would be on the side of my laptop screen, featuring a perfect little doodle of a sleeping kitten, a snot bubble inflating from its nose. In its dream bubble was the profile of a boy—a certain someone was a little full of himself. I stared at the adorable drawing, my heart feeling like it was about to burst with affection. I couldn’t help myself. I reached over, grabbed a pretending-to-be-busy Chris, and bit him gently on the cheek. “I like you so much.” Caught off guard, he chided me softly, “Aubrey, we’re in public. Control yourself.” But the crimson blush creeping up his ears gave him away. When one of his paintings won a national award, his acceptance speech was broadcast live across the country. “I want to thank my love, my muse, Aubrey.” Who could have known that when you reach the summit of happiness, the only way to go is down? My performance at the company had solidified my position as my mother’s successor. Chris’s career stabilized, and Lila’s health improved dramatically. Suddenly, I was the one who was never around. I don’t know when it started, but our fights became more frequent. About my non-stop work schedule, about his insistence on dropping everything for Lila’s minor whims, about his persistent refusal to meet my family. Chris grew colder, his words sharper and more hurtful. After each fight, he would disappear for weeks, sometimes months, on “inspiration trips,” not returning until I broke the silence and apologized. He never said sorry. At first, I’d coax him back out of love and longing. He’d never been in a relationship before; he was the ice king I had worked so hard to win over, so it was my responsibility to handle him with care. But as the cycle repeated, my efforts turned into numb, weary attempts to keep the peace. The demands of the company were overwhelming. Slowly, the sense of accomplishment from my work began to outweigh my desire for a future with Chris. 3 Chris’s face paled slightly, a flicker of regret in his eyes. But I knew he wouldn’t apologize. I let out a short, bitter laugh, glancing down at the glowing red tip of my cigarette. “So that’s what you really think of me.” After five years, did he still not know who I was? I’d never believed that my past relationships made my love for him any less valid. But apparently, Chris did. If that was the case, why did he ever say yes? When I was chasing him, he rejected me, yet he always showed up to the parties I threw. Every time I was about to give up, he’d give me a sliver of hope. He’d return the bouquets I sent, but I’d find he had secretly kept a single rose. The painting that won him his first national award, the one with the girl in profile… it was unmistakably me. Later, as his fame grew, that painting was valued at over a hundred thousand dollars. He gave it to me. It was the first gift he ever gave me. He never let me buy him anything expensive, yet he gave me something so priceless. I cherished it. I designed the frame myself, picking out the solid wood and inlaying the gems with my own hands. It was hanging in our living room right now. I looked at the sophisticated, mature man before me, and an image of a boy in a white shirt from five years ago flashed in my mind—the boy who had quietly sketched my face at his easel. It was a slow, dull realization. This entire unbalanced love affair had been my own grand delusion. Chris’s voice grew urgent. “No… it’s just, when I saw you…” He seemed to remember something, his breathing growing heavy, his eyes turning red. “Forget it. Let’s not talk about that.” He sighed. “About meeting your parents… let’s wait a little longer.” Then, “I have to go abroad for an inspiration trip this week.” There it was again. The signal that this fight was over, and it was my turn to start making amends. I sighed and stood up. Chris’s long lashes lowered, his body tensing almost imperceptibly. I vaguely remembered a time, back when our problems first started, that I could melt his icy resolve just by cuddling up to him. But he had become so much harder to please. I walked past him, stopping in front of the painting I treasured more than anything. The cigarette had burned down to my fingertips. I could feel the searing heat on my skin. I lifted my hand and pressed the last glowing ember onto the serene, smiling face of the girl in the painting. A soft sizzle broke the silence. In an instant, a black, scorched mark marred her face. I turned around. “There’s no need to wait, Chris.” “We’re breaking up.”

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My mother’s body was frail, and she went through hell to conceive me. The doctors said I wouldn’t make it, but she insisted on keeping me. Hormone shots, nutrient injections—they were a daily ritual. After each one, I would stir uncomfortably in her womb, a wave of sickness washing over me. Even then, my mother would grit her teeth through her own pain to soothe me. “Be a good baby,” she’d whisper. “You have to grow up healthy and strong.” Her morning sickness was severe. She’d eat, throw up, and force herself to eat again, all so that I would be healthy. To make it easier for her, I learned to stay perfectly still, no matter how much I hurt. Until I heard her ask the doctor: “Doctor, can we induce the birth soon? Her sister is waiting for the umbilical cord blood and bone marrow to save her life.” And just like that, I understood. My mother didn’t love me. She only loved my cord blood and my marrow. Rather than become a living organ bank for my sister, I’d rather take my chances and be reborn. … The moment my mother asked if I could be cut out of her, I unleashed a tempest in her womb. It was a stark contrast to the quiet, compliant way I’d been growing. My mother felt the full, long-forgotten force of a baby’s kick. She lay weakly in bed as my father’s voice, laced with concern, filled the room. “This baby’s been so quiet, never bothering you. Why such a commotion all of a sudden?” My mother’s voice was sharp, her teeth clenched. “This one’s a little demon, here to collect a debt. If it wasn’t for Pearl, I never would have kept it.” “Pearl was so good,” she went on, her tone softening with pride and affection. “I barely felt a thing when I had her.” But I was good, too. Wasn’t I? My mother’s body was a hostile environment, and I was in constant discomfort, my tiny form aching all over. But I endured it. I grew quietly inside her. She quizzed my father about my sister’s condition, asking about every little detail, down to what she ate. My father answered her with equal care. It was as if they had both forgotten about the child still inside her. I listened in silence. I told myself that if she said she loved me, just once, I would stay and be her child, even if my existence was born of calculation. The suffering she endured for me was real, after all. I waited and waited. Finally, she spoke of me. Her voice was bright with excitement. “The doctor said this one’s liver, kidneys, and heart are all developing perfectly. All my suffering wasn’t for nothing. Now, even if Pearl’s kidneys fail someday, she’ll have a replacement.” My world went silent. I felt my breath hitch in my nonexistent lungs. I wanted to cry. At only six months in the womb, I understood a brutal truth. My mother didn’t love me at all. I wanted to tell her that I had waited in line for eighty years for a chance to be reborn, that I had waited so, so long to be her child. I wanted to tell her how much I hurt, how sick I felt every single day, but how I forced myself to absorb every nutrient, to grow strong, just for the chance to be born. But my luck had run out. The nurse came in with another needle. This one went straight into the belly. Every time I saw that sharp point pierce her skin, I would recoil in fear, but I always held still for my mother’s sake. Not this time. I didn’t want to be her child anymore. I aimed a powerful kick right at her belly. She cried out in pain. Seeing the bulge on her stomach, the nurse hesitated, needle in hand. “Do it,” my mother hissed. “I won’t be defeated by this little monster in my own body.” Her voice rose to a shriek. “What are you waiting for? If I can’t deliver this baby, you can kiss your job goodbye!” I thrashed and kicked, but they found their moment and plunged the needle in. A wave of drowsiness washed over me. My limbs went slack. My mother was drenched in sweat, panting through the pain. Over and over, she chanted a name. “Pearl… Pearl…” As if the name itself gave her strength. Then, my father gasped. “Blood! You’re bleeding!” My mother was rushed into the emergency room. I felt so sleepy, so heavy, as if I could drift away from this world at any second. It was for the best. I could get back in line and try again. Mother, a child who isn’t loved should never be born at all. I was still inside her. I overheard the doctors and nurses. My mother had performed a miracle, they said. She had used some kind of superhuman willpower to keep me from miscarrying. The price was that she would be confined to bed until my birth, enduring three hormone injections every day. She didn’t care. All she cared about was when I could be delivered. My sister’s condition had worsened. She needed my cord blood and marrow. To ensure I would be viable when they cut me out at seven months, my mother began consuming a litany of