He says I’m a pathological liar. Just like my mother, always faking illness and playing the victim to beg for sympathy. On my eighteenth birthday, I called him, my voice trembling with desperation: “Please, just show up this once. If you don’t, I will die.” His voice on the other end was icy and indifferent: “So you’ve learned to threaten me now? Then go ahead and die.” The line went dead. I smiled, my heart entirely hollowed out. The mechanical chime of the System echoed in my mind: [Mission failed. Host termination sequence initiating—] I died on the day of my eighteenth birthday. And yet, that very billionaire CEO—the man who despised his eldest son more than anyone else in the world—went completely insane. 01. I was a Tasker. I transmigrated into this world when the boy, Ethan Brooks, was only six years old. The System told me that my only mission was simple: get my father to spend just one birthday with me, and the task would be complete. At first, I thought nothing could be easier. In the mirror, my six-year-old self had a chubby, adorable face with bright, innocent eyes. Whenever neighbors or sweet old ladies passed by on the street, they couldn’t help but stop to hug me. “What a precious little boy. His parents must absolutely treasure him.” But I soon discovered the brutal truth. The person who hated me most in this entire world was my own father. 02. Marcus Brooks was forced to marry my mother. Back then, he was the golden heir to the Brooks Conglomerate, deeply in love with his college sweetheart—a struggling, low-tier Hollywood actress. My grandfather was furious. He despised the entertainment industry and forced Marcus to break off the relationship, ordering him home to accept an arranged marriage. The match chosen for him was my mother, Clara. Marcus originally intended to just go through the motions to appease my grandfather. But Clara loved him. She loved him desperately, to the point of madness. She had carried a secret crush on Marcus for years. She pursued him relentlessly, crying for him, going on hunger strikes, and even resorting to self-harm. Marcus felt suffocated by the sheer weight of her obsession. Eventually, Clara became pregnant. Under the crushing pressure from both my grandfather and the public eye, Marcus finally married her. They spent six incredibly cold months in matrimony. Six months later, Clara passed away while giving birth to me. Whether it was during the grueling hours of her fatal labor or the somber days of her funeral, Marcus never once showed up. Three months after she passed, he finally returned to the estate. The nanny carried me out and placed me right in front of him. He cast a brief, sweeping glance over my face, leaving behind a single, freezing sentence. “He looks exactly like Clara.” Then he turned and walked away without a shred of lingering warmth. 03. By the time I was six, I had already learned to be fiercely independent. During an art class at school, the teacher asked us to draw “My Family.” In my drawing, there was only myself and Mrs. Gable, our nanny. The teacher bent down and asked, “Where is your daddy, Ethan?” “Daddy lives inside the television.” “And where is your mommy?” “Mommy is up in heaven.” The teacher went silent for a long time. She gently patted my head, then walked into the main office to call Marcus. “Mr. Brooks, next Tuesday is our Parent-Teacher Open Day. Would it be possible for you to come in and talk about Ethan?” I overheard her call from outside the door, and a tiny spark of anticipation flared up in my chest. Next Tuesday also happened to be my birthday. If Daddy came to school, it would count as him spending my birthday with me. When Tuesday arrived, I started waiting from noon. I waited through one class period after another. By the time the final bell rang and school dismissed, a sleek, black Maybach finally rolled through the school gates. My eyes widened with hopeful excitement. But the person who stepped out of the luxury vehicle was a sharp-looking man in a tailored suit—Marcus’s executive assistant. “Mr. Brooks asked me to hand this over to you, ma’am,” the assistant said, sliding a high-end gift basket and a premium store gift card into the teacher’s hands. “He also mentioned that the boy is inherently difficult and ill-mannered. He apologizes for any trouble Ethan might cause you.” The teacher let out a heavy, deep sigh. She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t true at all. I was incredibly well-behaved. I had a gentle disposition and worked harder than anyone else in class. But the Maybach had already pulled a swift U-turn and sped away, as if sparing even a single second for me was a massive waste of their time. For the first time, I realized a cruel truth about parental love. It is either the easiest thing in the world to get, requiring absolutely no effort at all. Or, it is the hardest thing in the world to obtain, no matter how hard you try. 04. But I didn’t give up. At first, I thought that if Daddy realized I was a good kid, he would eventually grow to love me. So I pushed myself to the absolute limit in my studies. Every single semester, I made the Principal’s Honor Roll, and my academic certificates lined the walls of my bedroom. But it was completely useless. Whenever Mrs. Gable texted these achievements to Marcus, his inbox remained a graveyard of unread messages. Later on, some boys in my grade started bullying me. They cornered me on the playground, smirking maliciously. “You claim your dad is Marcus Brooks?” “What a pathetic liar. Look at yourself. You don’t look a single bit like the son of a billionaire CEO.” “Exactly! No one ever shows up for you on Parent-Teacher night. I bet you’re just some stray orphan!” A fight broke out. We slammed hard into the glass display cases lining the hallway near the gymnasium. The glass shattered into shards. One of the boys, completely blinded by rage, grabbed a jagged piece of glass and slashed it savagely across my forearm. … Lying in the hospital ward, I overheard the parents of those boys whispering in low, hurried voices outside. “I heard this kid is just an illegitimate nobody.” “We can just throw a few thousand dollars at him to settle this out of court.” “Why don’t we talk to the Board of Trustees and have him expelled? If he stays at this academy and starts spreading rumors, it’ll ruin our boy’s chances at the Ivy Leagues…” I sat frozen on the hospital bed, my expression entirely numb. Protecting one’s own child is a basic human instinct. I didn’t blame those parents for wanting to sacrifice me to secure their children’s futures. In fact, I felt a deep, aching envy toward those boys. Suddenly, the hushed whispers outside ceased entirely. In their place came a wave of pure panic: “M-Mr. Brooks?” Marcus had arrived at the very last moment. Behind him walked a team of cold, calculating lawyers, executive assistants, and a trembling, bowing school principal. “I understand completely, Mr. Brooks. This was a severe lapse in our security,” the principal stammered, sweat dripping down his face. “I will handle this with the utmost severity. The students responsible will be expelled immediately!” Marcus gave a curt, indifferent nod. Leaving his assistants and legal team outside to handle the paperwork, he pushed open the door to my room and stepped inside. My heart had never felt so warm. In that single moment, I genuinely believed the thick sheets of ice between Marcus and me were finally beginning to melt. “Daddy…” I choked out, my voice thick with tears. But in the next second, the words died instantly in my throat. Because I saw the look in Marcus’s eyes. They were completely, devastatingly cold. “Ethan Brooks, look at you. Quite the performer,” he said softly. “Are you trying to play the exact same cards your mother used to play?” It wasn’t until much later that the nanny told me the truth. Years ago, to win Marcus’s sympathy, Clara had hired thugs to harass her on the street, only to call him sobbing in terror. “How much did you pay those classmates of yours to get them to put on this little show for you?” Marcus’s dark, fathomless eyes bored into me, filled with merciless scrutiny. I felt the blood in my veins freeze solid in an instant. “I didn’t do it.” “Don’t lie to me, Ethan.” “I really didn’t do it!!” I broke down crying, entirely unable to prove my innocence, crushed under the weight of my own helplessness. Marcus stared down at me with profound disappointment for a long moment, then lowered his voice. “I genuinely thought you would turn out different from her.” “But it seems you are becoming more like her every single day.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the room. The principal hurried to keep up with his pace. Completely unaware of the conversation that had just occurred inside, he began pouring praise over me to impress Marcus. “I had no idea Ethan was your son, Mr. Brooks! No wonder he’s so remarkable. He takes right after you.” “He tops the class in every single exam, and his essays are beautifully written. His prose actually shares a striking resemblance to the articles you published back in your Ivy League days…” Marcus’s footsteps paused slightly. But then, he let out a bitter, low chuckle. “What a waste.” With that, his footsteps resumed, growing fainter and fainter until they vanished down the corridor. 05. The years bled into one another, and I grew older. Every single year, I tried every method imaginable to beg Marcus to spend my birthday with me. A few times, I came incredibly close to succeeding. But in the end, Marcus never showed up. He would instruct his assistant to deliver gifts to me—each one more lavish and expensive than the last—alongside a custom, thousand-dollar designer cake. Perhaps, in front of the public eye, he still needed to maintain the facade of a dutiful father. But he himself never stepped foot near me. He detested me. He believed I inherited Clara’s manipulative traits and was rotten to the core. When I studied hard and excelled, he thought I was putting on a calculated act. When I was hospitalized with a dangerously high fever, he assumed I was faking illness to beg for attention. No matter what I did, it was always wrong. Eventually, Mrs. Gable grew too old and retired, leaving me completely alone in the apartment. Whenever I grew exhausted from studying, I would turn on the television. On the screen, Marcus and his wife, Madeline, were taking their younger son, Leo, onto a popular celebrity family reality show. Madeline was his first love. After my grandfather passed away, Marcus had finally gotten exactly what he wanted and married her. He poured massive resources into backing her career, transforming the once low-tier actress into an A-list Hollywood star with millions of adoring fans. When the three of them appeared together on screen—the handsome, billionaire father, the stunningly beautiful mother, and the lively, charming son—it was picture-perfect. It really was beautiful. I felt genuinely happy for Leo. He had the most blissful family in the world. And Leo truly was happy. Even though Marcus managed a global conglomerate, he always carved out time to help Leo with his homework, build Lego sets with him, and shoot hoops in their private basketball court. The live stream comments rolled across the screen in endless waves: [Mr. Brooks is literally the best dad in the world.] [I’m so jealous, I wish I had a father like him.] I smiled faintly and switched off the TV. Tomorrow would be my eighteenth birthday. This was my absolute last chance. If I failed to complete the mission, I would be permanently erased by the System. I picked up my phone and dialed Marcus’s number. I called repeatedly, but he never picked up. Left with no choice, I pressed down to record a voicemail. “Daddy, please, I’m begging you. A legal adulthood birthday only happens once in a lifetime.” “Since I was a kid, you’ve never shown up for a single birthday. Just this once… just be here with me this once, okay?” “If you don’t… I will really die…” A long time passed before a voice message notification popped up on my screen. My fingers trembled violently as I tapped to play it. Marcus’s voice came through, dripping with icy sarcasm and mockery. “So you’ve learned to threaten me now?” “Then go ahead and die.” 06. The birthday candles burned down to the very wick. The tiny flames flickered one last time, then died out, plunging the room into darkness. I used a plastic fork to scoop a bit of the frosting from the cake and placed it in my mouth. It was sweet, light, and airy, like a cloud. But I could taste nothing but bitterness. [Host, time is almost up.] The clock was rapidly ticking toward midnight. On my social media feed, a new post from Marcus popped up. It was a picture of Leo smiling brightly under the sun at an exclusive golf country club. The caption was brief, but it couldn’t hide the overwhelming adoration: “Out on the green with Leo today. The boy’s swing is improving incredibly fast. So proud of him.” I stared at it for a moment, then took a picture of my lonely birthday cake and posted a status update of my own. “No matter what, thank you for everything.” “Not every parent loves their child, but every child is born loving their parents.” “I will love you forever. And goodbye, Daddy.” The clock finally struck twelve midnight. Still wearing my paper birthday hat, I quietly stopped breathing. My soul drifted out of my physical form, floating gently into the air. Outside the window lay the sparkling lights of a sprawling city; inside, my body gradually grew cold in the lonely darkness. I asked the System, “Why haven’t I left yet?” The deep, resonant mechanical voice replied, [Because right now, this is not the end.] As if confirming the System’s words. Ten minutes later, a heavy pounding echoed at the front door. There was no answer. The only person who could open the door was currently lying breathless on the sofa. The knocking grew faster, louder, and more frantic. “Ethan Brooks!” Finally, I heard Marcus’s voice. “Open the door. I know you’re inside.”

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1 On Valentine’s Day afternoon, the dorm room was pure chaos. Everyone was doing their makeup, trying on outfits, and getting ready for their dates. I was the only one sitting on my bed, clutching a half-eaten bag of chips, opening my iPad to catch up on Netflix. Avery changed into her millionth outfit, still unsatisfied, and drifted over to my closet. “Harper, this dress of yours is so gorgeous.” It was a plum-red, form-fitting slip dress with lines that subtly teased the imagination. I had specifically picked it out a month ago when Weston and I agreed to get dinner tonight. Avery looked at me. “Did no one ask you out tonight?” When I didn’t answer, the corner of her mouth curled up. She dropped a specific name: “Did Weston leave you on read again?” The moment she said his name, everyone else in the dorm looked over in unison. Weston Sterling was always the center of attention. He was drop-dead gorgeous, top of his pre-med class, and treated life like a game he was playing on easy mode. Romance was the same. Growing up constantly worshipped, he never lacked beautiful, proactive girls throwing themselves at him. And me? I was just the neighbor who happened to attend the same schools as him from elementary school all the way to college. I held the script of the “childhood friend next door,” but that was exactly where the story stalled. I pulled out my phone. His pinned conversation at the top of my messages had no red notification dot. If I didn’t text him, he would never initiate contact. By 9:30 PM, I had finished my show, and I was the only one left in the dorm. Avery had accidentally smeared a little foundation on the cuff of the plum-red dress. I knelt down, trying carefully to wipe it off. It wouldn’t come off. What’s the point anyway? Right as the thought crossed my mind, my phone buzzed. It was an unsaved number, but I recognized the digits instantly. I never saved him to my contacts because I didn’t want to admit how much I cared. But in reality, I had his number memorized by heart. “Hello?” I unconsciously picked at a stray thread on a hanger, trying to distract myself. He chuckled softly. It was like he could hear the suppressed grievance in my voice and was trying to coax me. “Wanna come out and hang?” The upward lilt at the end of his sentence was incredibly magnetic. It was his signature lazy charm. So he did remember. “It’s 9:30,” I said. “And?” he asked. “Is this how you always ask me out? At the absolute last minute? Weston, that’s really rude.” I forced a joking tone. “Did someone else cancel on you, so you’re calling me?” I tried to sound breezy, but my heart was pounding, desperate for his reaction. But no response came. The line was dead silent. I thought my Wi-Fi had dropped and was about to switch to cellular data when I realized he had simply hung up on me. In our iMessage thread, underneath the massive blocks of green texts I had sent him previously, he had just sent two new lines. Weston: […] Weston: [Whatever. Don’t force yourself.] Muscle memory took over. I instantly started typing, I was just joking, trying to explain myself. But my thumbs hovered over his two short, callous sentences. I had waited for him all night, and he hung up on me without a second thought. I deleted the draft. Instead, I typed: [Are you mad?] Send. He replied instantly: [Can’t you tell?] This was him demanding that I lower my head and grovel. Just like always. I replied instantly too: [Stay mad, then.] Then, I blocked his number. I turned around and opened Quizlet. Hah, men? I was going to memorize a hundred vocab flashcards tonight. Two hours later, right as I was finishing my deck, I got a call from Weston. “Are you hungry?” “No,” I said coldly. “Come downstairs. I brought you late-night food.” I poked my head out the window. Sure enough, his black SUV was parked in front of the dorm building. He was wearing a sharply tailored overcoat that made his complexion look even paler in the cold. He was leaning lazily against the car door, looking up at my exact window with a practiced smirk. He raised a hot bag of seafood chowder in the air. It was the exact same soup I had bought for him when he was running a high fever a while ago. As I walked down the stairs, two girls from my hall passed by me. “Wait, isn’t that Weston from the pre-med track?” “Who?” “The incredibly hot guy out front. I’ve seen TikToks of him around campus.” I pushed open the heavy dorm doors and reached out to take the bag of chowder. He pinched the top of the bag. It wouldn’t budge. “Give me your phone,” he said, holding his other hand out. “No.” I let go of the bag and turned to walk back inside. He caught my arm with one hand, and before I could react, he slipped his other hand into my pocket and pulled out my phone. I reached up to snatch it back. “What are you doing? You don’t even know my pass—” Before I could finish, the screen unlocked. “Is there anything about you I don’t know?” His smile deepened. He steadied me with one arm, tapped the screen a few times, and unblocked himself from my settings. Because he was pinned, he was easy to find. Because my passcode was his birthday, it was easy to guess. He knew absolutely everything. “Here. Eat up and go to sleep.” He placed the warm bag in my arms. “I feel like a pig farmer.” I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Weston…” “Weston.” Two voices spoke at the exact same time. I looked past him and saw someone sitting in the passenger seat of his SUV. Avery opened the car door, her cheeks slightly flushed. “Did I fall asleep? Why didn’t you wake me up?” Weston let go of my arm and smiled at her. “You looked like you were sleeping deeply. I figured I’d let you rest.” “My sorority went to an escape room today, and surprisingly, Weston was there too.” Avery walked over and looped her arm through mine. “He was just dropping me off on his way back.” She pointed at the chowder in my hands, her tone playfully coy. “It’s all because that seafood chowder was too good. I got a food coma on the ride back.” So he took Avery out to eat, and just grabbed this for me as an afterthought? “Avery’s stomach was acting up, so I took her to get some food,” he explained, noticing my gaze. “Yeah.” I forced a smile. “Thanks. I’m going back upstairs.” “Harper, wait a sec.” Avery gripped my elbow tightly, stopping me from leaving. Instead of looking at me, she turned to Weston. “Can I get your Snapchat or number? I need to Venmo you for tonight.” I followed her gaze and looked at Weston. The plastic handles of the takeout bag were digging red indents into my fingers. He gave a nonchalant smile and said, “Sure.” But right before he said it, he looked directly at me. Avery finally let go of my arm to add him on her phone. Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. “You guys take your time chatting,” I said. Then, I walked upstairs without looking back. 2 Avery pulled back my bed curtain. “Harper, you don’t mind, right?” “Then again, it’s not like you’re his girlfriend anyway.” She was right. I had no right to mind. “Do you like Weston?” I asked bluntly. “Oh.” Her eyes darted away. “Not really. We were just heading the same way tonight.” “Why aren’t you eating the chowder?” She pointed at the soup I had abandoned on my desk, sounding slightly offended. “We bought that specifically for you, you know.” “I’m not hungry.” I tried to pull my curtain shut, but she held onto it. “Harper, did you know Weston has a group chat with his frat brothers?” My hand froze. I didn’t know. “Mason is in that chat too.” Avery shoved her phone screen in my face. “He sent me these screenshots a few days ago.” I recognized Weston’s profile picture instantly. During the week he had a high fever, I skipped classes to take care of him. Once he recovered, I ended up catching a terrible flu. My bones ached so badly I couldn’t get out of bed. I texted him, begging him to drop off some soup for me. He never replied to me. Instead, he forwarded my barrage of texts to his group chat. The screenshot was entirely filled with my desperate messages to him. Weston: [Look at this simp.] Weston: [Even if she isn’t annoyed, I’m getting sick of it.] Weston: [Does she seriously think she’s my girlfriend?] The group chat erupted in mockery. Mason: [Lol, which number is this one this week?] AntiSimpBro: [This girl is trying way too hard.] AntiSimpBro: [You two clearly don’t match.] AntiSimpBro: [Does she seriously not realize she’s entirely out of your league?] AntiSimpBro: [Trying to guilt-trip you just because you’ve known each other a long time. Anyone got a picture? Let me see what she looks like.] Mason immediately sent a blurry photo. You could barely make out my features. AntiSimpBro: [Not bad, but she looks like a manipulator.] AntiSimpBro: [I wouldn’t touch her if you paid me.] Weston: [@Mason, where did you even get a picture of her?] Mason: [From a club event, I think. Forgot.] Weston: [Unsend it.] Mason: [The unsend window passed. Are you actually bothered?] The screenshots ended there. “It really seems like he doesn’t like you, Harper.” Avery pulled her phone back. “Take my advice: it’s better to have some self-awareness.” I looked at her. “Who is ‘AntiSimpBro’?” My sudden shift in focus caught her off guard. “Oh, him. That’s Weston’s roommate—Asher Reed.” “Do you have his contact?” “Yeah.” She hesitated. “Why do you want his contact?” Midnight. Someone occasionally tossed and turned in the dorm. I opened my phone, changed my lock screen password, and unpinned Weston from my messages. I added Asher on Snapchat. AntiSimpBro: [Who are you?] Me: [Harper.] AntiSimpBro: [?] AntiSimpBro: [Why did you add me?] AntiSimpBro: [If this is about Weston, forget it.] AntiSimpBro: [I’m not helping you.] Me: [It’s not.] AntiSimpBro: [Then what? I’m deleting you.] Me: [Asher, has anyone ever told you that you’re incredibly special?] AntiSimpBro: [No.] Me: [In my eyes, you’re different from everyone else.] AntiSimpBro: [Look, lady, what do you actually want? Spit it out.] Me: [For years, my only goal in getting close to Weston was actually for one specific reason.] AntiSimpBro: [Because you’re obsessed with him?] Me: [To sleep with you.] The other side completely died. It was like his brain short-circuited for five solid minutes. The screen jumped back and forth between “Typing…” and silence. Right as I was about to fall asleep, my phone vibrated. Weston had sent an iMessage. [Sign my name for the 8 AM elective. Room 801.] He was so used to ordering me around. Like he was absolutely certain I would love him forever. 3 For our 8 AM elective, Avery and I were in the same class. To be precise, she only signed up for it because Weston was taking it. When I registered for the course, she hovered over my laptop, watching me closely. “Harper, were you actually texting Asher last night?” She looked me up and down. “It’s a shame he never posts selfies. I don’t even know what he looks like. But guys who never post pictures are usually pretty ugly. He probably looks like that.” She pointed randomly at a nerdy guy in the corner, then turned to me with a smirk. “Actually, you two would be a great match.” Right as Avery finished her sentence, a deep male voice spoke next to me. “Excuse me, can you scoot in?” Avery rolled her eyes, annoyed, but when she looked up and saw his face, her eyes lit up. He had an incredibly intimidating, towering presence, with sharp, deep-set eyes that practically radiated a do not approach aura. Even though there were plenty of empty seats, Avery immediately cleared space for him. Leaning across me, she tried to strike up a conversation. “Hey, are you taking this class too?” “Yeah.” He answered coldly, completely ignoring her. Instead, his eyes lingered on my face for an extra second. “What’s your name?” Avery asked sweetly. “The ugly one you were just talking about,” he said flatly. “Asher.” Avery’s jaw dropped. She quickly gathered her things and practically sprinted a few rows to the front, desperate to escape the blast zone. “Nice to finally meet you, Harper.” Asher pulled out his textbook and slammed it onto the narrow desk, right up against my notebook. He raised an eyebrow, looking ready for a fight. “What was it you said you wanted to do to me last night?” I smiled politely, slid my notebook away, and maintained my distance. He mimicked my smile mockingly. “I knew you were just using me to get a reaction out of Weston.” “Absolutely not.” I denied it three times in a row. A look of contempt crossed his face. “You really think you’re worthy?” “Weston is never going to fall for a girl whose entire personality is desperately chasing boys.” “Furthermore, I’m a man of principles.” His sharp jawline tensed, his tone absolute. “Do you honestly think your cheap manipulation tactics would work on me?” “Is that right?” I asked. The attendance sheet was passed to me. I skipped Weston’s name and only signed my own. When I handed the clipboard to Asher, my fingers accidentally brushed against his hand. He flinched like a startled cat, pulling his hand back as if I carried a plague, radiating massive single-guy energy. “You…” He cleared his throat. “Why didn’t you sign Weston’s name?” He was acting like the righteous moral judge of Weston’s love life. Too bad for him, I fully intended to drag him down into the mud with me. “Because you’re sitting right next to me now!” I gave him a bright smile. He completely avoided eye contact, staring rigidly at the chalkboard. “Here, borrow my pen,” I said. He snatched it frantically and forged Weston’s signature, looking visibly panicked. His handwriting was actually really nice. “Your name isn’t on the roster,” I said, tilting my head to look straight into his eyes. “So, did you come here specifically to see me?” He instantly went on the defensive, drawing a hard line. “I came here to warn you!” “Oh.” I held my hand out. “Can I have my pen back?” The pen in his hand seemed to burn him like a hot potato. He shoved it back to me. I held the pen gently in both hands, examining it like a priceless artifact. “What are you doing?” He couldn’t resist asking. “This is the very first pen we’ve ever shared. I’m going to lock it in a safe.” I spoke with utter sincerity. The moment the bell rang, Asher bolted from the room without looking back. I dropped the smile, packed my bag slowly, and stopped by the podium on my way out. Handing the attendance sheet to the professor, I noticed him searching for a pen. “Here, Professor, you can keep this one. I have plenty.” Walking out of the building, I leaned against the brick wall and pulled out my phone. I switched to a burner Snapchat account, styling the bitmoji to look like a guy, and added Asher. AntiSimpBro: [Who are you?] There was a heavy dose of paranoid defense in his words that wasn’t there last night. DogTrainer: [8 AM class. Room 801. I got a picture of you secretly holding hands with Harper.] AntiSimpBro: [?] AntiSimpBro: [Our hands literally just brushed!] AntiSimpBro: [I swear to God, it was an accident! Well, she did it on purpose, but I didn’t! Whatever, I didn’t do it!] A few minutes passed. AntiSimpBro: [How much money do you want to delete it?] He instantly sent $100 via Apple Pay. I didn’t accept it. DogTrainer: [You and Weston have a group chat?] AntiSimpBro: [How do you know that?] DogTrainer: [Add me.] AntiSimpBro: [It’s our frat chat. Why do you want in?] DogTrainer: [Because I have a massive crush on Weston.] I pulled the wildest excuse out of thin air. AntiSimpBro: [Aren’t you a dude?] DogTrainer: [Got a problem with that?] He added me to the chat. Then he DM’d me again to reiterate. AntiSimpBro: [Make sure you delete that photo.] AntiSimpBro: [I would literally rather die than hold her hand.] I didn’t reply. I switched back to my main account. As soon as it loaded, texts from Weston popped up. Weston: [Did you sign my name?] Weston: [Wanna go camping this weekend?] Before I could even type a response, a text from Avery came through. Avery: [Weston just invited me camping! Do you think I should say yes?] Weston was always like this. He invited someone else first, then invited me. I was his eternal, fail-safe backup plan. But this time, I wanted him to taste his own medicine. 4 For the weekend camping trip, everyone was from Weston’s circle. Avery shoved past me and claimed the passenger seat of Weston’s SUV. “Sorry, Harper. I’m just used to riding in Weston’s car. I get carsick in anyone else’s.” The back seats were already packed. Weston looked at me. “Why don’t you ride in Asher’s car?” “Yeah, you guys can chat,” Avery winked at me from the window. “After all, you were desperate enough to add him in the middle of the night.” “You added him?” Weston zeroed in on the keyword. Mason, sitting in the back, laughed and looked at me. “What’s wrong, did you change your target, freshman?” Weston’s expression subtly shifted. But it only lasted a second. He quickly reverted to his usual untouchable, arrogant demeanor. He smirked and yelled toward the other car, “Asher, I’m leaving her in your hands!” Then he slammed the passenger door shut for Avery, completely cutting off any chance of me riding with him. “As a friend, don’t say I never hooked you up,” he muttered to me under his breath. With that, he shoved me toward Asher’s car. But Asher, standing by his door, completely rejected the idea. “Sorry. My car doesn’t take female strangers.” He gave me zero face. The entire group burst into laughter. I was the outcast no one wanted to drive, left standing awkwardly in the middle of the parking lot. Avery laughed the loudest. “What are you laughing at?” Asher snapped at her. “You aren’t allowed in either.” Avery’s smile vanished. Flustered and embarrassed, she shot back, “Who said I wanted to ride in your car anyway?” “Oh, just the fact that you practically sprinted to steal shotgun,” he exposed her bluntly. Mason stepped in to defuse the situation. He gave up his seat in the back of Weston’s car for me and hopped into Asher’s passenger seat. On the highway, Avery and Weston were laughing and chatting in the front seats. When the cars pulled over at a rest stop, the bro group chat started blowing up. Mason: [Weston, stop bullying the freshman just because she’s obsessed with you.] Mason: [You know exactly what kind of guy she likes, why are you throwing her at Asher?] Weston and Asher were polar opposites. One was a seasoned playboy treating the world like his playground; the other was an arrogant, isolated cynic who shot straight from the hip. No one in their right mind would ever pair me and Asher together. DogTrainer: [Harper and Asher are literal soulmates.] AntiSimpBro: [?] Mason: [Who is this guy? When did he get added?] DogTrainer was removed from the group by AntiSimpBro. Asher immediately DM’d my burner account. AntiSimpBro: [Try talking that garbage one more time.] DogTrainer: [I still have the picture of you guys holding hands.] I looked up toward the driver’s seat of the other car. Asher was staring at his phone, his face completely expressionless. His jawline was sharp, and the messy hair falling over his forehead couldn’t hide the icy glare in his eyes. Looking at him, you would never guess he was currently spamming my DMs with stickers of a cartoon dog crying on its knees begging for mercy. AntiSimpBro: [Bro. My guy. Everyone makes mistakes.] AntiSimpBro: [Give me some face here.] AntiSimpBro invited DogTrainer to the group. AntiSimpBro: [Lol, he’s a nobody. Just some dude.] AntiSimpBro: [He gets a kick out of stirring up drama between me and Weston.] Mason: [Your usernames actually match pretty well.] Mason: [Don’t worry, literally no one would believe him.] Mason: [Soulmates, lmaoooo. She’d fall for Avery before she’d fall for you, bro.] AntiSimpBro: […] Weston walked out of the rest stop convenience store and handed a plastic bag of snacks to Avery. “Omg, thank you Weston!” She looked thrilled, digging through the bag and pulling out a mango juice. “That one’s for Harper.” Weston effortlessly snatched the mango juice out of her hand and tossed it directly into my lap. “It’s the only flavor she drinks.” Avery’s face froze. She forced a stiff, awkward smile. “Yeah, I was actually just grabbing it to hand to her.” She shot me a dirty look, then poked Weston’s arm. “Weston, look at the group chat, it’s hilarious. Asher added some random comedian.” Weston raised an eyebrow, swiped through the messages on his phone, smirked, and dismissed it entirely. As the car started moving again, Avery turned around and whispered to me, “It’s such a shame you aren’t in the chat. You have no idea what we’re all laughing at.”