supplements. Bitter herbal tonics, thick, gelatinous soups, anything and everything that was rich in nutrients. I hated the taste of it all. I kicked upwards, a sharp jab right into her stomach. “Ugh—” Everything she had just forced down came right back up. But my mother was relentless. She had someone bring another bowl. The moment she drank, I kicked. She vomited until there was nothing left but bile. I was exhausted, my kicks turning into feeble waves in the amniotic fluid, but she still didn’t give up. She played a recording of my sister singing. Listening to that voice, she choked down bowl after bowl of the bitter medicine. In that moment, a venomous hatred for the sister I’d never met bloomed inside me. Why did they love her so much? What had I done wrong? Why should I have to sacrifice everything for her? I refused to live that life. I gathered what little strength I had left. When I was too weak to kick, I used my fingernails, scratching at the walls of her womb. She clutched her stomach with one hand, her mouth with the other, writhing on the bed. Her cries were so agonizing that a small crowd gathered outside her room. “I know her,” someone whispered. “She’s been here on bed rest since she got pregnant. Must have spent a fortune, all to save this baby.” “And you know why? Her first child has a blood disease. This baby is just for the cord blood and marrow.” “Poor thing. Condemned before it’s even born.” Hearing their words, I fought harder. Back when I was waiting in the afterlife, I’d met other souls like me, conceived to be a cure. One of them told me his story. His life had been a nightmare. Constant blood draws, a strictly controlled diet—he existed solely for his older sibling. The marrow extractions were so frequent that his body gave out. He died at seven and was back in line with the rest of us. But he was happy. “It’s great,” he’d said. “Being dead means no more operating tables. This time, I’m going to be born into a good family. I’m going to eat fried chicken and soda.” A shudder went through me. That life was too terrifying to imagine. I’m sorry, Mother, but I can’t be born into a family like this. “Mommy!” A little girl with no hair appeared at the door, held by my father. She was tiny and frail, a ghost of a child. It was the first time I saw my sister. The sight of her seemed to fill my mother with a new strength. She forced a smile. “Pearl, what are you doing here? Did you eat properly today?” The two of them spoke with an intimacy that left me on the outside, listening quietly, imagining it was me. Imagining my mother stroking my face, holding me with aching tenderness, blaming herself for not giving me a stronger body. My sister touched my mother’s belly. “Mommy, now that you have another baby, will you stop loving me?” My mother shook her head emphatically. “You are my only child. This one in my belly was only created for you. You will always be my precious girl.” My sister looked down at me, her face clouded with worry. “But what if the baby is healthier than me? If I had a healthy body, Mommy and Daddy wouldn’t have to worry so much, right?” Tears welled in my father’s eyes at her maturity. He wrapped them both in his arms, his voice thick with emotion. “Never. Even if we have other children, you will always be the most important one.” They cried on the outside. I cried on the inside. I would not follow their script. I would make sure their plans came to nothing. I grabbed the umbilical cord and bit down. Hard. “Ah!” A cold sweat soaked my mother’s clothes. After my father took my sister out of the room, she screamed at her belly. “You little monster! Do you know how much your sister is suffering waiting for you? You keep fighting me! What if you damage the quality of the cord blood? All my suffering will be for nothing!” What baby wants to be born with a price tag on its head? I hated my sister. I hated my mother. I hated my father. I wrapped the cord around myself and spun. The pain was so intense my mother could no longer scream. I thought, after all that, surely I would be gone. But my mother’s superpower was formidable. She grew weaker, but I remained stubbornly alive inside her. “See? Nothing like Pearl,” I heard her say to a visitor one day. “When I was carrying Pearl, it was so peaceful. I never suffered like this. But this one…” She trailed off, aware of her audience. I knew what she wanted to say. She wanted to curse me. The difference between love and its absence was so painfully clear. I was almost seven months old, and she still hadn’t given me a name. I was just “the baby,” or “this one.” Only on a good day would she call me “my baby.” Panic began to set in. Seven months was fast approaching. My parents had already decided. At seven months, they would cut me out. My life and death would no longer be my own to decide. The doctor had ordered my mother on strict bed rest. She couldn’t even get up to use the bathroom. Any movement, he’d warned, could risk the pregnancy. His tone was severe. My mother was confused. “But you said the fetus was healthy. Why is it suddenly so critical?” she demanded, her voice rising with agitation. “I’ve followed all your instructions! I haven’t missed a single injection! How can you say you can’t save it?” I was my sister’s only hope. The doctor explained that I was never viable to begin with; I was being kept alive by sheer medical intervention. The news sent my mother into another rage. She cursed me for being weak, for being useless. But soon, she had no time for me. My sister had a relapse and was moved to the ICU. Ignoring the doctor’s warnings, my mother got out of bed. My parents stood outside the glass doors of the intensive care unit, watching my sister. My mother’s grief was a palpable thing, a heavy wave that washed over me, but all I felt was annoyance. I was just an innocent baby caught in their tragedy. I didn’t want to live for my sister. The sight of Pearl, so still and lifeless in that bed, finally broke her. She grabbed the doctor, her voice frantic. “Can you deliver the baby now? My daughter can’t wait any longer!” The doctor was horrified. He tried to reason with her. “The baby’s lungs aren’t fully developed. A C-section now… the chances of survival are incredibly low.” A flicker of hesitation crossed my mother’s face, but it was gone in an instant. Her eyes saw only her dying daughter. “I don’t care if the baby lives or dies,” she spat. “Even if it dies, I won’t hold you responsible. I just want my daughter to be safe!” “This,” she said, stabbing a finger at her own belly, “is its only reason for existing!” My father pulled her into his arms, stopping her from hurting herself. How noble. What a great mother’s love. If only it wasn’t at my expense. My resolve hardened. I could not, would not, be born. I had to get back in line, quickly. Maybe I’d get a better chance next time. After much persuasion from the doctor and my father, my mother abandoned the idea of an immediate C-section. But she was a nervous wreck, checking the fetal heart monitor every hour to make sure I was stable. This made my plan much more difficult. Every time I tried to wrap the cord around my neck, the machine would blare an alarm. “Fetal heart rate dropping! Fetal distress! Prep for surgery!” I would quickly let go, terrified. But I knew a secret: if the host body is weak, the parasite cannot survive. So I waited. I stayed awake all day, and at night, when she tried to sleep, I would dance and spin inside her womb. Time and again, I thought I was on the brink of death, but she would have the doctors give her another injection. The needle was thick and menacing, but she wouldn’t even flinch. The drugs pulled me back from the edge of oblivion, over and over again. Sometimes, she would look at her belly with the same loving gaze she gave my sister. But she would always catch herself. “It’s just the hormones,” she’d mutter. “I still love Pearl more. Pearl is my real child.” With the help of modern medicine, I remained stubbornly alive. As my seventh month approached, the smiles on my mother’s face grew more frequent. One day, her sister—my aunt—came to visit. My mother took her hand and placed it on her belly. She had grown frighteningly thin, claiming I had drained all her life force. I disagreed. I was still very small. Feeling the large hand on her belly, I placed my own tiny hand against it from the inside. My aunt gasped in delight. “He just held my hand! Look, do you think he likes me?” My mother just gave her a cold, empty look. My aunt hesitated. “This isn’t right,” she said softly. “Pearl is a wonderful girl, but you shouldn’t have to sacrifice another child to save her.” She loved Pearl, too, but I was her blood as well. The thought of my future—endless marrow extractions, perhaps even organ harvesting—made her feel sick. Was this really the right thing to do? My mother’s eyes turned to ice. “I gave him life. He will do as I say.” “If it weren’t for his sister, he wouldn’t even have the chance to be born. He should be grateful.” My aunt looked at my mother as if she were a stranger. “He was just unlucky,” my mother said quietly. “For Pearl, anything is worth it.” She rubbed her aching back, her hand resting on her belly. Her expression was unreadable, almost sad. I didn’t believe in luck. My fate was my own to decide.