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The Blackwood Ridge massacre of 1995 shook the entire state. Three escaped convicts brutally murdered a forest ranger and his entire family—nine souls in total. Only the nine-year-old youngest daughter survived. When she was attacked, she fell beneath the open planks of the staircase, barely escaping with her life. But she was left permanently crippled, trapped in a lifetime of agony and suffocating regret. I am that youngest daughter. And I have just been reborn. Right back to ten minutes before the slaughter begins. 1 July 27, 1995. 10:00 AM. This exact date and time are burned into my soul. After turning nine, my life in the previous timeline was confined to a wheelchair. No family left. Only endless terror and whispers of what-ifs. Why did I open the door for them? Deep down, I knew that even if I hadn’t opened it, they would have broken in anyway. But a part of me always clung to that desperate, foolish illusion. Now, I am back. In exactly ten minutes, they will knock on our door. 2 I looked back into the cabin. My elderly grandparents were sitting in the corner, braiding heavy jute rope. The rope wouldn’t fetch much at the local market; they just couldn’t bear to let their hands sit idle. Dad hadn’t gone out to patrol the ridges today. It was a rare treat to have him home, mostly because Mom was away visiting her sister in the next county. My second older brother, Tommy, had wrecked his dirt bike and busted his leg, so he was home recovering. His wife, Jessica, was holding their two-year-old daughter, Lily, complaining endlessly about his recklessness. Her belly was noticeably round—in a month, my second nephew would be born. In just a few days, Mom was supposed to come back and take her to the county hospital to wait for the delivery. My oldest brother, David, worked a corporate job in the city. He had sent his two kids back to the mountains for summer vacation. The boy was twelve. His name was Ethan. True to his name, he was already five feet tall and built like a truck. Right now, he was outside helping Dad split firewood. The girl, Grace, was two years older than me. A bit spoiled. In those days, in the deep backcountry, it wasn’t weird for a niece or nephew to be older than their aunt. Terrified of the sun, Grace had pitched a large patio umbrella on the second-floor deck, curled up underneath it reading comic books. “Hey, looks like someone’s coming!” her sharp voice rang out. In my past life, she was the first to spot them too. But everyone in the yard ignored it. Blackwood Ridge was isolated and rugged. The only people who ever stumbled up here were lost hikers. Mountain folks are hospitable. We would always cook them a hearty meal, and then Dad would guide them back to the main highway. It was no different this time. Ten minutes later, they knocked. I had eagerly run to open the door, letting them in. Dad welcomed them warmly. Grandpa stoked the woodstove. Grandma started slicing our home-cured ham. Jessica handed baby Lily to Tommy and helped wash the vegetables. Grace was dragged down to help, rolling her eyes with every step. Tommy even chatted with one of them about his dirt bike injury. Dad went down to the root cellar to fetch a jar of blackberry moonshine he’d buried the previous winter. It was a joyful feast. But just as Dad asked whether they wanted to stay the night or head out while the sun was still up, the atmosphere shattered. One of the men reached out and grabbed Jessica. 3 It all happened so fast. I was upstairs on the second floor, trying to put baby Lily down for a nap. She was fussy and restless, which made me anxious. Suddenly, a strange sound echoed from downstairs. Short, sharp, instantly cut off. Then, a blood-curdling shriek. I flew to the window. The yard had turned into a living hell. Dad was slumped over the wooden table, blood jetting from his throat. Grandpa and Grandma were on the floor, one face down, one face up, their necks nearly severed. Ethan had been struck with his own wood-splitting axe, his skull split open, his body still twitching on the dirt. Those three men—one was overpowering Tommy, one was pinned on top of Jessica, and the third was dragging Grace toward the door. I shoved my fist into my mouth and bit down hard. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was real. Right then, Lily burst into a loud, frantic cry. The man dealing with Tommy finished his grim work, snapped his head up, and glared at me with cold, dead eyes. I spun around, scooped up Lily, and ran. The stairs leading from the second floor to the third were made of open-backed wooden planks. I tripped. The man bounded up the steps, closing the distance in seconds. He ripped Lily from my arms and threw her violently over the railing. Her crying stopped instantly. Driven mad, I lunged forward and bit his arm with everything I had. He roared in pain and hacked down on me twice with his blade. My body went limp. I felt my life force rushing out of me. The wooden stairs became slick and red. My small, frail body slipped right through the open gap between the steps. The man reached down to grab me, but I was out of reach. Seeing that I was bleeding out and surely a goner, he turned and walked back downstairs. The horrors that followed were things I only learned from police reports after I was rescued. They stayed in our cabin for three days and three nights. Jessica was murdered, her unborn baby brutally carved from her womb. Grace didn’t have a single inch of unmarred skin left. She was tortured to death. Mom suffered the cruelest fate. She returned on the third day, walking right into the house, only to have her throat slit the moment she stepped through the door. 4 Under the bright morning sun, my body broke into a violent chill. I shook so hard I couldn’t form words. The memories brought an agonizing, soul-crushing pain, but now was not the time for tears. I had been reborn. I would not let this tragedy happen again. I slammed the heavy yard gate shut, throwing the iron bolt into place. Then I dashed into the house, grabbed the old wall-mounted landline, and dialed the local automated ringback code followed by our home number. The moment I slammed the receiver down, the phone began to ring. In the past, I used this trick all the time to prank Dad. I picked it up, pretended to talk to someone for a few seconds, and then sprinted back to the living room. “Dad! Quick, get everyone inside! The Ranger Headquarters just called—they said three armed killers escaped into the mountains, and they’re heading right for us!” This was the only way to make them listen. If a nine-year-old girl tried to explain reincarnation, no one would believe me. I would waste the precious ten minutes just trying to explain the impossible. Hearing that armed killers were loose in the mountains, Dad instantly went on high alert. Something like this had actually happened a few years back. Tommy didn’t take it seriously, laughing it off. “Three of ’em? I’ll bash their skulls in with my crutch!” “Get inside, you idiot. You talk too much,” Jessica snapped. Knowing he was in the wrong—since the family had forbidden him from riding that dirt bike in the first place—Tommy didn’t dare argue. He meekly followed her inside. Grandpa and Grandma were hard of hearing. Sensing that explaining would take too long, Dad and Ethan grabbed them by their arms and practically carried them into the house, telling them a massive storm was rolling in. Grandpa looked up at the crystal-clear sky, muttering under his breath, refusing to move. Dad was incredibly strong. He physically hoisted Grandpa and his heavy bundle of rope right through the doorway. With a sharp whistle from Dad, two large golden hounds bounded over the low wall, tails wagging as they rushed into the house. One was still missing, probably wandered too far off, and there was no time to search for him now. Mountain dogs were free-roaming creatures; they’d run wild and sometimes disappear into the woods for two or three days. In my past life, they came back too late. They found their family slaughtered, went completely feral with rage, bit two of the killers, but were ultimately hacked to death. Yet, it was because of their attack that the three men were slowed down enough to be captured by the state police. Seeing that all the people and dogs were inside, I rushed over, closed the heavy oak door, and threw the deadbolt. Dad held the landline receiver, his brow furrowed deep as he looked at me. The line was dead. Absolutely no signal. I remembered the case files from my previous life. By this time, they had already cut the external telephone wires. “Did they cut the lines?” I prompted, keeping my voice urgent. Having been a forest ranger for so many years, Dad didn’t deal with humans often, but he dealt with dangerous beasts daily. He possessed a sharp survival instinct. He looked at Tommy decisively. “Go put up the heavy window shutters. Now.” By then, Grace realized something was wrong. She hurried down from the second floor, staring at us blankly. “Let’s go lock the upstairs windows,” I told her. Grace dragged her feet, reluctant as usual, but I squeezed past her and ran up the stairs. With Dad downstairs, the first floor would be tightly secured. I wasn’t worried about that. 4 This house was built of heavy stone. Originally, it had only been a single-story cabin. But as Dad’s generation expanded the family, he added two more floors on top. Our family had been forest rangers since Grandpa’s time. The legacy was supposed to pass to my oldest brother, David, but he worked hard, went to college, and flew out of the mountains. He was never going to come back to this wilderness. Tommy had also talked about finding a job in the city, refusing to be cooped up in a mountain valley. Dad had rushed to marry Jessica into the family just to anchor him down. Back when Grandpa was a ranger, the forests were dense, teeming with all kinds of predators. Grizzly bears would bang on the doors in the dead of night. Therefore, the doors and windows on the first floor were heavily reinforced. With the six solid wooden shutters locked down, it became a veritable fortress. I had zero worries about the ground floor. The second floor, however, was a different story. It was built haphazardly. By Dad’s time, logging had cleared much of the forest, and wild animals dwindled. You could barely spot a timber wolf, let alone a grizzly. The second floor also had stone walls, but it featured four large glass windows—two facing south, two facing north. Though they were old-fashioned double-hung wooden windows, smashing through the glass would be effortless. Worse, they lacked heavy shutters. This was the weakest link in the entire house. The third floor was just an attic for storage. It had no windows, only a small hatch leading to the roof, which we used for drying wild mushrooms and harvested herbs. Jessica and Grace had already closed the four windows. Out of sheer anxiety, Jessica’s face was flushed, and she kept saying her heart was hammering against her ribs. I quickly guided her to a chair. This was no joke; shocking a heavily pregnant woman could trigger an emergency. “Are we safe now? I’m going back to my book,” Grace said testily. Her words jolted me. I looked in her direction, and my heart dropped. I screamed, “Oh no!” 5 Grace was standing right in the middle of the second floor, where a recessed open-air balcony sat, originally built for hanging laundry in the winter. There was supposed to be a heavy door separating the balcony from the interior rooms, but the hinges had snapped. Dad had taken the door down to repair it and hadn’t reinstalled it yet. Wasn’t this giving them a direct highway inside? My gaze darted to the wooden extension ladder resting against the outside wall in the courtyard. A wave of despair washed over me. Even without their brute strength to climb up, the ladder was practically set up for them! Who else could we blame? “Dad! Ethan! Get up here, now!” I roared. Dad and Ethan came bounding up the stairs. “Quick, we need to block this opening!” By now, my expression was grim and deadly serious, entirely uncharacteristic of a nine-year-old girl. Dad looked startled. He was a simple, honest woodsman, never one to make big decisions. He was used to being ordered around by Mom. Being yelled at by his little daughter left him dazed, and he instinctively followed my orders. There was a massive, old-fashioned solid oak wardrobe in the hallway, incredibly heavy. I called Dad and Ethan over to push it. The three of us exerted every ounce of strength we had, but the wardrobe barely budged an inch. “Sweetie, let’s… let’s try something else…” Dad gasped, wiping sweat from his brow as he straightened his back. Bam! Bam! Bam! The front door rattled violently under a heavy knock. “They’re here! Hurry!” I leaped toward the wardrobe, tearing open the doors and hurling the heavy winter coats and blankets onto the floor. Lightened, the wardrobe scraped loudly across the floorboards, leaving deep grooves as we forced it to block the gap. The knocking grew deafening. Just as the wardrobe was about to shut out the final sliver of light from the balcony, I saw Grandma, waddling on her small feet, hurrying toward the front door downstairs. She muttered, “Where did everyone go? Why isn’t anyone answering the door?” 6 My brain felt like it was about to explode. I flew down the stairs with lightning speed. Just as Grandma’s hand touched the deadbolt, I threw my arms around her waist and dragged her back with everything I had. Though Ethan didn’t fully comprehend what was happening, he realized one thing: listening to me was the only way to survive. He rushed over to help pull her away. Fortunately, the knocking outside was so loud it drowned out our frantic scuffling in the entryway. The moment we dragged Grandma into the inner living room and locked the connecting door, a heavy thud echoed from the courtyard. Someone had jumped over the perimeter fence. Our two golden hounds stood up instantly, low, menacing growls vibrating in their throats. Dad’s eyes turned lethal. Compared to human strangers, he trusted his dogs. The hounds knew exactly who was good and who was evil. He raised a hand, signaling everyone to be silent. The dogs obediently shut their mouths. “You’re useless!” I mouthed fiercely at Tommy, blaming him for not guarding the door and letting Grandma wander out. Tommy was terrified out of his wits and didn’t dare talk back. Afraid that Grandma and Grandpa might cause another accident, I directed Dad and Ethan to drag the heavy oak dining table over to barricade the front door. The table was made of a solid slab of timber, nearly four inches thick. Since the front door opened inward, it would be impossible for them to break through. The first-floor windows were completely secure. I told Ethan and Tommy to keep a strict eye on Grandparents, then I followed Dad back up to the second floor. Grace was scared to death now, clutching baby Lily tightly as she sat beside Jessica, not daring to breathe loudly. “Anyone home?” a man’s voice boomed from the courtyard. “We’re just passing through! Looking to get some water!” 7 Dad and I crouched beneath the second-floor window sill, peering down into the yard. Three men had entered the enclosure. They wore matching navy-blue utility jumpsuits. Stenciled across the backs in large bold letters was: PACIFIC POWER. Dad frowned, looking at me with deep suspicion. There was a wind farm on the adjacent ridge, and utility workers often came up for maintenance. Could they have just taken a wrong turn? “Dad, I really got that call. They are killers,” I whispered urgently. “But aren’t they from the electric company? Could the station have made a mistake?” Dad muttered, still hesitant. “Is anybody there? Just need some water!” the man shouted again. We held our breath, watching their every move. Seeing no response after a few shouts, the men sat down on our porch steps and took off their hard hats. One was tall and gangly, one was short and stocky, and the third wore wire-rimmed glasses. They looked exactly like ordinary blue-collar workers. It was impossible to connect them to vicious murderers. Dad’s brow furrowed even deeper. “Hey Marcus, looks like nobody’s home. Maybe we should hit the trail,” the tall one said. The short, stocky man—Marcus—ignored him. He walked over to our chicken coop, bending down to peer inside. “Clint, bring the bag over here. There are fresh eggs. Take them.” Marcus reached in and pulled out a handful of eggs, covered in feathers and dirt. Clint, the man with glasses, brought a canvas sack over, a look of pure disgust on his face. He clearly didn’t look like a country boy. “Hey, there’s smoked ham and dried corn hanging under the eaves. Should we grab ’em?” The tall, thin man stood on his tiptoes, reaching up. “Garrett, find another sack. We’re heading deep into the wilderness; we need to hoard all the food we can.” The tall one was Garrett. In truth, I knew exactly who they were. Twenty years later, when the case files were unsealed in my previous life, their names and faces had been branded into my very bones. Marcus Vance had served five years for violent assault. In prison, he met Garrett Boyd, who was doing time for attempted armed robbery. Clint Brady was Garrett’s brother-in-law. Not long after Marcus was paroled, Garrett invited him to a bar, where they got into a brutal brawl. They severely injured two people and killed another before fleeing into these mountains. Seeing them steal our food, Dad finally started to believe me. These were definitely not honest workers. I prayed silently, Just take the food and leave! Go deep into the woods and never come back! As if answering my prayers, they stuffed their sacks full of our provisions, opened the main gate, and strolled out arrogantly. I let out a long breath, my legs turning to jelly as I collapsed onto the floor. “Aunt Chloe, look!” Grace cried out, her voice trembling. I spun around, and my heart stopped.

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I went diving with my boyfriend during vacation. Underwater, his classmate Keira yanked off my mask. After barely making it back to shore alive, I immediately called the police and had her arrested. My boyfriend watched everything I did and nodded silently. “Keira really needed to be taught a lesson.” But a year later on the same date, I was kidnapped and taken to a deserted island. Slaps rained down on my face. “You love tattling to the police, don’t you? Go ahead, report me! You owe me this! You owe me!” The voice was familiar yet crazed—it was Keira, my boyfriend’s classmate who had just been released from prison. My face burned with stinging pain, but my boyfriend beside me remained unmoved. He even handed Keira a glass of hot water. “Don’t be scared. Once Keira vents her anger, it’ll be fine. We owe her this.” But he didn’t know—I was pregnant. And if my phone lost signal for more than 18 hours, it would automatically send my satellite location to my three brothers. 0 Tears welled in my eyes as I looked at Zachary with desperate hope. “Save me, please.” The usually proud me was begging him. It moved Zachary, but after glancing at Keira and looking back at me, his eyes held only apology. “I…” I’m carrying our child—but before I could finish, he cut me off. “Miranda, we owe Keira this.” Zachary kissed away the tears at the corners of my eyes, gently blowing on my reddened, swollen face. “Don’t worry, Keira knows her limits.” On the other side, watching Zachary kiss me only enraged Keira further. She grabbed the rope binding me and dragged me to the shore, kicking at the back of my knees. But my pride as a Holmes daughter wouldn’t let me kneel. “Let me go!” I kept shouting, but it was useless—this was an isolated island. “Shout all you want! I’m taking you diving. You love diving, don’t you?” She grabbed my hair and yanked hard. My scalp screamed with pain. “If you hadn’t gone diving, how would I have ‘accidentally’ removed your mask? It’s all your fault!” So it was about last year’s diving incident. But that was clearly deliberate—how could a woman in her twenties do that by accident? I twisted my body, struggling violently, which only made her pull my hair harder. “Stop moving!” Keira suddenly shoved my head underwater for dozens of seconds. Watching me choke and struggle, she revealed a maniacal smile. “I just love Zachary, that’s all. He rejected me, so I wanted to punish you a little. Why did you have to be so aggressive? Why did you have me arrested? What’s wrong with loving someone?” At this, Keira’s rage peaked, and she kicked me in the stomach. That one kick nearly caused a miscarriage. The intense pain made me cry out: “Help… save my baby!” Keira panicked too. Just then, footsteps sounded from the nearby bushes. It was Zachary, returning with the medical kit. Seeing me lying on the ground screaming, his pupils constricted. He slid to his knees beside me, trembling hands lifting me up. “Zachary, she’s pregnant? I think I kicked her and she’s bleeding. Do you feel sorry for her?” Keira ran to Zachary’s side, watching him anxiously. Zachary’s face looked terrible. Seeing this, Keira broke down crying. “What about me? What about the harm I suffered in prison? You knew I liked you!” Zachary struggled to tear his gaze from me, releasing his hold and laying me back down. He turned and embraced Keira, patting her soothingly. “I know, Keira, I know. But I only love Miranda.” He sighed again, his eyes overflowing with heartache as he looked at me. “This… this is what we owe you.” Zachary retrieved surgical tools from the medical kit that he always carried. In the dusty air, he walked toward me step by step. I wanted to push him away, but I had no strength left. I could only watch helplessly as Zachary’s hands moved. The anesthesia was administered. I lost consciousness. Zachary, is this what you meant by protecting me? When I woke again, I felt the connection with my child severed. I screamed in anguish: “What gives you the right? That was my child! What right did you have to decide his life or death alone?” Just two days ago, I’d ordered so many cute baby clothes online, imagining my baby calling me “Mommy.” 0

Zachary was the city’s renowned surgical prodigy. Patients he’d saved would come to the hospital to praise his skills. When I wanted to become a travel blogger, my family disagreed. After fighting with my eldest brother, I got into a car accident. It was Zachary who saved me. He decisively performed surgery on me right in the ambulance, saving my leg. He later became my attending physician. Back then, he was gentle as jade, yet his cheeks would flush slightly whenever he looked at me, and he’d bring me breakfast every day. Because of his shyness, even after I was discharged, he never worked up the courage to ask for my contact information. The next time I ended up in the hospital was for appendicitis. Zachary had prepared several surgical plans, explaining the risks of each one to me. Later, I passed by his office and overheard his conversation with a colleague. “Miranda Holmes’s surgery was already assigned to me. Why did you suddenly take it over? I’ve done thousands of these minor procedures, okay?” But Zachary told his colleague word by word: “I want Miranda Holmes’s surgery. Nothing can go wrong!” That was the moment my heart began beating for Zachary. And now? He moved me to a picnic blanket and performed an abortion on me outdoors, completely disregarding cross-specialty surgery protocols and environmental hygiene issues. That night, I lay in the tent with tears streaming down my face. Zachary was at a loss, wiping away my tears again and again. “Miranda, Miranda, don’t cry. We’ll have another child. I’ll stay with you tonight. Don’t be afraid—there are no wild animals on this island.” He kept pecking kisses on my face, each one bringing damp warmth, trying to dissolve my sadness. But how could the pain of losing a child disappear with just a few kisses? I suppressed the nausea churning in my stomach and didn’t move. Before the lights were even off, screams and sobs came from the tent next door. “Don’t come near me! Stay away!” Zachary looked at me with difficulty, hesitating. After a final scream erupted from the neighboring tent, he suddenly stood up and left. “Miranda, wait for me. I’ll be back.” After the moon shyly hid itself away, a fierce sound suddenly burst from next door: “Zachary, be gentle!” “Keep it down. Miranda’s asleep. This is the last time. I only love Miranda.” “Zachary, love me again, love me once more! You owe me this…” Keira whimpered and moaned. I don’t know what she did, but Zachary let out a muffled groan. “Fine, one last time. This is the last time!” Then came a series of explosive sounds, as if celebrating my miscarriage. Endless “last times.” I didn’t know whether to cry for my lost child or my lost love. I lay in the tent, my whole body in pain. I tried curling up to ease it, but it was useless. I crawled out of the tent bit by bit. Just a few more hours, and I could go home. But I felt so sorry for my unborn child. I would make them pay. Early the next morning, when Zachary emerged from her tent, I was sitting at the entrance of mine watching the sunrise. Seeing me, his face filled with panic. “Miranda, Keira was too scared last night, so I slept with her. Don’t worry—I only love you.” Zachary took off his jacket and draped it over me, looking concerned about me catching cold. Keira didn’t wake up until noon. She yanked the jacket off me and tossed it to Zachary, saying, “Zachary, I’m hungry. Let’s have barbecue. But we don’t have anything to start a fire with. What should we do?” “I know! We’ll use her clothes to start the fire!” Keira asked and answered her own question, then pointed at my skirt, about to step forward and take it off. This time, Zachary stood firmly in front of me. “No! Miranda just had an abortion yesterday!” “Why not? In prison, they used my clothes to start fires. Why can’t we use hers?” Keira knelt on the ground, muttering repeatedly: “When they stripped my clothes to start fires and made me bark like a dog, where were you? Why do you always help her? Who’s going to help me?” “I want my dad back!” Hearing this, Zachary felt another stab to his heart. Keira’s father was his lifesaver. To protect Zachary from an angry patient, he’d been stabbed through the heart and couldn’t be saved. From then on, Zachary had always taken care of Keira. He softened again. 0

Zachary turned to look at me. “Miranda, I’m sorry. I’ll only use your t-shirt. I’ll leave the skirt so you won’t catch cold.” I backed away in disbelief. After resting all night, I’d recovered some strength. I pushed him away hard and tried to run, but within a few steps, Keira grabbed my hair. “Don’t run! You owe me this!” Keira tore my t-shirt to shreds. The pieces fell to the ground. “Ah!” As the only daughter of the Holmes family, I had never suffered such humiliation. I swung my hand to slap her, but Zachary caught my raised arm. “Miranda, Keira’s still young.” Still young at over twenty? Keira was only five years younger than me. But I didn’t dare argue back. On this island, only Zachary had any surface-level affection for me. If I fell out with him, I didn’t dare imagine what would happen. I could only endure. Keira looked at the shredded clothes on the ground, her eyes suddenly brightening. She wove all the fabric scraps together into a long whip, then casually struck me across the face with it. “Bad dog!” Zachary was so close to me. He didn’t help me avoid the danger I faced, yet earlier he’d reflexively protected Keira. Though I’d decided last night I would never love him again, my heart still felt like it was being stabbed with needles. “Keira, what are you doing?” Zachary’s stern rebuke only made Keira more manic. “I’m making her be my dog! That’s what I did in prison too. If Dad were here, he’d help me.” She turned and retrieved a frisbee from the tent, threw it far away, then cracked the whip at me. “Go fetch it!” Zachary was still immersed in guilt over “if Dad were here, he’d help me,” indifferent to my situation. He even turned and said, “I’ll go make food.” Then he walked away without looking back. Keira’s whip kept striking my body, but my pride as a Holmes daughter wouldn’t allow me to submit. Seeing I still wouldn’t move, she bent down and whispered, “Miranda Holmes, if you play my dog this time, I’ll let you go.” Looking at her deranged expression, my anger reached its peak. “Keira, I can do it, but are you sure you can handle the Holmes family’s retaliation?” I stared directly into her eyes, my gaze filled with killing intent. She was startled, then burst out laughing. “The Holmes family? Everyone knows Holmes Group only has three sons. There’s no daughter! Now crawl!” When she said the last sentence, her eyes were vicious, and she struck me with another whip using all her strength. My body screamed with pain. I took a deep breath and knelt down on all fours. Keira jumped for joy, saying to me: “Good dog, go fetch!” I crawled toward the frisbee step by step. Every movement pulled at my body painfully. Keira followed behind me and whipped me again. “Bad dog! I told you to pick it up in your mouth!” I took a deep breath, picked up the frisbee with my teeth, and crawled toward Keira. When I reached her, she proudly patted my head. She bent down, revealing marks from last night’s battle, and whispered in my ear: “Good girl, so good. I’ll reward you with some good news!” “You don’t know this, but I didn’t suffer any injuries in prison. The women’s prison I stayed in—how could there be men to get me pregnant? It was just day after day of moral education lectures that gave me a headache.” “And my dad—that time when he blocked the knife during the medical dispute, I was the one who pushed him forward. I couldn’t let my beloved Zachary get hurt.” “Oh, and Zachary—last night’s Zachary was so passionate. You haven’t been satisfying him, have you? He wanted me again and again.” “Oops, I said too much. Good dog, you’ll keep my secret, won’t you?” Zachary in the distance didn’t hear what Keira said. He was still cooking with a guilty expression. Keira suddenly smiled, raised the whip, and struck herself with it. She screamed, and Zachary dropped what he was holding and ran over. But Zachary’s first glance wasn’t at her—it was at me, lying on the ground covered in sand. He wanted to come forward and brush the sand off me, but Keira collapsed weakly into his arms, her eyes brimming with tears. “Zachary, she hit me! Maybe she wants to play with you. Throw a frisbee and see if she’ll fetch it.” Zachary touched the whip mark on Keira’s arm, closed his eyes, and casually threw the frisbee dozens of meters away. I closed my eyes in despair… Suddenly, a roar came from the sky—the sound of a helicopter!

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On All Souls’ Day, my parents went home to sweep the graves. I was home alone and starving. I couldn’t resist eating a piece of bread from the offering plate. That afternoon, I started feeling nauseous. The next day, I was vomiting so hard I could barely stand. My best friend took me to the hospital for a checkup. When I saw the ultrasound results showing an early intrauterine pregnancy, I was completely stunned. I didn’t even have a boyfriend! Whose child was in my belly? I wanted to abort the baby, but my parents stopped me. They didn’t scold me or even ask whose child it was. They just took care of me attentively. Until the day of delivery, when I was delirious from pain. Before I could even look at the child, my father poured boiling water on my cervix while my mother strangled me tightly with a hemp rope. They looked at me with venomous eyes and said, “You got knocked up like a stray dog without even knowing who did it. Having a daughter like you is such a disgrace!” I fought back desperately, but it was useless. When I opened my eyes again, I had been reborn to the day of the checkup. This time I was going to find out the truth about my pregnancy!

After finishing the examination, the doctor handed me the report. It showed “early intrauterine pregnancy.” Exactly the same result as my previous life. Seeing me in a daze, the doctor seemed impatient. “Go home and think about it. Whether you want it or not, decide quickly.” My best friend Emily quickly pulled me out of the examination room, asking as we walked. “Think carefully—did you actually do it with anyone…” “No!” I interrupted her. “I’m with you every day. Have you ever seen me talk more than a sentence to any guy?” Emily fell silent. My mind was a complete mess. I clearly hadn’t crossed any lines with anyone of the opposite sex. How could I be pregnant? I just ate a piece of bread. Could there be something wrong with the bread? My thoughts grew more chaotic. I took a deep breath. No matter what the truth was, I absolutely would not keep this child. “Emily, I’m heading home first. You be safe going back too.” Emily wanted to say something, but I didn’t give her the chance. I walked straight toward the exit. Only after making sure she couldn’t see me did I turn around and head to the obstetrics and gynecology surgery department. In my last life, I was too obedient, too weak. When they told me to give birth, I gave birth. When they told me to raise it, I raised it. I died without ever knowing what was inside my belly. Not this life. No matter how this child got here, no matter what they were planning, I was getting rid of it first! There was a long line outside the operating room. I sat in the corner, clutching that ultrasound report. After waiting forty minutes, my turn finally came. The female doctor looked me up and down, her face showing mockery. “Abortion? Another case of getting pregnant before marriage, right?” Seeing that I didn’t speak, she rolled her eyes directly. “I’ve seen plenty of irresponsible young people like you. At least you’re here to get an abortion, which proves your brain still works. Otherwise, with a mother like you, how miserable would that child be?” Her words made my face burn. I tried to explain. But she waved her hand to cut me off, very impatiently. “Alright, alright, hurry up and take off your clothes and lie down. I’m very busy.” I awkwardly unbuttoned my pants. The female doctor was about to change into her surgical gown when she suddenly remembered something. “Wait, you haven’t shown me the ultrasound report yet, right?” “Not yet.” I quickly handed the report over. Looking at the operating table right in front of me, the heavy burden in my heart lightened considerably. Once the surgery was done, I probably wouldn’t die again. The female doctor took the report, and the impatient expression on her face instantly became serious. The person who had just been urging me to get the surgery suddenly did a complete one-eighty. Her face darkened, looking at me as if I were a monster, her tone hostile: “I can’t do this surgery. Get out!” Both the assistant beside her and I were completely confused, not knowing what had happened. The assistant patted my shoulder to comfort me. She was about to speak up for me when, after seeing the report, she started cursing at me directly. “Get out now! You bitch, someone like you should go to the eighteenth level of hell!”