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The first year of our marriage, my husband went overseas to work on an offshore rig and died. They never even found his body. For eight years, I gritted my teeth and carried on. I cared for his aging parents, never once complaining. Until the day they walked in with a seven-year-old boy. “Leo died so young, and you’re almost thirty,” my mother-in-law said. “We brought a child back so you’ll have someone to look after you in your old age.” The boy, coached to perfection, ran over and hugged my waist, rubbing his face against my side. “Mommy, I’ll be really good!” I shoved him away so hard he stumbled. I snatched the bag of clothes from his hands and threw it out the front door. His belongings scattered across the porch. “If you insist on keeping him,” I said, my voice shaking with rage, “then as of today, I’m done caring for you.” They both froze, stunned by my reaction. My mother-in-law’s face fell. “We did this for you, out of the goodness of our hearts! How could you say something so cruel?” I didn’t back down. My voice grew sharper. “If you insist on raising this child, you can leave my house right now!” 1 The words had barely left my mouth when tears welled up in the boy’s eyes. “Mommy,” he sobbed, “I can do laundry and cook, and I can sweep the floor. Please don’t make me leave, please…” He bit his lip, his voice small and childish, his tear-filled eyes pleading. He looked utterly pathetic. He was playing the part of a good, pitiful boy perfectly, enough to break anyone’s heart. Anyone but mine. My mother-in-law bent down, gathering the clothes I’d thrown. She took the boy’s hand and glared at me. “Amelia, I know you had a miscarriage. I know you have issues with children!” “But Connor is different! He’s obedient and smart. Having him around might even heal you!” Her voice took on a sharp, accusatory edge. “Or is this because you’re planning to remarry? You want a child of your own then, is that it? I suppose with all those successful men at your company, you couldn’t possibly stay lonely forever!” I let out a cold laugh, clinging to my last shred of composure. “You’re overthinking things, Mom. If you and Dad like him so much, you can take him back to your hometown and raise him yourselves. We can all go our separate ways.” She pointed a trembling finger at me. “Amelia Liu, how dare you speak to me like that! Have you forgotten what you promised us?” I hadn’t forgotten. How could I? Eight years ago, Leo Crawford was working overseas when a sudden storm capsized his rig, taking his life. When I got the news, I was happily planning our honeymoon. The grief hit me like a physical blow. I was three months pregnant, and the shock caused me to miscarry on the spot. My baby was gone. He was gone. When I woke up from the haze of grief, I was given the letter he wrote before every trip out to sea, a pre-written will. Every word was a plea—a plea for me to take care of his parents. I agreed without a second thought. To give my husband’s soul some peace, I even signed a legally binding contract, promising to support them. My mother-in-law clutched her chest, her face a mask of disappointment. “You promised Leo you’d support us until we died! You signed a contract, in black and white! And now you’re throwing us out? What is the meaning of this?” “And look at this sweet boy, crying his heart out! How can you be so heartless?” This boy was sweet, alright. Too bad he was the son of Leo and his mistress. Three months ago, a large sum of money from the account I maintained for my in-laws was transferred to an unfamiliar overseas account. I asked a colleague to look into it, and what he found unraveled everything: My dead husband was very much alive. And he had a son with his mistress. This boy, Connor, was that son. My in-laws had brought him here with one goal: to get me to pay for the boy’s medical treatments. To use me as a walking wallet. Well, since they’d delivered themselves to my doorstep, I would personally draw the real culprit out. And then I would drag him to the police station. I blocked the doorway, unmoving. “Of course, I remember the contract.” “But if the child doesn’t leave, you do. This is not up for discussion.” My father-in-law, who had been silent until now, grabbed the boy’s hand and tried to push past me. “Connor is staying here today! We’ve already made arrangements.” I laughed coldly, grabbing Connor’s other arm and pulling him back. The boy shrieked in pain. “I paid for this house, every last cent! If I say no strangers are allowed inside, then they are not allowed!” My mother-in-law flew at me, trying to pry my fingers loose. “Why are you being so stubborn? We’ll use our own pensions to raise him! We won’t take your money!” “And what’s wrong with living in your house? What’s yours is ours!” The sheer entitlement in her voice was staggering. After eight years of supporting them, I had no idea my assets had become theirs. A muscle twitched in my jaw, but I didn’t let go. I took a deep breath, fighting down my rage. “How much is your pension? The two of you spend thousands of my money every month. Do you really think your pittance of a pension will cover it? In the end, I’d be the one footing the bill anyway!” Her face flushed crimson. Before I could say more, my father-in-law’s hand shot out. The sharp crack of a slap echoed in the hallway, my head snapping to the side. “Your parents died young! I never wanted Leo to marry you in the first place!” he roared. “You’re bad luck! You jinxed your parents, and now you’ve jinxed my son to death! So what if we spend your money? Why have you become so vicious?!” The boy’s cries escalated into terrified screams. I held my cheek, my mind a complete blank as I saw our neighbors gathering in the hallway, drawn by the commotion. 2 I stood frozen for a few seconds before my head snapped up, my eyes locking onto his. My voice was ice, laced with a tremor I couldn’t control. “You’ve been waiting to say that for a long time, haven’t you?” I jinxed my parents? And Leo? My parents died in a fire, sacrificing their own lives to save others. My parents were heroes. I clenched my fists, a wave of nausea washing over me. Sensing things were getting out of hand, my mother-in-law quickly stepped in front of her husband, her tone softening. “Amelia, your father was just angry. He didn’t mean it. Don’t take it to heart.” “Your parents saved so many people. Everyone is grateful for what they did.” She reached out to pat my shoulder. I bit my lip and recoiled from her touch, shaking with a rage so intense I couldn’t speak. Our neighbor, Mrs. Wagner, peeked her head in. “Goodness, what’s all the commotion? Are you all okay?” My mother-in-law latched onto her like a lifeline, forcing a strained smile. “Oh, it’s nothing serious. We just… we brought a child home, thinking he could be a companion for Amelia in her old age, and she’s not happy about it. Just a little spat with her father…” “Mrs. Wagner, maybe you can talk some sense into her!” she pleaded. “This child is from a distant relative. His parents died, and no one else in the family wanted him. He has nowhere to go…” Understanding dawned on Mrs. Wagner’s face, and she turned to me. “Amelia, honey, your in-laws are just trying to do what’s best for you.” “You’re almost thirty. It’s not right for you to be alone. A child brings life to a house! And you’ll have someone to rely on when you’re older.” Before she had even finished, Mrs. Miller chimed in. “You hear those horrible stories on the news all the time, about single women dying alone in their homes and not being found for weeks… It’s tragic! If you had a child, that would never happen.” She looked at me with pity. “That’s right,” another neighbor added. “It’s been eight years since Leo died, and you’ve never remarried. Everyone knows how devoted you are.” “This child clearly adores you. If you don’t keep him, who will take care of you when you’re old?” I almost laughed. So, if you don’t have children, you’re doomed in your old age? If I die and no one finds my body, it’s not like I’ll know. Why worry about it? Besides, as a general manager at my firm, I earned a six-figure salary. Did they really think I couldn’t afford to check myself into a top-tier retirement community? A cold smirk touched my lips. My patience was gone. “How I live out my golden years is my business, thank you. I’ll arrange for a very nice facility for myself, and I assure you, it will be far more peaceful than this.” My mother-in-law shrieked back, “Haven’t you seen the news? Those places are filled with abusive staff! Without children to stand up for you, you’ll be abused to death! A child you raise yourself is the only one you can trust!” She gave the boy a shove. He immediately dropped to his knees on the hard floor. I frowned. The next second, he began knocking his head against the ground. “Mommy, don’t send me away! Mommy, please don’t send me away!” After just a few thuds, a large, angry welt was already forming on his forehead. My mother-in-law rushed to pull him up, her voice dripping with fake sympathy as she presented him to me like a prized possession. “Oh, my poor darling! My sweet boy! Where else will you find a child so devoted and obedient?”