I was thrown out. The operating room door slammed shut heavily, and my heart sank to the bottom. What the hell was going on? I looked at the ultrasound report in my hand over and over, but couldn’t see anything unusual. Suddenly a hand grabbed me. It was Emily. “What are you doing?” I stumbled to steady myself as she dragged me outside. She didn’t say anything. I was dragged all the way out of the hospital entrance, and only under a streetlight did she let go. I took two steps back, panting. “Are you fucking crazy?” Emily stood opposite me, her eyes red-rimmed. She stared at me, taking a long time before forcing out a sentence. “You can’t abort it.” I was stunned. “This child came out of nowhere.” “I don’t even know how it got inside me. You think I should give birth to it?” Emily took my hand, her eyes full of worry. “Your body isn’t good to begin with. If you abort this child, what if you can’t get pregnant in the future?” I looked into her eyes and shrugged. “Being alone is pretty good. Besides, I’ll have you to keep me company when I’m old.” Emily immediately broke into a smile through her tears. “But don’t be impulsive. Wait until things are clear before aborting. It’s not too late.” I observed her reaction calmly. She really was concerned about me. My heart warmed. “You go home first,” I said. “I want to be alone for a while.” “But you…” she said hesitantly. “I won’t do it again. It’s too late today. I’ll go home and think about it first.” Emily looked at me, her eyes still red. “Then I’ll take you home.” “No need. I want to clear my head alone.” She hesitated for a few seconds, then let go of my hand. “Then message me when you get home.” I nodded in agreement. She turned and walked toward the other side of the street. After a few steps, she looked back at me. I stood in place without moving, waving at her. She finally disappeared around the corner. I waited five minutes. Then I turned around, hailed a taxi, and went straight to the nearest private clinic—24-hour abortion services. The abortion fee at the small clinic wasn’t cheap. I gritted my teeth and paid. The receptionist led me into a small examination room. A middle-aged male doctor sat inside. Seeing that I was dressed lightly, he thoughtfully handed me a jacket. “Are you an adult, young lady? Do your parents know?” I was a bit nervous. “I’m an adult. They don’t know.” The male doctor was stunned for a moment, then showed a kind smile. “Okay, don’t be afraid. My place may be small but it’s very legitimate. Don’t worry.” He had a very approachable appearance, and most of my nervousness dissipated. He poured me a glass of water and handed it to me. “Don’t feel ashamed. Pregnancy is normal, abortion is normal too. It doesn’t mean anything.” I looked at him gratefully. “Thank you, doctor!” The male doctor smiled. “No need to thank me. Let me see your ultrasound report.” Thinking of what happened earlier, I hesitated a bit. But the surgery had to be done. Steeling myself, I handed him the report. The male doctor glanced at the report. His smiling gaze instantly became terrifyingly sinister, as if he wanted to rush over and devour me. “I can’t do this surgery! Go die!” He splashed the half-finished water in my face, roaring in a sinister voice. “Get out! You filthy bitch, get out now!”

I was thrown out again. I clutched the report, nearly on the verge of collapse. What the hell was going on? Why wouldn’t anyone perform the surgery for me? What was wrong with this report? Whose child was in my belly? One mystery after another was driving me insane. But I couldn’t break down. I had to find out the truth! I wiped away my tears and started thinking about my next plan. Since hospitals wouldn’t perform the surgery, I’d just do a medical abortion. Where should I do it? I definitely couldn’t go home. That’s where I died in my last life. My phone vibrated. A message from Emily: Are you home? I looked at those three words and hesitated for a few seconds. I had no one else now, only her. I called her. “Hello?” Her voice was a bit hoarse, like she’d been asleep and was woken up. “Emily, can I sleep at your place?” I asked. There was a pause on the other end. “Where are you? I’ll come get you.” Forty minutes later, I was lying on the couch in her living room. Emily poured me a glass of hot water and sat next to me watching. “What’s really going on?” she asked. “Didn’t you say you were going home to think?” I looked at the cup in my hands without speaking. She didn’t rush me, just sat there. After a long silence, I spoke. “This child can’t possibly exist.” Emily looked at me. “I don’t even know where it came from,” I said. “I’ve never had a boyfriend, never did anything like that with anyone. I haven’t even had my first kiss.” She opened her mouth but didn’t speak. My mind went back to that bread on All Souls’ Day. “On All Souls’ Day, my parents went back to their hometown to sweep graves. I was home alone. I got hungry and ate a piece of bread from the offering table.” I looked at Emily. “That afternoon after eating it, I started feeling nauseous. The next day I was vomiting.” She froze. “You mean…” “I haven’t had sex, don’t have a boyfriend. The only possibility is that bread,” I said. “I got pregnant after eating it.” Emily stared at me, not speaking for a long time. Then she laughed. “How is that possible?” she said. “Getting pregnant from eating something? You think this is a myth?” “I know it sounds ridiculous, but I can’t think of anything else,” I sighed. “Then think about this,” she leaned forward. “The night after you ate the bread, after you fell asleep, did you feel sore all over when you woke up the next day?” I was stunned. “No.” “Are you sure?” “I’m sure. I just woke up normally.” “Then is it possible…” her voice lowered, “that someone came in?” I understood her implication. “Impossible,” I shook my head. “My house is on the seventh floor, the door lock was fine. And even if someone came in, how could I have felt nothing at all?” Emily stopped talking. After a moment of silence, I took a deep breath and said: “Emily, I don’t have any money right now. Can you lend me some? I need to take pills to abort the child.” She was stunned for a moment, then nodded. “What’s this talk of lending between us? Just use it. But won’t a medical abortion be risky? I’m worried about your body…” I shook my head: “The pregnancy is still early, medical abortion isn’t that dangerous.” Emily breathed a sigh of relief: “Then I’m relieved. But can you buy the abortion pills outside?” I sighed: “Probably not.” She frowned in thought for a moment, then her eyes lit up. “I’ve got an idea.” Emily picked up her phone and made a call. A few minutes later, she looked excited. “Done! The medicine will be delivered soon. A good friend of mine is a doctor—he prescribed it.” I hugged her gratefully. “Emily, thank you. Without you I wouldn’t know what to do.” My anxious heart settled down. At least I had a friend by my side who believed in me unconditionally. Half an hour later, the medicine arrived. Emily was afraid I’d make a mistake, so she had me rest while she busily prepared the medication herself. After preparing the medicine, she pushed me to take a shower, saying it was a necessary procedure. I happened to feel uncomfortable anyway, so I didn’t refuse and let her help me take off my jacket. The ultrasound report fell out of my pocket. Before I could pick it up, Emily had already grabbed it. “Oh, I haven’t looked at your report yet.” I tried to snatch it back, but she dodged. Emily held the report and looked at me with a smile. “Don’t be so stingy. The baby’s going to be aborted anyway—can’t you let me, the godmother, take a look?” With that, her gaze shifted to the report. Her sweet smile instantly vanished completely, replaced by a terrifying expression I’d never seen on her face before. Emily stared at me, her tone full of deep disgust and loathing. “The child can’t be aborted!” After saying this, she frantically dumped the prepared medicine into the trash can. I couldn’t care about her change in behavior. Everything stemmed from the thing in my belly. Tonight this child had to die! I lunged at her and grabbed the trash can. “Emily, what’s going on? What’s wrong with the report?” I asked while dodging. But Emily didn’t answer me, just chased after me like a mad dog. I was cornered. Her eyes were bloodshot, as if she wanted to kill me. I pressed against the wall, my mind in chaos. Just then, the doorbell rang.

It was my parents. Emily finally calmed down and opened the door. My mother stood at the entrance, my father behind her. Both their faces looked grim, but when they saw me, they forced smiles. “What are you doing here, Heather?” My mother walked in. “You sent a message saying you were sleeping at your friend’s place. We were so worried.” I leaned against the wall without moving. Everything that happened today was too bizarre. “It was too late so I didn’t go back,” I explained. My mother nodded, her gaze falling on what Emily was holding. That ultrasound report. She motioned for Emily to hand it to her. My mother took it and looked down at it. My father leaned over. The room was quiet for a few seconds. There was no change like I’d expected. They were just calm, like in my previous life. My mother looked up, her face wearing a smile. “It’s fine.” She put down the report and sat beside me. “If you’re pregnant, just give birth. Mom will help you raise it.” I looked at her. “You’ve had poor health since you were little,” she continued. “Abortion is too hard on the body. Keep this child—our family can afford to raise it.” Exactly the same as my previous life. Not a single word different. “Dad, Mom,” I spoke. “Aren’t you going to ask whose child this is?” They froze. My mother and father exchanged glances. Then my mother smiled again: “If you knew whose it was, you wouldn’t be hiding it like this. It’s okay, no matter whose it is, it’s our family’s child.” My father nodded beside her. I stared at their faces. In my previous life, I was convinced this way too. They said it was okay, said they’d help me raise it, said not to worry. I believed them, and then I died. This life I wouldn’t believe them again. “No,” I stood up. My mother froze. “What do you mean no?” “This child can’t be kept,” I said. “I have to abort it.” My mother’s face changed. “What are you talking about?” “I’m not talking nonsense,” I took a step back and grabbed the abortion pills from the trash, shoving them in my mouth. “This child’s origins are unknown. I don’t want it.” My father took a step forward: “Listen to your parents…” “I won’t listen!” Emily rushed over from the side, grabbed my arm, and kicked the trash can away. The remaining pills scattered all over the floor. “You can’t abort the child!” I shook her off. “Why not? Every single one of you won’t let me abort it, but do you know how this child got here? I don’t even know myself. Having it in my belly disgusts me!” No one spoke. I looked at the three of them. They all stared at me. Those eyes—exactly the same. I backed toward the side, backing up to the dining table and grabbing a fruit knife. Even though I knew from my previous life that my parents wanted me dead, at least not right now. I still wanted to gamble. Gamble with my life. “Let me abort it,” I pointed the knife at myself. “If you don’t let me abort it, I’ll die.” My mother screamed. “You’re crazy!” “I am crazy!” I shouted. “Let me abort it!” Emily rushed forward. I didn’t react in time. The next second, her hand was already around my throat. Her strength was frighteningly strong. She pinned me against the wall. My back hit it painfully, and the knife in my hand fell to the floor. “You fucking dare to die?” Her face was only four inches from mine. “You can die, but the child must live!” I struggled desperately, my nails clawing at her hand. My father and mother stood to the side, motionless. I suddenly understood. They were working together. From the very beginning. I was running out of breath, my vision starting to go black. Just then, my hand dropped and touched something. Then my eyes widened in disbelief. I knew—I finally knew whose child this was!

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My mother-in-law’s birthday was fast approaching, and for weeks, she hadn’t stopped dropping hints about wanting to celebrate at that ridiculously exclusive, Michelin-starred restaurant downtown. I jumped through hoops, calling in favors and pulling every string I had, just to secure a private dining room. Right when I thought everything was perfect, she hit me with a reality check so hard it left me reeling. “You know, you’re just so… performative,” she said, her brow furrowing, her tone dripping with disdain. I froze, standing there for a long moment, my brain entirely unable to process what she’d just said. Before I could even formulate a response, the lecture continued. “You get a little extra money in your pocket, and it just burns a hole right through it. All you know how to do is show off.” “You book high-end restaurants on a whim. You buy top-tier spa memberships without a second thought. You swipe your card for clothes like it’s water. You’re nothing like your sister-in-law. Now she knows how to live. She understands the value of a dollar. She’s grounded.” Hearing those words, my blood ran cold, and a dark, hot flush crept up my neck. How conveniently she had forgotten that she was the one who specifically requested this restaurant. She was the one who practically begged me for that spa membership. Even those clothes—she had picked them out and stood at the register, waiting for me to hand over my platinum card. So, I was the one breaking my back, spending my hard-earned money to make her happy, and in the end, I was nothing but a “performative show-off” in her eyes? 1 For weeks leading up to her birthday, my mother-in-law, Martina, had been texting me TikToks and Instagram reels of this ultra-luxurious, farm-to-table fine dining spot in the city. She made it abundantly clear, in that thinly veiled way of hers, that she wanted a grand celebration this year. She wanted to invite all our extended family and friends to gather and bask in the glow of her special day. I worked tirelessly, pulling favors from a client to secure the reservation, and even drove her downtown to tour the private event space. As Martina’s eyes swept over the velvet drapery and the crystal chandeliers, I saw pure, unadulterated satisfaction pool in her gaze. I was quietly patting myself on the back, thrilled that I’d managed to find a venue that actually met her sky-high standards. But then, she turned to me, her expression flattening. “I think you’re just trying too hard. It’s all very fake.” When the words hit the air, the polite smile I’d been wearing stiffened into a brittle mask. “Martina, what exactly do you mean by that?” She crossed her arms over her chest, looking at me with a casual, devastating indifference. “Oh, I don’t mean anything by it, Cecilia.” “I just think that because you have a little bit of money, you love to flaunt it.” “Booking fancy restaurants without blinking, buying exclusive spa packages, picking out designer clothes—it’s just… too much. You’re not like Brittany. Brittany is frugal. She knows how to actually manage a household.” “I’m just giving you some advice as someone who has lived a lot more life than you. This isn’t how you build a real life.” Brittany was my sister-in-law. My husband’s younger brother’s wife. A sharp, defensive anger flared in my chest. “Alright, Martina. Then tell me. How exactly should I be building my life?” She didn’t even hesitate. “Like Brittany! She doesn’t throw money away like you do. She’s practical. She’s salt of the earth.” “Last week, when I said my head was throbbing, you went out of your way to book me a consultation with a neurologist, and they prescribed me all these complicated medications that just made me feel worse. I called Brittany, and she just told me to brew some chamomile tea and rest in a dark room. And you know what? After the tea, I felt fine.” “When I posted on Facebook that I was craving strawberries, Brittany immediately texted me to say that out-of-season fruit has too many pesticides and sugar, and that I shouldn’t eat them or I’d upset my stomach. You, on the other hand, went straight to Whole Foods and bought those overpriced organic imported strawberries. I ate them, and sure enough, I got a stomach bug.” “And take this birthday party. You probably think you’re the martyr of the year, running around booking this fancy venue, don’t you? Well, Brittany already thought ahead. She’s planning to come over and cook me a simple, homemade casserole from scratch.” She looked at me, her eyes heavy with implied meaning. “It’s very easy to see who actually cares, and who is just throwing money at a problem.” I fell completely silent. Taking my silence as submission, Martina stepped forward and patted my hand, a gesture that felt more like a reprimand than a comfort. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m just trying to teach you how to navigate the world.” “Brittany and Jason don’t have the kind of financial cushion you and David have. It’s bad enough that you’re always subtly rubbing your privilege in her face, but now you’re using my birthday as a way to compete with her? Honestly, it’s a little embarrassing. You’re overdoing it.” I could feel the gaze of the venue staff burning into the back of my neck. My face flushed hot with humiliation and a deep, righteous indignation. “Martina, you were the one who explicitly asked for this—” She waved her hand dismissively, cutting me off. “Alright, alright. The deposit is paid, so we might as well not waste it. Just… be more self-aware next time.