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I am a viper. I’ve been with Pierce Sterling for three years, and I’ve tried to assassinate him eight times. My latest attempt failed again. He didn’t see my face in the dark, but in the struggle, his grip left a bruising handprint on my waist. That very night, Pierce locked down the entire estate. He began hunting for anyone with a bruise on their body. Desperate, I turned my sights on his illegitimate, simple-minded son. Julian Sterling stared down at the fresh bruise I had just pinched onto his waist, his eyes wide with confusion. “Eva, what is this?” I looked him dead in the eye and lied through my teeth. “That’s a Soulmate Mark. It proves that the love of your life has finally appeared by your side.” 1 When the estate bodyguards knocked on my door, I answered wearing nothing but a lace nightgown. I rubbed my sleepy eyes and leaned deliberately close to the lead guard. Staring at his flushing face, I dropped my voice to a husky whisper. “You absolutely cannot let the person who hurt Mr. Sterling get away. You need to search thoroughly, big guy.” I blinked slowly, tugging at the strap of my nightgown. “Do you want to come into my bedroom and do a… deep inspection?” The bodyguard turned as red as a tomato. He lowered his head, terrified to look at me, and stammered, “Everyone knows Miss Eva’s devotion to the Boss. The culprit could be anyone, but certainly not you.” “Rest well, Miss Eva. We’ll keep looking.” He bolted like a rabbit, terrified I’d say something else to compromise him. Watching them retreat, the heart that had been hammering in my throat finally settled. The mark Pierce left on my waist was burning, already turning a deep, ugly purple. I’ve been Pierce’s mistress for three years, and I dream of killing him every single night. But Pierce is sharp, paranoid, and violently fast. I’ve never succeeded. Tonight, however, the usually cautious man was drunk. He was swaying as he walked. While he went downstairs to grab something, I crept behind him and kicked him squarely in the back. Pierce’s head cracked against the stairs, blood gushing instantly. But I underestimated him. A split second before impact, he sensed something. Unable to dodge, he grabbed me. We tumbled down the stairs together. He cushioned my fall, unintentionally, but his grip on my waist was iron-tight. I scrambled away in the dark before he could focus his eyes. Before they loaded him into the ambulance, I heard him bark an order to his head of security: “Lock down the estate. The attacker is hurt. Find whoever has a bruise on them before sunrise!” My heart pounding, I hid back upstairs. I forced myself to breathe. That’s when I saw him—Pierce’s cheap, unwanted stepson, Julian, wandering out of his room looking for a midnight snack. 2 When two bodyguards knocked on Julian’s door, my heart was in my throat. Julian was the result of an affair Pierce’s father—the Old Man—had years ago. The Old Man was too embarrassed to acknowledge the scandal but couldn’t bear to leave his flesh and blood on the streets. So, he brought Julian back and forced Pierce to raise him, claiming to the public that Julian was Pierce’s son. Despite sharing blood, Julian and Pierce were nothing alike, except for their handsome faces. Pierce was ruthless, a predator who would do anything to get what he wanted. Compared to him, Julian was a fool. A gentle, naive idiot who apologized to dry leaves when he stepped on them and prayed for the cow’s soul while cutting his steak. To save myself, I had pinched a bruise onto Julian’s waist in the exact same spot as mine. Julian was obedient. I told him to close his eyes, and he did. When I was done, he looked at the mark on his skin and blinked his innocent, doe-like eyes at me. “Eva, what is this?” I kept a straight face and spouted nonsense. “I don’t know.” Julian immediately grabbed his phone. “I’ll ask Dad. He knows everything.” I snatched the phone away, feigning a sudden realization. “Oh! I remember now. That’s a Soulmate Mark. It’s a mystical sign. It means your destined partner is right here, next to you.” By the time I realized how ridiculous that sounded, it was too late to take it back. But that fool Julian didn’t just believe it—he blushed. Better him than me, I told myself. I turned to go back to my room, but I couldn’t help glancing at Julian’s door. The bodyguards knocked and called his name. From inside, Julian’s voice came after a long pause. “Get out.” I froze. That was Julian’s voice, yes. But it lacked the usual softness. The room was pitch black, yet I felt a heavy, predatory gaze landing on me through the darkness, locking eyes with me from the shadows. 3 They didn’t search Julian. My guilt vanished as quickly as the danger. I packed a bag and headed to the hospital, ready to weep by Pierce’s bedside and play the devoted lover. Pierce was awake, leaning against the headboard, looking pale and dangerous. I had a script full of tearful worries prepared. But before I could speak, Pierce cut me off. “Lift your dress.” My face stiffened. I stared at him blankly. The bodyguards had found three maids with bruises and twelve injured guards at the estate. I thought the witch hunt was over. I gripped the hem of my skirt, whispering, “We’re in a hospital, Pierce.” “So?” he asked. He stared at me, his eyes devoid of any emotion. I stopped acting shy. I leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth. “So… I’m shy. I want the lights off if we’re going to play.” 4 The room was plunged into darkness. Just as I began to relax, Pierce suddenly flicked on the bedside lamp. The harsh yellow light flooded over me. Pierce’s hand shot out, gripping my throat, forcing my head back. He scanned every inch of my body. His gaze was an open interrogation. Luckily, I had covered the bruise on my waist with heavy-duty theatrical foundation before I came. Under bright white hospital lights, it might have shown. But under the warm, yellow lamp? It was invisible. I pushed him away, pouting like a spoiled brat. “I ran all the way here to see you, willing to fool around in a hospital bed, and you’re suspecting me?” The suspicion in Pierce’s eyes faded, replaced by a faint, cold smile. He twirled a lock of my hair around his finger. “Eva, that perfume you wear… it’s unique. I can smell it from a mile away.” It took every ounce of my willpower not to flinch. Pierce looked at me, his voice slow and deliberate. “The staff at the house are useless. They just do what they’re told.” “But if you think about it… the woman I blacklisted from the industry, the woman I saddled with millions in debt, the woman who should hate my guts… she has more motive than anyone, doesn’t she?” He was smiling as he said it. I wanted to smile back. But I couldn’t. I started as a small-time actress. I wasn’t rich, but I was happy. I had a boyfriend. I was content. Then Pierce saw me. I rejected him, politely. I had a boyfriend. I had morals. He just smiled and said nothing. After that day, my life imploded. My honest, risk-averse parents suddenly started “investing” with the help of a “VIP.” Within two months, they lost everything—house, land, savings—and owed millions. My brother’s boss sent him on a company trip abroad. He vanished. My acting career tanked. Blacklists, fake scandals, canceled contracts. I knew I was being targeted. My manager told me she could help. She introduced me to a “Big Shot” who could fix everything. I went to the dinner, and Pierce was waiting. My manager changed her face instantly. She locked the door from the outside. I didn’t escape that hotel room that night. My boyfriend, Jace, realized something was wrong. He investigated. He found the truth. Then, Jace vanished. When I found him, he had “accidentally” fallen off a building. He was in the ICU, clinging to life, racking up massive bills. My parents’ loan sharks were calling. My brother’s kidnappers wanted a ransom. Jace needed surgery. That’s when Pierce appeared again. The Savior. He paid the debts. My brother came home. Jace got his surgery. But my father, unable to handle the shame of the debt, jumped into a river. My mother fell into a deep depression. My brother locked himself in his room for three years, terrified of strangers. Jace was left with permanent injuries, his dancing career over. And I? Because I owed Pierce money I could never repay, I became his property.