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked toward the exit, muttering under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear. “Money is absolutely worthless compared to genuine, heartfelt care.” I stood there, watching her retreating back, and felt an icy, hollow chill settle deep into my bones. 2 Martina has two sons. I am married to the eldest, David. Brittany is married to the youngest, Jason. David and I both have demanding, high-paying corporate jobs. When we got married, Martina didn’t offer us a dime. We paid for our own wedding, our own down payment. Conversely, she drained her entire life savings to help her youngest son buy a house and two cars, loudly proclaiming to anyone who would listen that she would spend her golden years living with Jason. Logically, when Jason and Brittany settled down, they should have moved Martina into their new suburban home. But a year passed, then two, and Martina never made the move. Eventually, Martina developed a string of chronic health issues. Seeing her struggle in her old, drafty house, I made the call to move her into our guest suite. I had made a quiet vow to myself: I would treat this woman like she was my own flesh and blood. I arrogantly believed I was immune to the cliché monster-in-law tropes. If I just loved her enough, if I was just generous enough, there would be no conflict. So, when I noticed she was still wearing faded cardigans from five years ago, I took her to Nordstrom. We bought entire wardrobes in one afternoon, and I handed over my card without checking the price tags. When she complained about the rough texture of her skin from years of hard work, I booked her at a luxury med-spa. I bought her an annual VIP membership and told her to bring her friends along, so she could feel pampered and proud. If she woke up with lower back pain, a top-of-the-line Shiatsu massage chair was delivered to our living room by 3:00 PM. If she mentioned a liking for a certain type of fruit, our stainless-steel fridge was perpetually stocked with it. Eventually, she stopped asking for things directly. She learned to communicate in sighs and subtle hints, trusting I would decipher the code. And I did. I never tallied the cost. I met every single one of her unspoken desires. I truly believed I treated her better than my own mother. I put her needs first, always. Even my husband, David, pulled me aside once and told me to dial it back, warning me that I was spoiling her to the point of entitlement. I actually yelled at him for it. I told him his parents had sacrificed for decades; now that we had made it, it was our duty to give her the softest, most beautiful life possible. I did all of this not for validation, and certainly not to “show off.” I did it because I wanted a warm, harmonious family. I didn’t want us to be the kind of people who kept a ledger of love. Meanwhile, look at Jason and Brittany. Since Martina moved to the city, they treated her like a liability. They kept their distance, dodging her as if aging were contagious. But their PR game was flawless. When Martina was sick, they didn’t visit; they called. A single, breathy phone call telling her to “get lots of rest.” Whenever Martina wanted a treat, Brittany was there to eagerly explain why it was toxic, unhealthy, or bad for her cholesterol—effectively saving them from ever having to buy it. On holidays, they arrived at our house empty-handed. When they left, their trunk was magically full of our wine, our leftovers, and gifts I had bought. Their excuse was always perfectly rehearsed: “Mom, you’re so much better off at David’s house. It’s so spacious here. Our place is just too cramped; we couldn’t bear to make you suffer in that tiny space.” A year ago, they promised to take Martina on a dream trip to the Grand Canyon, hyping it up until she was practically glowing with excitement. Months bled into a year. They never found the time. Ultimately, David and I burned our precious vacation days and took her ourselves. When we got back, Martina actually expressed guilt—she felt bad that we hadn’t waited for Jason and Brittany to be free so they could join us. Even for this upcoming birthday, on top of the Michelin-starred restaurant, I had quietly purchased a stunning, heavy 18k gold Cartier bracelet to surprise her with. I doubt Jason and Brittany even had the date saved in their calendars. If they remembered at all, they’d throw a cheap box of pasta in boiling water and call it a “meaningful, homemade gesture.” I used to think that because Martina was older, she possessed a quiet wisdom. I thought she could see people’s true colors far better than I could. I never imagined that, in her eyes, Jason and Brittany’s empty words were the pinnacle of authentic love. And I, the one bleeding myself dry for her comfort, was nothing but a shallow, performative fake. 3 The drive home was a blur. I gripped the steering wheel, my mind spinning, trying to rationalize it. Maybe I really had misinterpreted her. Sometimes the older generation just lacks the vocabulary for gratitude. Maybe her intentions were good, but her delivery was just harsh. I clung to that fragile hope until I walked up to my own front door and heard voices drifting from the entryway. Through the crack in the door, I watched Martina pull a velvet box from her purse. Inside was a breathtaking, antique sapphire and diamond bracelet. She pressed it firmly into Brittany’s hands. “Brittany, this is our family’s most precious heirloom. I want you to have it. Keep it safe.” Brittany made a pathetic show of pushing it away, though her fingers were already curling around the velvet. “Mom, no. You should give this to Cecilia. If I take it, she’s going to be so upset.” “Oh, nonsense. Take it. You and her are completely different breeds. I might be old, but I’m not blind. I know exactly what’s going on.” Martina’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, dripping with venom. “You see how she operates. She’s obsessed with showing off. She always has to compete with you, always has to have the best of everything. I practically live on top of her, and her family has already gotten more than enough out of me. This belongs to you.” Then, Martina leaned in, her lips practically brushing Brittany’s ear. “Don’t worry about her throwing a fit. I already gave her one. Yours is the real deal. Hers is a cheap imitation.” “You have no idea. She follows me around every single day, panting and begging for my approval like a pathetic dog. It is so exhausting.” The two of them locked eyes and giggled—a sharp, intimate sound that echoed in the foyer. Standing on the porch, I instinctively touched my wrist, feeling the lightweight, cloudy-stoned bracelet she had given me for Christmas. My heart didn’t just break; it iced over. The warmth I had harbored for this woman died in an instant. I pushed the door open. The heavy oak slammed against the wall. The two women jumped, their giggles dying in their throats. Martina immediately faked a dry cough, smoothing down her blouse. “Oh, Cecilia, perfect timing! Brittany and I were just talking about hitting the med-spa tomorrow. You should come with us.” I didn’t say a word. I slipped off my heels and placed them neatly in the closet. Martina sauntered over to me, her voice sickeningly sweet. “My skin has been so irritated lately. I wonder if that celebrity dermatologist you mentioned last month has any openings?” A cold smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. This was always her move. The subtle manipulation. The expectation that I would leap into action. Yesterday, I would have been on the phone in seconds, begging the receptionist to squeeze her in. And tomorrow, at the spa, I would have quietly slipped away to pay the massive bill for all three of us. But today? I was officially done playing the “performative” fool. “Mom,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “If your skin is irritated, you probably just aren’t drinking enough water. You should really just drink some chamomile tea and rest. Specialists are mostly just a scam to take your money anyway.” Martina froze, blinking at me as if I had just spoken a foreign language. A nervous tension rippled across her face. She probed, “Cecilia… are you still upset about what I said at the venue today?” I flashed her a blinding, utterly hollow smile. “Actually, Martina, I think you were completely right. Spending hundreds or thousands of dollars on a single facial? It’s wasteful. It’s not how people should build a real life.” I lobbed every single one of her insults right back into her face. The color drained from her cheeks. She looked nauseous. A dark, twisted satisfaction bloomed in my chest, and I leaned in, twisting the knife. “Besides, Mom, at your age, what’s the point of all those expensive treatments? Who exactly are you trying to look so glamorous for? It’s a bit much, don’t you think?” Martina’s eyes bulged. Her jaw dropped open in pure shock. She started to tremble, a fine shake that rattled her shoulders. “You… how dare you speak to me like that!” Watching her choke on her own medicine, the suffocating anger that had been crushing my chest all afternoon finally began to evaporate. 4 David practically flew through the front door, lured home by Martina’s hysterical, sobbing phone call. Jason was right behind him. Martina was collapsed on the living room sofa, wailing as if someone had died. “I have done nothing but love her! I treated her like she was the daughter I never had! And how does she repay me?” Martina shrieked, clutching her chest. “She called me vain! She called me shameless!” “I am an old woman! To be humiliated like this in my own son’s home… I’d be better off dead! I just want to die!” David rushed to her side, his face pale with panic, then looked up at me, his voice hushed. “Cecilia, what is going on? I thought you two were best friends. How did it escalate to this?” Before I could even open my mouth, Brittany stepped out from the hallway, playing the role of the righteous defender. “Cecilia, if I hadn’t been standing right there, I never would have believed you were capable of this.” “Mom simply invited you to have a nice spa day with us. If you didn’t want to go, you could have just said no. But to tear her down and degrade her in front of me? It makes me sick to think about how you treat her when nobody else is around.” Bolstered by her audience, Martina’s wails grew louder. “My life is a tragedy! I am a burden! What did I ever do to deserve such cruelty…” Brittany knelt beside her, rubbing her back. “Don’t cry, Mom. Please don’t cry. We won’t let her get away with this. We’re here for you.” David was getting frantic, his eyes pleading with me. “Cecilia, please. You’re always the rational one. Just tell me what happened between you two.” Four pairs of eyes locked onto me. I have never been the type of woman to drag things out. I don’t do messy, drawn-out drama. I do surgical strikes. I reached into my handbag, unclasped the “heirloom” bracelet Martina had given me for Christmas, and tossed it onto the glass coffee table. It landed with a hollow, plasticky clack. The moment the bracelet hit the table, Martina’s tears dried up instantly. Panic flashed in her eyes. David looked utterly confused. “What’s wrong with the bracelet?” “It’s fake,” I said flatly. David and Jason stared at me in stunned silence. Only Martina and Brittany looked guilty, refusing to meet my gaze. I let out a harsh, dry laugh. “Martina, ask yourself. Since the day I married into this family, have I ever treated you as anything less than my own mother?” “And how did you repay me? If you didn’t want to give me an heirloom, you didn’t have to give me anything. That is your right. But to hand Brittany the real, antique family jewels, and look me in the eye while you hand me a piece of junk to shut me up?” David reached for the bracelet. He turned it over in his hands. It weighed practically nothing. The gold plating was already chipping, and it smelled faintly of cheap metallic factory grease. David’s brow furrowed, his expression darkening as he turned to his mother. “Mom, how could you do this? If you were going to give her something, it should have at least been real jewelry. Wearing cheap metal like this can cause severe skin reactions.” Caught in the spotlight, Martina stammered, scrambling for an excuse. “I didn’t… I… We actually have two family heirlooms! One is just… lighter!” I couldn’t help rolling my eyes. “Drop the act. I heard every word you and Brittany said in the foyer. And in case you forgot, we have a Ring camera right above the door that records audio. Would you like me to pull the footage and cast it to the TV right now?” Brittany’s face tightened. She shifted into defense mode. “Cecilia, is this really necessary? It’s just a piece of jewelry. God, if you’re that jealous, I’ll just give you mine!” She made a dramatic show of yanking up her sleeve to reveal the stunning, heavy sapphire and diamond piece. Next to the sad piece of tin on my coffee table, the difference was staggering. She pulled at it, putting on an Oscar-worthy performance of trying to yank it off her wrist, though she magically couldn’t get it past her knuckles. “That is enough!” Martina snapped, reaching out to gently stop Brittany from pulling at the precious stones. “This is my family’s heirloom. I will give it to whoever I damn well please. No outsider has the right to dictate my choices.” Outsider. The word dropped the temperature in the room by ten degrees. I never cared about the jewelry. I cared about the insult. I cared that I had poured my heart, my time, and my money into making her feel loved, only for her to look down on me. To call me unworthy. To call me fake. What gave her the right to treat me like garbage? I owed her absolutely nothing. David stepped forward, his voice hard. “Mom, Cecilia is my wife. When she married me, she became family. You didn’t have to give her the bracelet, but you had absolutely no right to lie to her and break her heart like this.” Martina completely ignored him. She pointed a trembling finger right at David’s nose and screamed. “Break her heart?! If you two were actually successful, you’d go buy your own diamonds instead of trying to rob an old woman of her last possessions!” With a violent sweep of her arm, Martina grabbed the crystal water glass off the side table and hurled it at the floor. It shattered with a deafening crash, water and shards of glass exploding across the hardwood. David instinctively stepped in front of me, shielding my legs. Jason, sensing his moment to play the enlightened peacekeeper, sighed heavily. “David, Cecilia… look at what you’re doing. Tearing this family apart over a piece of jewelry. Is it really worth it?” He stood there, dripping with self-righteousness, painting us as greedy, money-grubbing villains who cared more about gems than family. My voice was ice. “Of course you’d say that. You’re the ones walking away with the prize. It’s easy to preach from the high ground when your pockets are full. If you’re so above it all, Jason, why don’t you take that bracelet off your wife’s wrist and smash it with a hammer right now? Then nobody gets it.” Brittany’s eyes flashed with venom. “You know what, Cecilia? I was willing to let this slide to keep the peace. But since you want to drag everything into the light, let’s do some math.” 5 Brittany’s threat actually made me laugh. I pulled up a dining chair, crossed my legs, and gestured for her to continue. I was dying to know what “math” she thought she had on me. Brittany sneered, her face twisted in ugly resentment. “I honestly don’t get why you’re throwing a tantrum over one bracelet. Mom has been living with you for years. Do you think we’re stupid? We know she’s been secretly subsidizing your lifestyle. And yet, here you are, throwing a fit because she gave me one little trinket. You are the definition of greedy.” “Every time I come over here, your fridge is packed with imported organic food. Your pantry is full of artisanal snacks. Mom takes you shopping and comes back with armfuls of designer bags. She pays for your luxury spa memberships.” “And that’s not even mentioning the fact that Mom is practically your live-in maid, doing your laundry, cooking your meals, cleaning this massive house…” “We have gotten absolutely nothing. Mom gives me one heirloom, and you lose your mind? You can’t hoard all the benefits, Cecilia. It’s not fair.” The longer she spoke, the more my brain short-circuited. Wait. Did she actually believe that Martina—a woman who hadn’t worked in twenty years—was bankrolling my lifestyle? Jason chimed in, rushing to back his wife up. “Exactly. We have never once complained about Mom playing favorites. We never asked for our cut. But David, if your wife is going to be this petty, don’t blame me for abandoning my loyalty as a brother.” I slowly dragged my eyes over to Martina. She was slumped against the sofa, letting out dramatic, pitiful sighs, entirely perfectly content to let them believe she was my wealthy benefactor. Brittany stepped closer to me, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Cecilia, if we had known that moving Mom in meant getting a free ride, we never would have let you take her. You stole our opportunity.” David opened his mouth to unleash hell, but I held up a hand, stopping him. I looked at Brittany, then at Jason, and finally at the old woman on the couch. A slow, terrifying smile spread across my face. “Is that right?” I said softly. “Well then. Take her.”