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After the car accident, I was rushed to the ER. My boyfriend arrived late, with his personal assistant in tow. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor seemed to annoy Sophie. She turned to Gavin, pouting. “Gavin, baby, my phone died. Can you unplug this noisy machine so I can charge it?” Gavin looked at me, lying weak and pale on the hospital bed, and his voice was ice cold. “What a waste of a trip. I thought it was actually serious.” “Just unplug it. It’s not like she’s going to die in the next five minutes.” Without a second thought, Gavin yanked the plug of my heart monitor out of the wall and plugged in her charger. A chill ran through my bones that had nothing to do with the accident. I closed my eyes in resignation. The moment I was discharged, the first thing I did was cancel the wedding. 1 After the monitor was unplugged, the room fell into a dead silence. Sophie dragged a chair right next to my bed, sprawled out like she owned the place, and started scrolling through TikTok. Gavin paced over to the window and threw it open, completely ignoring the fact that I was shivering in a thin hospital gown. It was raining in Seattle—that bone-chilling, gray drizzle. A gust of wind blew in. I tucked the corner of the blanket tighter around myself and looked at him. “Close it, please. I’m cold.” Gavin turned slowly, meeting my hollow gaze. “Oh, so you can talk? I thought the crash turned you mute since you haven’t made a peep.” The scene I just witnessed was still tearing me apart. When Gavin arrived, he didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t check my injuries. He unplugged my life-monitoring equipment because Sophie wanted to scroll on Instagram. lying in the wreckage, all I could think about was, If I die here, will Gavin be devastated? Will he tear the world apart looking for me? Now I had my answer. He wouldn’t mourn. He’d probably be popping champagne with Sophie. I had loved him too much. “If I had been struck mute, you’d be happy, wouldn’t you?” I asked, my voice raspy. His face darkened. He walked over, a sneer forming on his lips. “I saw you were fine, so I made a joke. Do you have to take everything so seriously?” “I told you this morning. It was windy and raining. I told you to take an Uber. But no, you had to ride that stupid Vespa.” “Now look at you. Lying in a hospital bed. Happy now?” I looked away, staring at the scrapes covering my right hand and the thick cast encasing my broken left arm. Gavin could have driven me to work. But he left me behind to go pick up Sophie. The roads were slick. I skidded and was thrown ten feet. Even in that terrified state, I chose to trust him. I called him first. He never came. Not until long after the ambulance had brought me in, tests were run, and I was settled in a room. And even then, he brought her. “You knew the weather was bad, but you insisted on picking up Sophie. Is she really that much more important than me?” Gavin rolled his eyes, glancing at Sophie who was giggling at her phone. His eyes softened instantly. “Sophie isn’t like you, Chloe. She doesn’t know how to ride a scooter. If I didn’t pick her up, she would have had to walk.” “And you know her apartment is far from the office. Ubers add up.” Sophie finally deigned to look up from her screen. She gave me a pitiful, martyr-like smile. “It was just a ride, Chloe. Are you really jealous of that? If you hate me that much, I just won’t let Gavin pick me up anymore.” Gavin immediately jumped to her defense. “Sophie, don’t. Whether I pick you up isn’t her decision to make.” He glared at me. “Seriously, Chloe? There’s a limit to how jealous you can get…” His rant was cut short by a nurse storming into the room. 2 The nurse stood in the doorway, scanning the room with a look of absolute fury. “Do you people have zero common sense? The patient just stabilized! Who unplugged the monitor?” “What kind of family are you?” Gavin looked stunned. He froze, mouth opening to explain, but Sophie beat him to it. “She looks fine to me. It’s not like she needs saving,” Sophie scoffed. “We just needed an outlet. Do you have to yell?” ” careful, or I’ll complain to your supervisor. You’re just a nurse, get over yourself.” Sophie sat there, acting like royalty. The nurse looked like she wanted to scream, but she maintained her professionalism. She yanked Sophie’s charger out of the wall and plugged the heart monitor back in. Sophie stomped her foot like a toddler. She turned to Gavin, pouting. “It’s just a few scratches. She’s acting like she’s dying. Since I’m clearly not welcome here, I’m leaving.” She grabbed her bag and ran out the door. Gavin hesitated for a split second before deciding to chase after her. At the door, he turned back to me. “You’re fine anyway. I’m not staying here just to be yelled at. We’ll talk about the wedding when you get discharged.” The wedding. He actually remembered we were getting married. If not for the accident, tomorrow would have been the day we picked out my gown. Now, it was the day I’d cancel it. My physical wounds weren’t life-threatening, but my left arm was broken, making everything difficult. But Gavin’s attitude? That was the fatal blow. He was blind to the cast around my neck, blind to my pain. For the next three days, Gavin didn’t visit once. But I saw plenty of him on Sophie’s Instagram. To apologize to her, Gavin rented a private yacht. He covered the deck in rose petals. Sophie posted a photo leaning against the railing, capturing Gavin meticulously spreading the flowers. Her caption: “Let’s just pretend this is a proposal.” The comments were flooding in. “OMG, Gavin is so romantic!” “If I were the main character here, I’d die of happiness!” “You two look way more than just friends…” While I lay alone in a hospital bed, struggling to drink water with one hand, he was out drinking wine with his assistant. I realized then that my title of “fiancée” meant nothing against his “soulmate” assistant. It looked so perfect, I couldn’t help myself. I commented: “So, when do we get to drink at the wedding?” I put the phone down just as the nurse walked in with my discharge papers. “You need to rest. Don’t move around too much. Come back in two weeks to get the cast checked,” she said gently. I smiled and nodded. In three days, she was the only person who had shown me kindness. Leaving the hospital, I finally got a call from Gavin. Not to ask if I was okay. But to yell at me about the comment. “I’m being discharged today. If you have time, come get me. If not, forget it.” Gavin was silent, probably loading up his ammunition to scold me. So, I broke the silence first. 3 “What was with that passive-aggressive comment?” Gavin’s voice was low and annoyed. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Sophie and I are just friends.” I let out a cold laugh. “Friends don’t do things lovers do. Sophie called it a proposal. Are you assuming I’m blind?” “It was just a caption! Why are you so petty?” “Besides, we’re getting married in a few days. What is your problem? Are you seriously still mad I didn’t babysit you at the hospital?” He sounded so aggrieved, as if I were the villain in his story. He didn’t think leaving me alone in a hospital for three days was a big deal. I only wanted a ride home. I wasn’t asking for the stars like Sophie. “Yes, I am mad because you didn’t take care of me,” I said flatly. “So, are you going to rent a yacht for me to apologize? Like you did for Sophie?” Silence stretched on the line. Finally, Gavin spoke, his tone dripping with exhaustion. “Chloe, stop changing the subject. I called to ask why you would embarrass Sophie like that? She’s crying because of what you wrote.” “Oh? Is she? She really is fragile, isn’t she?” Gavin lost his patience. He muttered, “Unbelievable,” and hung up. The rainy season in Seattle usually made me feel like I was molding from the inside out, but today, the sun finally broke through. My suppressed emotions vanished with the clouds. The first thing I did after leaving the hospital was go to the bridal shop and cancel everything. The clerk looked at my cast with pity. “The photos are ready. We just needed to fit the dress. It’s a shame.” In the corner sat a massive framed canvas—Gavin and me, smiling like we were in love. My body was there, but my heart was already gone. A shell without a heart isn’t worth keeping. Before I left, I told the staff to trash everything. The large frames were too big for the bin, so I told them to smash them and dump the pieces. As luck would have it, just as the last frame shattered into the dumpster… Gavin and Sophie walked up. He looked surprised to see me standing there. “Chloe? Why are you here? Did you not go home?” I stayed silent, watching as he instinctively linked arms with Sophie. “What happened to your arm? You just fell, right? You’re making a huge deal out of nothing,” he said, his selective blindness kicking in again. “Nothing. Just a scratch.” He noticed my stare and quickly dropped Sophie’s arm, looking flustered. He walked up to me, looking me up and down. “We’re about to get married, stop acting like a child. The shop called me to pick up the photos. Did they call you too?” Sophie giggled. She peered into the dumpster. “Gavin… doesn’t that guy in the trash look exactly like you?” Gavin walked over and flipped a piece of the broken canvas. It was his face, shattered under a layer of glass shards. His face turned red with rage. He marched over to me, fists clenched. “Chloe, have you lost your mind?” “The wedding is next week! Why did you throw away the photos? Are we getting married or not?!” My cast was heavy, weighing down my neck. I rolled my shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Didn’t you propose to Sophie? Why would you marry me?” 4 Gavin’s chest heaved. He stepped closer, his breathing jagged. I knew that sound. He was truly angry. Smack. A heavy hand struck my face. My left cheek swelled instantly. He aimed for the left side, knowing I couldn’t block it with my broken arm. “Did the crash scramble your brain? Let me help you wake up.” He screamed the words, but I just smiled. I didn’t care anymore, but the tears fell anyway. My heart gave a dull throb of pain. I wiped the tear with my good hand and looked at him. “Let’s break up, Gavin. I’m tired.” “I had a lot of time to think in the hospital. We aren’t right for each other. Forcing it won’t make us happy.” … After that day, the tension between us seemed to thaw—superficially. He apologized, vaguely. But I knew it wasn’t sincere. I was just biding my time until my arm healed enough to leave. I treated him with icy indifference. No matter how many times he said sorry, it didn’t matter. His actions had already pushed me out the door. Gavin knew I was going to the hospital today to get the cast removed, so he skipped work. He watched me packing a bag in the living room and assumed I was just organizing. He didn’t know I was packing my life away. “When your arm is better, let’s retake the photos,” he chirped, holding my good hand. “You like boats, right? Let’s do a yacht shoot.” If he had done this days ago, maybe I wouldn’t have canceled the wedding. We drove out of the garage. I watched the rain streak against the glass. It was raining like this the day of the accident. Sophie called him three times during the drive. He pretended not to care, but I saw his eyes darting to the screen every time it lit up. At the hospital, he sat on the bench, distracted. When the cast came off, I felt reborn. I looked at my pale, shrunken arm and remembered the crash. We walked downstairs. Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. “Chloe, take an Uber home. There’s an emergency at the office.” “I promise I’ll be home by six for dinner.” I knew it wasn’t the office. It was Sophie. I feigned concern. “Go. Hurry.” He jumped into the driver’s seat and sped off without looking back. I stood there watching him go. He had never driven that fast for me. I left the hospital, went to my company to finalize my resignation, and took a cab to Sea-Tac Airport. While waiting at the gate, I checked my feed. Sophie had posted a picture of a scraped knee. In the photo, Gavin was kneeling, carefully applying ointment with a Q-tip, his brow furrowed in deep concern. I did exactly what I did before. I commented: “Well, I wish you a lifetime of happiness. I won’t be attending the wedding.” Gavin saw it. He blew up my phone.

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My son had been in a vegetative state for five years when his caregiver suddenly demanded to marry him. She claimed that after caring for him day and night, she had fallen deeply in love and didn’t mind that he was comatose. I politely refused. Even if my son never woke up, I had no right to treat his life like a bargaining chip. That was until I overheard the caregiver on the phone with her ex-husband. That’s when I learned she was a “regressor”—someone who had lived this life before. According to her, my son was going to wake up in exactly one week. 1 “Mrs. Sterling, I’m not joking. I even divorced my husband so I could marry Luke.” “You know as well as I do that Luke probably won’t ever wake up. He can’t… perform a husband’s duties. But I don’t care. I don’t mind.” Brenda stood there, hands on her hips, looking at me as if I should be thanking her for her sacrifice. I furrowed my brow, finding the whole situation absurd. My son, Luke, had been in a persistent vegetative state for five years, three months, and nine days. I had exhausted every option, from cutting-edge neurology to praying at temples, but no miracle had come. Brenda was our live-in caregiver. She’d been decent enough with Luke over the years, and I paid her a salary that would make most corporate managers jealous. But lately, her personality had shifted. And today, she dropped this bomb. I rejected her immediately. “First, in Luke’s condition, marriage is legally complex and practically meaningless to him.” “Second, I haven’t given up hope. I still pray he wakes up one day. I don’t want him opening his eyes only to find I’ve arranged a marriage he never asked for.” “Third, Brenda, you’re twenty-six. I’m not going to let you throw your life away on a man who can’t speak to you.” I was clear, logical, and firm. But she acted like she only heard the last part. She waved her hands frantically. “It’s not throwing it away! I love Luke. I don’t care what state he’s in.” I sighed, looking at her like she was an alien. Why would a young woman insist on marrying a man in a coma? Was she after the inheritance? Impossible. Luke was my only child. After the accident, my mother-in-law, Rose, had nagged me constantly to adopt a new heir. I refused. But my husband’s business empire needed a successor. I had eventually promised Rose that if Luke didn’t wake up by next year, we would consider adoption. Brenda was in the room when I made that promise. She knew if Luke didn’t wake, she wouldn’t get a dime of the family fortune. So, was it really love? Whatever it was, it was ridiculous. I tried to reason with her for another twenty minutes. Just when I thought I was getting through, she stood up abruptly, knocking over her tea. The cup shattered. “Mrs. Sterling, don’t look down on me!” “You think just because your son is a vegetable, a caregiver isn’t good enough for him?” “I divorced my husband for this! I’ve worked in this house for years! How can you treat me like this?” Tears streamed down her face. I have zero patience for emotional blackmail. Seeing that logic was useless, I turned around and walked away. 2 I woke up from my afternoon nap having almost forgotten the incident. But Brenda hadn’t. While I was asleep, she had called in the cavalry: my mother-in-law. When I went downstairs, Grandma Rose was holding Brenda’s hands, looking at her with dewy-eyed affection. “Oh, Brenda is such a saint. She’s worried our Luke is lonely and wants to commit her life to him.” “If Luke can have a wife, I can die happy.” I frowned. The older generation had this obsession with “completing life events” regardless of the circumstances. But my son didn’t need a sham marriage. Rose grabbed my hand and patted it aggressively. “I’ve decided. We’re setting a date this week!” “I do not agree,” I said, standing my ground. Rose froze, shocked by my defiance. “What… what do you mean?” I took a deep breath and repeated every logical point I had made to Brenda that morning. Rose didn’t listen to a word. She slammed her hand on the table. “Luke is already a vegetable! If you don’t let him marry, he’s pathetic! What kind of mother are you? So heartless!” I stayed silent. There was no winning this argument. Seeing the stalemate, Brenda suddenly threw herself to the floor, kneeling before me. “Mrs. Sterling, I truly love Luke. If you let me marry him, I’ll serve you like a slave for the rest of my life. I don’t want a dowry, I don’t want a wedding. I just want the title. I just want to be his wife.” I let out a dry laugh. “‘Caregiver’ is a title that lets you stay by his side just fine.” Rose was trembling with rage at my coldness. She bypassed me completely and pulled Brenda up. “Good child, ignore her. Wait until my son—Luke’s father—comes home. We’ll talk to him. He’s reasonable. He won’t deny you this.” Then, Rose took a jade bracelet off her wrist and slid it onto Brenda’s arm. “This has been passed down in our family for generations. Now, I’m giving it to you. This means I acknowledge you as my grandson’s wife.” Generations? Funny, she never gave it to me when I married her son. Not that I wanted it. I went to Luke’s room to massage his legs. His face was pale, same as it had been for five years. But as long as the monitor beeped, I was at peace. They say a coma patient only lives as long as their family has the will to keep them going. And I was a mother with an infinite amount of will. Brenda’s stunt had unsettled me. That night, I couldn’t sleep. My chest felt heavy. I got up to get some fresh air in the courtyard. Passing Brenda’s room, I heard her on the phone. I intended to walk past, but the word “Hubby” stopped me cold. Hubby? Didn’t she just make a huge scene about her divorce? I pressed my ear against the door. “Hubby, don’t worry. When have I ever lied to you?” “Just one more week. Next Tuesday. That’s the day Luke wakes up. I remember it clearly.” 3 She spoke fast, excited, using slang I barely caught. But the gist was terrifyingly clear. Brenda claimed she had been “reborn.” In her previous life, she was an abusive caregiver. She treated Luke like a punching bag. I didn’t see it because she was slick. I told her to do physical therapy; she skipped it. She sold his meds on the black market. But comatose patients can still feel. When Luke unexpectedly woke up, she was fired and sued. I sent her to prison. When she got out, she was blacklisted. Even her husband left her for another woman. Desperate, she jumped off a building and woke up five years in the past. This time, she treated Luke well. And she memorized the exact date and time he woke up: next Tuesday at 10:00 AM. This was her chance to marry into wealth. She planned to marry him while he was still “out,” secure her status, and then use my money to support her ex-husband in secret. A few years later, she’d arrange a little “accident” for Luke, inherit the estate, and return to her true love rich. The sheer malice made my knees weak. I stumbled, knocking into a plant stand. “Who’s there?” Brenda’s voice snapped. Panic surged. I grabbed the house cat wandering the hall and tossed it toward her door, diving into the shadows. Brenda peeked out. “It’s okay, babe. Just the cat.” “But I’m still in the Sterling house. Let’s not talk about this part anymore.” After she closed the door, I gasped for air. Rebirth? It sounded psychotic. But God, I hoped she was telling the truth. Not about the murder plot—but about Luke waking up. I wanted it to be true more than anything in the world. But I couldn’t let Brenda win. I memorized the date she mentioned. And I hatched a plan. The next morning, while she was washing dishes, I “accidentally” knocked her phone off the counter and out the open window. It shattered on the patio below. She shrieked, running out of the kitchen, eyes blazing with fury. “Mrs. Sterling! What are you doing?!” I put on my best apologetic face. “Oh my god, Brenda, I am so clumsy today. I am so sorry.” “Tell you what—I’ll buy you that new iPhone 16 Pro Max that’s coming out. How does that sound?” Greed instantly replaced anger. “The Pro Max? Really? Okay. Yes.” “It doesn’t come out for a week, though,” I said. “Here, use my old phone until then.” I handed her a spare smartphone. It worked perfectly. Except for one thing: I had disabled the automatic time sync and manually set the date three days ahead. To cover my tracks, I adjusted the digital calendars in the hallway and kitchen too. Brenda lived in our house bubble. She wouldn’t notice. When the day she thought was the “Wake Up Day” arrived, Luke would still be asleep. She would panic. And people who panic make mistakes. Just as I predicted, she didn’t suspect a thing. As the date on her phone crept closer to her target, she became visibly manic with excitement. But there was a variable I hadn’t accounted for. 4 I was woken up by screaming. At first, I thought Brenda was just throwing another tantrum. But the screams were coming from Luke’s room. I threw on a robe and ran downstairs. When I opened the door, my blood ran cold. Brenda was lying in Luke’s bed, her clothes torn and disheveled, crying hysterically. She was under the covers with my son. The room smelled of sweat and something muskier. “Mrs. Sterling!” she wailed. “Last night… Luke woke up! I was so happy, I came to give him water. But he… he grabbed me! He forced himself on me!” I frowned. I looked at Luke. He was pale. His breathing was shallow and rhythmic. He looked exactly as he had for five years. He wasn’t awake. Then it hit me. I had messed with the dates. Today was the day Brenda thought he was supposed to wake up. In reality, the actual date was three days away. I checked my watch. 9:00 AM. In her phone call, she said he woke up at 10:00 AM. She was staging this scene an hour early so that when he “woke up” at 10, he’d be confused, and she could claim he assaulted her in a post-coma delirium, forcing a marriage. I pulled up a chair and sat down. “You’re saying my comatose son assaulted you? And then went back to sleep?” “Yes!” She sobbed. “I wouldn’t lie about my virtue! Mrs. Sterling, I know you don’t want us to marry, but now… now I’m ruined. If I can’t be his wife, I might as well die!” I pointed at Luke. “He hasn’t moved a muscle.” “He was exhausted!” she argued. “Just wait. He’ll wake up any minute now.” I laughed. “Okay. If you say my son raped you, that’s a serious crime. I’m calling the police.” “We’ll get a rape kit done immediately.” Her face went pale. She started stammering, refusing to involve the cops. “Just call the police!” I insisted, pulling out my phone. “Stop!” A voice boomed from the hallway. Grandma Rose. “Family business stays in the family! Police? Have you no shame?” Brenda’s eyes lit up. She had called Rose for backup. “Fine,” I said, crossing my arms. “We wait. Let’s see if he wakes up.” Time ticked by. Brenda got more and more smug as 9:59 approached. “He’s waking! He’s waking!” she shouted as the clock hit 10:00. Grandma Rose jumped up, rushing to the bed. Luke didn’t move. Brenda froze. 10:05. 10:10. Nothing. “Impossible…” she muttered, her face draining of color. “I couldn’t have remembered it wrong.”

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We had our wedding three years ago, but my pilot husband has canceled our appointment to make it legal at City Hall eighteen times. The first time, his female trainee had a test flight. I waited on the steps of the County Clerk’s office from opening until closing. The second time, he was driving us there when she called. He pulled a U-turn on the highway and dropped me off on the side of the road. After that, every time we scheduled a date to get our marriage license, his trainee would miraculously have some sort of crisis. Eventually, I decided to leave him. But the moment I boarded a plane to Paris, he went crazy and chased me halfway across the world. We’ve been “married” for three years, yet Ethan has never managed to sign the papers with me. Today was a milestone—his 1,000th successful flight. It was also the seventeenth time he promised we’d go to City Hall. But at his celebration dinner, while his direct supervisor was pressuring me to down shot after shot, Ethan was busy peeling shrimp and feeding them to Lexi, his female co-pilot trainee. I drank until I was dizzy and burning up with a fever. He didn’t spare me a single glance. Colleagues around the table sighed and clicked their tongues, looking at me with eyes full of pity. They felt I wasn’t worth the effort. Anyone with eyes could see who I was destroying my liver for. When the dinner ended, Ethan, who was supposed to take me to City Hall, flaked on me again. He pulled the car up to the restaurant entrance. As I reached for the door handle, he blocked me with one hand. “Lexi drank too much for me just now. I need to drive her home. You should call an Uber.” “We probably won’t make it to the Clerk’s office this afternoon. Let’s take a raincheck.” He didn’t even wait for my reaction. He hopped out, helped his trainee into the passenger seat—my seat—and buckled her in. We’ve been together eight years, “married” for three. This was the seventeenth time Ethan delayed making us legal because of Lexi. Usually, I’d break down crying. I’d scream, asking him who his actual wife was, and asking who had really been drinking for him all night. But this time, I just smiled. “Okay. Drive safe.” Ethan paused, clearly thrown off by my calmness. After a second, his cold demeanor returned. “I’ll buy you a gift tonight to make up for it.” He drove off immediately. Before he peeled away, he rolled up the window on the passenger side, terrified the wind might bother a drunk Lexi. In the past, he never allowed the smell of alcohol in his car. whenever I drank for him, he’d drive with the windows down, even in the dead of winter, freezing me to the bone. I realized then: he didn’t hate the smell of alcohol. He just didn’t care if I was cold. The midday sun in Seattle was scorching, but I felt nothing but a chill in my bones. I took a deep breath and put my birth certificate and social security card back into my bag. I knew it was time to let go of these eight years. That afternoon, I went straight to the airline’s HQ and handed in my resignation. “Does Ethan know you’re quitting?” my supervisor asked, surprised. I was the airline’s Gold Star Flight Attendant for seven years running. Leaving meant walking away from a promising career. I smiled bitterly. “I’ll tell him tonight. Though, I doubt he’ll care.” “It’s a shame,” the supervisor sighed. “You two flew new routes together, won ‘Best Crew’ together… even the CEO came to your wedding three years ago. Everyone was so jealous. But now…” She trailed off, shaking her head. Yes, those were beautiful memories. But memories are just ghosts. We can never go back. I got home around 10 PM. The apartment was cold and empty. My phone pinged. An Instagram notification. Lexi had tagged me in a story. “Thanks to Captain Ethan for staying by my side all afternoon! And for the reward: Taylor Swift tickets for tomorrow! Can’t wait! <3” I knew then that Ethan, who said he’d be home for dinner, wasn't coming back. This scenario had played out too many times in the last three years. I made myself a bowl of instant noodles and opened my email. I scrolled past offers from a dozen international airlines and clicked on the one from Air France. I hit "Accept" without hesitation and booked a ticket to Paris for two days later. Five years ago, Ethan had the biggest scare of his career on a flight to Paris. Since then, the city had been a taboo subject. He refused to fly there, and out of solidarity, neither did I. Ethan, once I go to Paris, I don't think we’ll ever see each other again. The next morning, I woke up and started packing. I was halfway through when Ethan walked in, wearing a pink dress shirt. A strong scent of rose perfume drifted in with him. I choked slightly on the smell. He used to hate perfume. Because of him, I hadn't worn any for years. I’d even thrown away my expensive collection. It turns out, he doesn't hate perfume. He just didn't like it on me. He saw the suitcases and paused. "Lexi was really hungover last night. It got late, so I grabbed a hotel room by myself. That's why I didn't come home." I looked up at him, surprised. In three years, this was the first time he’d ever offered an explanation without being asked. I nodded silently. He walked over, looking down at me. "You're packing? Do you have a flight?" "Something like that," I said. He seemed to relax hearing that. "I have some errands to run today. I just came back to grab something. I won't be eating lunch here." "Okay." I didn't look up, continuing to fold my clothes. I had planned to tell him over lunch that I quit and that we were done. But it seemed I wouldn't get the chance. Ethan grabbed a red gift bag and a jacket hanging by the door, then hurried out. Crash! The moment the door slammed shut, a picture frame that had hung there for eight years fell. Glass shattered everywhere. It was a photo of us at our first concert. We were holding hands, grinning like idiots. That day, he promised that no matter how busy he was, he’d take me to a concert every year. But ever since Lexi became his trainee, he had forgotten that promise entirely. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the empty room. I stood there for a long time before sweeping up the glass. Then, I threw the photo—and the last shreds of my attachment—into the trash. By evening, I was exhausted and lying on the bed when my best friend, Sarah, called. "What the hell is wrong with Ethan? This is too much. Check Instagram. He's practically flaunting his affair with that fox, Lexi." "You guys aren't even divorced yet! How can he do this?" I opened the app. Lexi’s latest post was at the top of my feed. She was wearing a Van Cleef & Arpels clover necklace, holding the red gift bag Ethan had retrieved earlier. So, he came home just to get her concert gift. The caption read: "Three years of knowing you. So lucky to have you, Captain Ethan. Happy 3rd Anniversary!" It hit me then. Third anniversary? Right. Today was our wedding anniversary. The third anniversary of a marriage that wasn't legally real. We hadn't celebrated it once, so even I had forgotten. I exhaled slowly. "He doesn't need a divorce, Sarah. We never got the marriage license." "What?!" Sarah screamed. "You've been 'married' for three years and he still hasn't signed the papers?!" Yeah. Three years. Seventeen cancellations. At 11 PM, Ethan actually came home. He took off his coat and went to hang it up, but froze when he saw the bare spot on the wall. "Where's our photo?" He walked into the bedroom, looking slightly panicked. "It fell and broke," I said calmly.

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I only found out my daughter was dying after her husband had already beaten her into a miscarriage. Her eight-month-old baby girl, capable of breathing on her own, was kicked out of the womb by her own father. His family thought this was just him being a “real man.” They thought discipline meant violence. I pulled out the blade I hadn’t used in years. Later, when they were on their knees begging for mercy, I didn’t flinch. “Anyone who hurts my daughter goes to hell.” 1 I was working on the construction site when my wife called, screaming for me to get to the hospital. I rushed there just in time to see my daughter, Haley, being wheeled out of the ER. Her face was a mess of purple and black bruises. Her eyes were swollen shut. Tubes ran in and out of her body like she was a machine. She lay there, pale and broken, a ghost of the girl I knew. “We couldn’t save the baby,” the doctor said, his voice flat but heavy. “The mother has a comminuted fracture in her left arm and severe internal trauma from blunt force. She’s out of surgery but still unconscious. She’s malnourished, so recovery will be slow. And… keep an eye on her mental state. She’s going to need help.” My heart felt like it had been dropped into a freezer. My wife, clinging to the wall, slid down to the floor, sobbing into her hands. I forced the words out through a throat that felt like it was closing up. “What the hell happened?” Two days ago, Haley had come home to visit. She told us she and the baby were fine. She was glowing, rubbing her belly, talking about how excited she was to be a mom. And now? Now she looked like a corpse. “Excuse me… you’re Haley’s father, right?” I turned around. A middle-aged woman stood there, wringing her hands nervously. “I am. I’m Sam. Do you know what happened to her?” “I shouldn’t really say anything,” she mumbled, looking over her shoulder. “People will say I’m gossiping. But… Haley is such a sweet girl. It’s just not right.” “Ma’am, please,” I begged, stepping closer. “My daughter is lying there broken. As her father, I need to know. Whatever you say stays between us.” It felt like someone had carved a piece of my heart out with a rusty spoon. She hesitated, then sighed. “Last night, around midnight… I heard shouting from Rick’s place. Then I heard Haley screaming. It sounded bad. This morning, I went over to check. Haley was lying on the floor in a pool of blood. I was terrified. I called the ambulance.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Haley is a good kid, Sam. But Rick and his family? They aren’t human. You need to get her out of there.” She walked away quickly, not wanting to be involved further. My blood boiled. The heat started in my feet and shot up to my skull until I saw red. Rick. You and your whole family are going to pay. 2 I told my wife to stay with Haley and headed straight to the police station. After filing a report, two officers escorted me to Rick’s house. When we opened the gate, a dark, dried pool of blood stained the concrete patio. Even the cops flinched. “Rick Davis!” one officer shouted, banging on the door. “We have a report of domestic assault and attempted murder. Open up!” Rick’s family shambled out, looking like they’d just woken up from a nap. When Rick saw the cops, he shrank behind his father. “Officers, murder? That’s ridiculous,” Rick’s dad, a gnarled old man, scoffed. “Don’t listen to this guy. It’s just a domestic spat. Young couples fight. Sam here is making a mountain out of a molehill. Calling the cops for this?” Rick’s mom, hands on her hips, chimed in. “I haven’t even complained about his daughter yet! Married for years, finally gets pregnant, and it’s a worthless girl. She’s trying to end our family line on purpose!” Rick’s dad spat on the ground. “Exactly! Calling the cops on her in-laws? That’s disrespectful! A woman needs a beating now and then to keep her in line. If you ask me, he didn’t hit her hard enough!” They stood there, chins up, proud of their cruelty. The officers’ faces hardened. They’d seen enough domestic calls to know scum when they saw it. Seeing that blood on the patio had already blanked my mind. But hearing them? Hearing them talk about my dying daughter like she was livestock? Something snapped. I didn’t think. I lunged. I swung a fist straight into the old man’s mouth. I felt teeth shatter against my knuckles. He grunted and spat out a mouthful of blood and molars. Before Rick could react, I buried my boot in his stomach. He doubled over, and I kicked him in the face, sending him sprawling into the dirt. Rick’s mom screeched like a banshee and clawed at my face. I caught her wrist with my left hand and backhanded her with my right. Crack. It was chaos. “What are you cops doing?!” Rick’s sisters, who had come out to watch, screamed. “He’s assaulting my parents! Arrest him! I’ll sue you!” The officers looked at the sisters, then at Rick—the man who beat his pregnant wife half to death. One officer stepped forward, moving slowly. “Sorry, ma’am. Looks like mutual combat to me. And there are three of you against one of him.” The other officer nodded grimly. “We’re here to investigate an attempted homicide by Rick Davis. Rick, you’re coming with us.” They cuffed Rick and dragged him to the cruiser. 3 With the cops gone, the rest of the family got brave again. I stepped toward the house to get Haley’s things. Rick’s mom scrambled up from the dirt and blocked the doorway. “You aren’t going in there!” she shrieked. I laughed. It was a cold, dry sound. I hadn’t hit her enough. I grabbed her arm, dug my fingers in until I felt bone, and threw her aside like a sack of trash. I pulled a small switchblade from my pocket. The click of the blade locking into place silenced them instantly. “Anyone else wants to stop me, step up. I’ll gut you right here.” They froze. Fear finally replaced their arrogance. I walked inside and opened the wardrobe. It was full of clothes, but almost none of them were Haley’s. My heart ached again. I packed what little she had. Then I sat on a chair, lit a cigarette, and stared at them. “From today on, my daughter is done with this family. When Rick gets out, they’re divorcing.” “Like hell!” Rick’s mom screamed, clutching her bruised face. “You think you can just divorce? He only hit her a couple of times! You evil bastard, you got my son arrested! If you want a divorce, you better get on your knees and beg!” I stood up, ready to finish what I started, when my phone rang. It was my wife. Haley was awake. She wanted her dad. I didn’t waste another second on these animals. I left. 4 Seeing Haley awake broke me all over again. Under the harsh hospital lights, her injuries looked worse. “Dad,” she whispered. Her voice was thin, like cracked glass. I swallowed the bitter lump in my throat. Tears streamed down my face as I hugged her gently, afraid I’d break what was left of her. “I’m here, baby. Dad’s here. No one is ever going to hurt you again.” My wife hugged us both, wailing. “My poor baby… why…” Over the next few days, as Haley recovered, the full horror story came out. From the day she married Rick, his family had pressured her for a baby. When she didn’t get pregnant immediately, the verbal abuse started. They called her a “useless hen” who couldn’t lay an egg. She cooked for the whole extended family. She cleaned. She babysitted Rick’s sister’s kids. Rick, meanwhile, had developed a gambling habit. He lost his paycheck, then started demanding money from Haley. If she refused? He hit her. If he lost money? He hit her. They took her phone so she couldn’t call us or the police. They threatened to hurt me and her mom if she tried to leave. When she finally got pregnant, we were overjoyed. We wanted her home. Rick’s family refused. His mom even went to a fortune teller who said the baby was a girl. That was the last straw. They tried to force her to get an abortion. When she refused, the torture intensified. That night, Rick came home broke and angry. He demanded money. Haley said no. He beat her while screaming that she was useless, that the baby was just a “money-losing maggot.” Haley tried to run. Rick picked up a wooden stool and smashed it over her back. Listening to this, the fire in my chest turned into something cold and hard. A beast inside me was clawing to get out. I started planning.

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