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My daughter turned seven this year, and she’s already a master of psychological warfare. She claims to have severe, debilitating germophobia—but only when it comes to me. To keep me out of her room, she’s used every weapon in a child’s arsenal: hunger strikes, temper tantrums that left her breathless, and even the terrifying threat of throwing herself from our twenty-sixth-floor balcony. I’ve spent years living like a ghost in my own home. I shower three times a day. I change my clothes every few hours. I’ve scrubbed my hands with such surgical intensity that the skin is peeling away in raw, red strips. None of it mattered. No matter how clean I became, I could never be clean enough for her. But today, at a sweltering, crowded theme park, the lie finally shattered. I watched from a distance as she stood in the middle of a throngs of people, happily licking ketchup off her fingers. Then, with a bright, genuine laugh, she threw herself into the arms of a strange woman, rubbing her face against the woman’s neck, unbothered by the sweat and the grime of a summer day. My husband, Thomas, a man who usually carries himself with the stiff gravity of a funeral director, was beaming. He pulled out a Polaroid camera and captured the moment, his eyes soft with a devotion I hadn’t seen in years. In that moment, the cold truth settled into my bones. My daughter didn’t have a phobia. She wasn’t afraid of germs. She was just disgusted by me. If this is what motherhood is, then I’m done. Someone else can have the job. 1 I stood across the street, paralyzed, watching a life that didn’t belong to me. My chest felt hollow, a dull, aching void where my heart used to be. Earlier that morning, my sister-in-law, Kimberly, had told me that Thomas was taking our daughter, Daisy, to the pier. I hadn’t believed her. “Daisy has severe OCD, Kimberly. She won’t even step on a rug if she thinks it hasn’t been steam-cleaned. Why would she go to a public pier?” “You don’t understand her, Lauren,” Kimberly had said, her voice tight. “The poor girl has to sanitize her silverware three times before she’ll touch a carrot. Even the specialists say they’ve never seen anything like it. She’d never agree to a crowd.” I remember sitting there, obsessively wiping each of my fingers with an alcohol prep pad, the sting a familiar companion. Kimberly’s expression had darkened then. She sent a location pin to my phone. “Look… I shouldn’t be the one to tell you this. But Thomas and Daisy? They’ve been living in a cage. They deserve a chance at real happiness.” “I’m begging you,” she added, her eyes flashing with something like pity. “Just let them go.” I didn’t understand what she meant. The alcohol was burning into the cracks of my skin, a sharp, searing heat. I’ve looked after Kimberly since she was in high school. I paid for her Ivy League tuition, semester by semester, out of my own salary. When she was stressed with finals, she’d get moody and say strange things. I figured this was just another one of her “episodes.” I reached into my bag—which was wrapped in a protective plastic sleeve, per Daisy’s rules—and pulled out my wallet. I handed her three thousand dollars in cash. “Do you need more for your grad school applications? It’s my fault, Kimberly. I haven’t been checking in on you enough lately. You’re clearly stressed, talking nonsense like this…” Before I could finish, a heavy tear splashed onto the crisp bills. She took the money, but when she looked up, her eyes were desperate, almost pleading. “Lauren,” she whispered. “Just go and see for yourself.” I couldn’t read the tragedy in her gaze, so I just nodded dumbly. On the Uber ride to the pier, I was still counting my supplies: hand sanitizer, N95 masks, disposable gloves, seat covers, travel cups. I was prepared for a crisis. But seeing the scene before me, the bag of “essentials” in my hand felt like the punchline to a cruel joke. Buzz. Buzz. I looked down at my phone. It was a text from Kimberly: Lauren, Thomas has waited for Isabella for years. Even Daisy loves her more. You need to see the truth. Isabella was the one who encouraged me all through college. I love her like a sister. Please, just let them be. Living with you is like being in a prison for them. They’re finally breathing again. A crack of thunder exploded overhead, jarring me back to reality. Within seconds, the sky turned a bruised purple, and a torrential downpour began to lash the pier. I stood in the rain, watching Thomas shield this woman—Isabella—in his arms with a protective tenderness I’d forgotten existed. Daisy, my “germophobic” daughter, was dancing in the rain, splashing joyfully into muddy puddles, her laughter ringing out over the storm. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. I turned off my screen and deleted Kimberly’s contact information. “Fine,” I whispered into the wind. “You want out? You’re out.” 2 Watching my daughter hold someone else’s hand without a trace of hesitation felt like a jagged blade twisting in my gut. I didn’t know how to move. My pride, my upbringing—everything screamed at me not to take another step toward them. I could already hear Thomas’s excuses if I confronted him: “We just ran into her, Lauren. It’s not a big deal. Don’t be so dramatic.” The mess in my head felt like a tangled ball of barbed wire. I dropped the bag of sanitizing supplies into a nearby trash can. I turned around and walked away, my movements numb. I needed to think. After ten minutes of walking through the rain, I spotted a tiny, hole-in-the-wall diner. It was cramped and messy; crates of potatoes were stacked in greasy corners, and the floor was littered with discarded napkins. A bowl of spicy chili was six dollars. It probably wasn’t sanitary, but it was cheap. The place was packed. People were sweating, wiping their brows with their sleeves, slanting their chairs back. The smell of grease and hot peppers hit me like a physical force. It was the kind of food I used to love before I got married. I realized I hadn’t eaten all day. My stomach growled, a hollow, demanding sound. I walked inside. “Give me the spicy beef bowl,” I told the woman behind the counter. “Extra jalapeños, extra hot sauce. And a side of greasy fries, well-done.” I hadn’t stepped foot in a place like this in years. Not since Daisy’s “condition” worsened. First, because Thomas and Daisy hated “filth.” Second, because Daisy claimed to be hypersensitive to smells. I had forced myself to live on a diet of bland, steamed vegetables and rice just so I wouldn’t offend her. The tears started falling into my spicy beef bowl. I had forgotten the last time I’d held my daughter’s hand or tucked a stray hair behind her ear. Since the phobia started, she would scream if I touched her. She would scrub the spots where I’d sat. She’d make me eat with plastic forks at the far end of the table. I’d spent a small fortune on child psychologists. All that money just to be told my daughter felt a “deep-seated aversion” to me. I had swallowed the bitterness. I told myself she was sick. I remembered when she was a toddler, how she’d curl into my lap and beg for “snuggles.” How she’d try to steal bites from my plate. Looking at the old photos on my lock screen, something inside me finally gave way. I loved the girl in those photos. But the girl she’d become? She was a stranger. Five minutes later, a steaming bowl of spicy beef was placed in front of me. The aroma was intoxicating. I grabbed a pair of cheap wooden chopsticks and started eating, letting the heat burn my tongue. I hadn’t even swallowed the first bite when I heard a familiar voice behind me. “Isabella, do you like these kinds of places? If you do, Dad and I will take you here every day.” I froze. My chopsticks hovered mid-air. “I love it, Daisy. But I thought you hated places like this? Your dad said you were a clean freak. He said you won’t even eat at the same table as your mom. If she knew you were here, she’d lose her mind.” Daisy’s voice was bright and chirpy, devoid of the coldness she used for me. “Oh, if you like it, I love it. I don’t care how dirty it is as long as I’m with you, Isabella.” 3 “My mom is so annoying… I don’t actually have a phobia. I just can’t stand her. She’s gross, she’s pathetic, and I’m embarrassed to be seen with her.” Daisy’s voice drifted over the booth, sharp as a razor. “For years, every time she looks at me, I just want to throw up. I wish I hadn’t been born from her. I wish you were my real mom, Isabella.” I set my chopsticks down. I leaned down and smelled my own sleeve. Nothing. Just the faint, clean scent of expensive laundry detergent. No mother should have to hear those words. I thought about the night she was born—the hemorrhaging, the emergency surgery, the way I nearly died just to bring her into the world. And now, she wished I wasn’t her mother. A wave of suffocating grief washed over me. Honestly? I regretted it. I regretted the sacrifice. I’d almost died for a “monster.” If the woman on that operating table seven years ago could have heard this, she might have just let go. Thomas chuckled. His voice held a note of pride. “Daisy just never clicked with her mom,” he said casually. “Maybe it’s her grandmother’s fault. Always hoarding junk in that big house. Daisy went there once and it traumatized her. Lauren’s mother is a bit of a basket case. All that money, and she lives like a vagrant.” My heart stung. After my brother died, my mother developed hoarding disorder. She filled the silence of her house with things just to feel safe. But she had always been good to me. She’d been more than good to Thomas’s family. My mother bought us our house. My mother used her academic connections to get Thomas his high-level corporate job. Thomas and Kimberly had lived off her generosity for a decade. And here he was, mocking her in a cheap diner. My hands began to shake. I had invited leeches into our lives. I had raised a viper. As I sat there, the name Isabella finally clicked. Isabella Thorne. She had been Kimberly’s high school English teacher. The pieces of the puzzle slammed into place. Years ago, back when I was busy working to support the family, Thomas had suddenly become very “involved” in Kimberly’s school life. He insisted on going to every parent-teacher conference. He was always dropping off lunches, always “helping out” with school events. They had been playing this game for years. And Kimberly, while taking my money and my mother’s help, had been the lookout for her “dear brother” and his muse. I watched through the gap in the booth as Daisy ran to the counter, eager to please Isabella. She was picking out toppings, her voice honey-sweet. “Isabella likes extra jalapeños, no bean sprouts, and double cheese. Right, Isabella?” Isabella laughed, tapping Daisy’s nose. “You’re just like your father, Daisy. So attentive.” I steadied my breathing. I pulled out my phone, turned on the front-facing camera, and angled it to capture the three of them behind me. Isabella was eating, sweating slightly from the heat. Daisy took a napkin and gently wiped the sweat from the woman’s forehead. My daughter—the girl who wouldn’t let me walk within three feet of her—was being a servant to a stranger. A part of me wanted to walk away and never look back. But I couldn’t. I could discard a cheating husband, but I couldn’t just abandon a child—even one who hated me. My mother’s voice echoed in my head: Patience, Lauren. Resilience. If I walked away now, I’d be failing the woman who raised me. I stood up. I turned around, my voice like ice. “Daisy.” My daughter flinched. She looked up, and for a second, I expected shame. Instead, her face contorted into pure, unadulterated rage. “Aah!” she screamed, her voice piercing the quiet diner. “You disgusting woman! Why are you stalking us? Why won’t you just leave us alone? We can’t even have one day of freedom!”

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The air in the private VIP lounge was thick with the scent of expensive bourbon and corporate ambition. It was our annual gala, the kind of night where hierarchies were supposed to blur, yet everyone knew exactly where they stood. Our new assistant, a bright-eyed girl named Bridget, suddenly pulled out her phone. She was vibrating with that caffeine-fueled energy of someone trying too hard to be liked. “Has everyone tried the ‘Core Persona’ test?” she chirped, her voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. “It’s trending everywhere. It’s supposed to reveal your deepest subconscious traits.” When she slid the link over to Zachary’s phone, the room went uncharacteristically quiet. Zachary was the department’s resident ice king. He was the kind of man who wore tailored charcoal suits like armor and spoke in bullet points. Even his stride was intimidating—efficient, cold, and relentless. Then, the result flashed on the screen for everyone to see: “The Nurturer.” The table erupted. Laughter broke the tension as colleagues started ribbing him, calling him a “closet softie” or a “den mother in a Tom Ford suit.” I held my wine glass with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking. I forced a smile, a brittle, plastic thing that felt like it might crack at any second. Nobody knew that this man—the one the world saw as a ruthless shark—had been my secret lover for seven years. For him, for that whispered promise that “the timing wasn’t right,” I had turned down a prestigious promotion at our London headquarters. Last year, when I found myself staring at a positive pregnancy test, I was the one who walked into the clinic alone. I had even scorched the earth with my own family because I insisted on waiting for him. Amidst the raucous teasing, Bridget was the only one not laughing. She let out a soft, staged sigh. It wasn’t loud, but it hit the room like a thunderclap. “Well, since the test spoiled the surprise, I guess there’s no point in hiding it anymore.” She tilted her head, resting it lightly on Zachary’s shoulder. “Zachary and I have been married for three years. Our son just turned one.” She smiled, a sweet, devastating curve of the lips. “At home, he really is a ‘nurturer.’ He’s the one who gets up at 3:00 AM every time the baby cries.” The words felt like shards of ice piercing my eardrums. The glass in my hand slipped. It hit the hardwood with a sharp, ugly crack, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. … 1 Bridget looked around the room, her voice clear and melodic. “I didn’t mean to keep it a secret. It’s just… office romances are so tricky, right? We didn’t want anyone thinking Zachary was playing favorites.” She nudged him playfully. “Plus, our families have been close since we were kids. We’re practically legacy. Once we had the marriage certificate, the ‘official’ announcement didn’t seem as important as the life we were building.” Zachary didn’t pull away. He just sat there, expressionless, taking a slow sip of his drink. The silence was deafening. Then, from a corner, someone whispered, “I knew it! I called it last week. I told you guys Bridget and the boss were a thing.” In that vacuum of sound, every word landed like a blow. “Is it true? Since when?” “Didn’t you notice? He only takes Bridget on business trips. No matter how late they work, she’s always the one driving him home. I saw a car seat in the back of his SUV last Tuesday.” “A car seat?” “Shh—their kid is almost two.” The gossip ignited like gasoline on a fire. Eyes darted back and forth, trading silent revelations. Every syllable felt like it was being branded into my skin. My ankle began to throb. I looked down; a sliver of glass had sliced into my skin. Blood was beginning to bloom against the pale leather of my heel, dripping onto the floor. A senior manager, Martha, leaned in and handed me a napkin. “Talia, are you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I shook my head, unable to find my voice. Bridget was still talking, holding court with the other women. “That night he was spotted? He was dropping the baby and me off at his parents’ estate. We do family dinner every Sunday. We haven’t missed one, not even on the holidays.” Last Christmas, Zachary told me he had to go back to his hometown to care for his ailing father. I spent the night in my apartment, eating takeout and texting him photos of the snow. He had replied with a single “K.” I hadn’t even dared to call, terrified of interrupting his “family time.” It turns out he was with family. Just not mine. “You guys are literal childhood sweethearts,” another colleague gushed. Bridget giggled, covering her mouth. “Our parents are already hounding us for a second baby. They want a girl this time.” At the mention of a baby, my throat tightened until it hurt. Bitter bile rose in the back of my mouth. A year ago, when I told him I was pregnant, he told me it wasn’t the time. He dropped me off at the entrance of the clinic, claiming an urgent board meeting. I lay on that cold table, listening to the hum of the machines, telling myself we would have another chance. That this was just a sacrifice for our future. I squeezed the napkin in my hand, my nails digging into my palm. Martha leaned in again. “Talia, do you want to head out? I can call you an Uber.” I opened my mouth to say yes, but Bridget’s voice cut through the air first. “Zachary, honey, can you grab my coat? My hands are full with this wine.” He stood up. He walked right past me to the cloakroom, his stride as purposeful as ever. He didn’t stop. He didn’t look down. He didn’t even flinch at the sight of the blood on the floor. When he returned, he draped the trench coat over Bridget’s shoulders, leaning down to whisper something in her ear. Bridget blushed, pushing him away playfully. “Stop it, everyone’s watching.” The room erupted in indulgent, warm laughter. I laughed, too. A hollow, jagged sound. He was a “nurturer,” alright. He just saved all that tenderness for someone else. I stood up, the blood on my ankle having already begun to dry into a dark, sticky crust. I grabbed my bag and walked right between Zachary and Bridget. As I reached the door, I heard Bridget’s voice behind me. “Oh, is Talia leaving? She looks terrible. Is she feeling okay?” Zachary said nothing. I pushed through the heavy doors, and the biting winter air rushed into my lungs. My phone buzzed in my clutch. A message from Zachary. Don’t overthink it. Bridget was just joking around. I stared at the words, standing under the flickering streetlights, and started to laugh. I typed back: Zachary, we’re done. I turned the phone off. I didn’t wait for a reply. The next morning, I traded my heels for flats. The office was a hive of whispers. “Did you hear? The CEO and Bridget… three years.” “I thought she was just an overachieving intern. Turns out she’s the First Lady.” “They’re so cute together.” I went to the breakroom to get some hot water, but stopped when I heard voices inside. It was Dustin, the Head of Sales and Zachary’s old college friend. He was the only person who knew about us—or so I thought. He’d caught Zachary dropping me off once and joked about “keeping a diamond hidden away.” Now, that joke felt like a slur. “You need to be careful, man,” Dustin’s voice was low. “Bridget is a firecracker. If she finds out about you and Talia, she’ll burn your house down with you in it.” Zachary’s voice was cool, detached. “She won’t.” “You’re that sure?” “Talia is obedient.” Those three words felt like a serrated blade twisting in my chest. I stood paralyzed, my grip on my mug so tight I thought the ceramic might shatter. Seven years of patience, of silence, of a lost child, and a broken relationship with my parents—to him, it all boiled down to me being “obedient.” The door swung open. Dustin walked out, freezing when he saw me. “Talia. Morning.” He didn’t wait for a response; he vanished down the hall like he was being chased. Zachary stepped out of the breakroom. For a split second, I saw a flicker of panic in his eyes, but it was gone before I could catch it. “Talia, let’s not talk about ‘breaking up.’ I know last night was hard for you.” He looked at me with that specific brand of manufactured warmth I had craved for years. “Listen to me. The marriage with Bridget… it’s a merger. Our families’ assets are tied together. The firm is going public, and I can’t risk a scandal right now.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “Give me a little more time. Once the equity is settled, I’ll deal with Bridget. Just wait for me, okay?” I had waited seven years. I had waited while he built a life with another woman and fathered a child. “Zachary,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “The last time you told me to wait was when you sent me into that clinic alone.” He frowned. “I regret that, but it wasn’t the right time. Bridget had just given birth. I couldn’t have her finding out about you—she would have made a scene at the office.” My stomach turned. He didn’t ask me to terminate the pregnancy for his career. He did it because he was afraid his wife would find out. A copper taste filled my mouth. The afternoon department meeting was a slow-motion car crash. Zachary sat at the head of the table; Bridget sat to his right, taking notes. I sat at the far end, separated from them by twelve people and a lifetime of lies. During the presentation, Bridget’s phone chimed. She looked at the screen and held it up for Zachary to see. It was a photo of a toddler clutching a toy car. The boy had Zachary’s exact eyes. Zachary’s mouth quirked—a genuine, soft expression I had never seen before. He had never looked at me like that. When the meeting adjourned, the hallway turned into a celebration. Bridget clapped her hands, her voice ringing out. “Official announcement! Zachary is treating everyone to a catered lunch today, and this Saturday, we’re hosting a housewarming party at our new place!” “Thanks, Mrs. CEO!” someone shouted. “Bridget is the best!” The laughter echoed through the hall. Bridget walked over to me and placed a cup of hot tea in my hand. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “It’s herbal,” she whispered, leaning in so only I could hear. “I heard you had a… complication last year. Women really should be careful with their health after a loss.” My heart stopped. I jerked my head up, staring at her. But she was already walking away, blending back into the crowd. Back at my desk, my phone buzzed. It was a message from my best friend, Gigi. I found the records. Zachary and Bridget Archer. Married March 15, 2021. March 15, 2021. He had worked late that night. He had kissed me in his car and told me that in two years, he’d be ready to give me everything. That morning, he had signed a marriage certificate with someone else. I was finishing some files when Bridget walked into the office, leading a toddler by the hand. The boy, with his chubby cheeks and Zachary’s brooding brow, ran right into my legs. He looked up at me, sucking his thumb. “Who are you?” Before I could answer, Bridget hurried over, a practiced look of apology on her face. “Talia, I’m so sorry. He’s a handful.” I shook my head, turning to leave. Suddenly, the boy lunged forward, tripping over his own feet. He hit the corner of a desk, and blood began to seep from a cut on his forehead. He froze for a second before letting out a blood-curdling scream. Bridget shrieked. “Leo!” The entire floor erupted. Bridget was on her knees, cradling the boy, her body shaking. She looked up, her gaze locking onto mine with terrifying intensity. “Talia! Why would you trip him?!” I froze. I hadn’t moved a muscle. Zachary stormed out of his office. Seeing the blood, his gaze turned into icy daggers aimed directly at me. “Did you do this?” “No.” Bridget sobbed, “I saw it! She stuck her foot out! She’s been acting weird all morning!” Zachary looked at me, his voice a low, lethal hum. “Pack your things. Get out. Now.” “Zachary, listen to me—” “I’m done listening,” he snapped. “I should have done this a long time ago.” He scooped up the child and ran for the elevator. Bridget followed, throwing one last look over her shoulder. It wasn’t a look of pain. It was a look of victory. My colleagues watched in silence. Some with pity, some with grim satisfaction. Not one person said, I saw it, she didn’t do anything. I stood by my desk, my fingers brushing against a potted ivy. Zachary had bought it for me. He said ivy was resilient. It didn’t need much to survive. As I walked out of the building, the sun was blinding. My phone buzzed. A text from Zachary: You went too far today. Leo is just a child. I didn’t reply. If he didn’t believe me, there were no words left to say. Suddenly, a wave of nausea hit me. I ducked into a public restroom and retched. Nothing came up, just bitter stomach acid. A terrifying thought crossed my mind. I waited until I got to a pharmacy. I sat in a stall, staring at the two pink lines on the plastic stick. Pregnant. Again. But this time, there would be no “waiting.” I took a cab straight to the hospital. As I walked down the hall, I saw them. Zachary was holding the boy, who was now asleep with a bandage on his head. Bridget was beside them, holding a bag of prescriptions. They saw me. Zachary’s brow furrowed into that familiar line of frustration. “What are you doing here?” Bridget stepped forward, her eyes red. “Talia, I know you didn’t mean it. Just apologize, and we can move past this. Zachary won’t actually fire you if you just say you’re sorry.” But I wasn’t wrong. I hadn’t tripped him. The hallway was busy with people. Zachary stood in front of me, his child in his arms. “Apologize,” he commanded. I shook my head. “I didn’t touch him.” His eyes turned cold—the kind of cold he reserved for business rivals and failed contractors. I never thought I’d be on the receiving end of it. “Leo said you did. A two-year-old doesn’t lie, Talia. Don’t make this uglier than it has to be. I still have those photos of you from that corporate retreat three years ago. Do you really want your parents to see what their ‘perfect daughter’ was doing to get ahead?” The blood in my veins turned to slush. Three years ago, I had traveled with Zachary for a deal. We were ambushed by a rival firm who set us up, taking scandalous photos of me in a compromised position at a club. Zachary had promised me he’d destroyed the files. He had sworn they were gone. “You… you kept them?” “Apologize,” he repeated. “Now.” “I’m sorry,” I whispered. The words felt like gravel in my throat. Not because I was guilty, but because I was exhausted. Bridget immediately stepped forward and grabbed my hand, her tears flowing again. “I forgive you, Talia. We all act out when we’re emotional.” I pulled my hand away and walked into the clinic. As the door closed, I heard Zachary’s voice outside. “Alright, let’s go.” Their footsteps faded, a seven-year tide receding from my life. Inside the ultrasound room, the doctor moved the transducer over my belly. “Are you sure about this?” “Yes.” My hand didn’t shake as I signed the papers. Not last time. Not this time. Because a man who uses your trauma as a weapon doesn’t deserve another second of your life. The next morning, the world exploded.

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It wasn’t until that sleepless night, deep in the hollow hours of the morning, that I finally saw my marriage for what it was. I had padded quietly toward our bedroom, my footsteps muffled by the hallway carpet, when the conversation drifting through the door stopped me cold. It felt like a jagged shard of ice driven straight into my heart. “Simon,” a woman’s voice purred, dripping with that practiced, fragile sweetness I’d come to loathe. “She was so angry today. Do you think she’ll figure it out? That I’m not really your ‘little sister’—that I’m the woman you actually married first?” There was a pause. Then, I heard my husband’s voice. It was low, soothing, the kind of tone he usually reserved for me when I was upset. “It wouldn’t matter if she did. Look, I care about her, but when I married you, Lydia, I swore it would be for life.” “So even though we’re legally divorced, that promise stands. I’m never letting you go. You’ll always have a place by my side.” In that moment, every doubt, every nagging suspicion, and every ounce of resentment I’d swallowed for three years finally made sense. The “depressed younger sister.” The constant, suffocating crisis. The way she clung to him. It was all a lie. From the very beginning, I had been the only one playing a role I didn’t know was scripted. I was the fool, the outsider in my own home. Looking back, the signs were everywhere. From the day I married Simon, I knew he came with “baggage”—a delicate sister who needed constant supervision. On our wedding night, she had burst into our honeymoon suite, sobbing that she was afraid of the dark, forcing Simon to sit by her bed until she fell asleep. When I was hospitalized with a grueling fever, she’d threatened to starve herself, forcing Simon to leave my bedside every night to hand-feed her dinner. Even on our rare date nights, a single phone call claiming she was “on the ledge” would send him racing home, leaving me sitting alone at a candlelit table. Once, just once, I had lost my temper. I had yelled at her to grow up. Simon had immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her like a precious relic. He looked at me with a coldness that made my blood run thin. “I only have one sister, Chloe. Wives are replaceable; family isn’t. If you can’t handle her, then maybe we shouldn’t be married.” At the time, I was so desperate to be “the bigger person” that I actually felt guilty. I had stayed up late that night, planning how to apologize to them both. How pathetic. If their bond was so sacred, so unbreakable, then fine. They could have each other. I was done. 1. When I brought up the divorce the next morning, Simon was walking toward me with a bowl of fresh Rainier cherries—the expensive ones he knew I loved. His face went ashen. He nearly dropped the bowl. “Divorce? Chloe, where is this coming from?” “Is this about yesterday? Look, I was stressed. I shouldn’t have snapped at you, but you were being so harsh with Lydia.” I looked at the man I’d spent three years building a life with. To be fair, when Lydia wasn’t in the picture, Simon was the perfect husband. He remembered my coffee order, handled the heavy chores without being asked, and would buy pounds of my favorite fruit the second it stayed in season, no matter the price. It was because of that kindness—that curated warmth—that I had ignored the red flags. I’d known he was a divorcee when we met. I’d known about his “troubled” sister. I’d jumped in anyway, thinking love could fix the cracks in his foundation. But now I saw the truth: his tenderness was a leftover. It was the scraps left over after Lydia had taken her fill. The woman wasn’t his sister. She was the ghost of his past, living in my guest room, sabotaging my life. The betrayal felt like a physical weight in my lungs, making it hard to draw a full breath. “I’m serious, Simon. I want a divorce,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Go live your life with your ‘sister.’ I’m sure you’ll both be very happy.” Lydia, who had been lurking in the kitchen doorway, instantly dropped the smug grin she usually wore when we argued. She shrank into herself, looking small and victimized, and scurried to Simon’s side, clutching his arm. Simon instinctively pulled her close. The guilt in his eyes vanished, replaced by that familiar, defensive flicker of anger. “Chloe, stop it. You’re using divorce as a threat now? That’s low. Have some compassion—Lydia is sick.” For three years, this was the cycle. No matter how reasonable I was, he always framed it as me attacking a defenseless woman. I let out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Sick? Simon, look at her. Look at how she plays you. Real depression is a quiet, heavy thing. It’s not something you use as a weapon to wedge yourself between a husband and wife every single day.” Simon’s brow furrowed, his jaw set in a stubborn line. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Her trauma is specific. She’s fragile, Chloe. She only has me. Is it so much to ask for a little empathy?” “I gave her three years of empathy!” I snapped. “I stayed quiet when she walked into our bedroom at midnight. I stayed quiet when she faked every ‘episode’ to ruin my birthday. I’ve been the one holding back, Simon. And you? You never once stood up for me. You treated my hurt like it was a personal flaw.” Simon opened his mouth to argue, but the words seemed to die in his throat. He just looked annoyed, like I was a difficult child refusing to play along. Lydia chose that moment to let out a theatrical whimper. “Chloe, please… don’t be mad. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t be here. I’m just a burden…” She made a move toward the door, the picture of a tragic martyr. “Don’t bother with the act,” I said coldly. “You don’t have to leave. I’m the one going. I’ll make plenty of room for the two of you.” Simon’s temper finally flared. “Chloe, enough! You’re being hysterical. You have no family, no support system. Where are you going to go if you leave me?” The room went silent. Simon froze, clearly realizing he’d crossed a line. He reached out, his face softening with a sudden, panicked regret. “Chloe, I didn’t mean—” But before he could apologize, Lydia’s eyes rolled back. She slumped against him, “fainting” right into his arms. Simon didn’t hesitate. He forgot all about me, his face pale with terror as he swept her up and rushed toward the sofa. Watching them—the way he held her, the way she clung even in her “unconsciousness”—the last flickering ember of love I had for him finally went out. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I simply walked into the other room, pulled out my laptop, and began searching for a lawyer. 2. Simon didn’t come home for three days. Instead, my phone was a constant barrage of texts. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about your family. I was just scared. I love you, Chloe. Let’s talk when I get back from the clinic with Lydia. I stared at the screen, feeling nothing but a dull, hollow ache. I didn’t care when he came back. I just wanted him to sign the papers. But life has a cruel sense of timing. In the midst of the wreckage, I found out I was pregnant. I grew up in the foster system. I spent my childhood longing for someone who belonged to me, someone who shared my blood. That longing was why I’d tried so hard with Simon. For three years, we’d been trying. I’d gone to every specialist, swallowed every bitter herbal supplement, endured countless injections and acupuncture sessions. Every month was a new heartbreak. And now, when my world was burning down, the miracle finally happened. I was standing in the hospital hallway, staring at the ultrasound photo with a mix of joy and absolute terror, when I heard a familiar voice around the corner. It was Simon. He was carefully guiding Lydia toward the exit. I moved to follow them, wanting to confront him, but I stopped dead just outside the waiting area. “If she really goes through with the divorce,” Lydia whispered, her voice sounding perfectly fine, “will you let her go?” There was a long silence. Finally, Simon spoke. “I won’t let her divorce me. She’s my wife. I’ll make it up to her. I’ll buy her whatever she wants. She’ll stay.” I leaned against the cold tile wall, a bitter smile touching my lips. His wife. He still remembered the title, at least. Then Simon’s voice dropped lower. “Besides, I’ve stopped the medication.” Medication? My heart skipped a beat. What medication? Lydia’s voice sharpened with irritation. “What? Are you blaming me now? You agreed to it when you realized I couldn’t have kids. You said you couldn’t bear to see her pregnant if I couldn’t be.” The world tilted on its axis. I felt like the floor had been pulled out from under me. Three years of infertility. Three years of blaming my own body, of feeling broken and “less than.” It wasn’t my body. It was Lydia. She had been drugging me. And Simon… Simon knew. “I’m not blaming you,” Simon said quickly, his voice frantic with the need to soothe her. “I understand why you did it. I know how much it hurt you to see her trying. But we’ve been married for years. We need an heir… a child to take care of us.” Then came the final blow. “And besides,” Simon added, “the kid will call you ‘Auntie.’ They’ll be there to look after you when we’re old. It’s the least she can provide for us.” A “compensation.” My child—the person I had prayed for—was nothing more than an insurance policy for his ex-wife. I wasn’t a partner; I was a surrogate they had tricked into their twisted domestic arrangement. The nausea hit me like a physical wave. I barely made it to the restroom before I was violently ill. I stayed there for a long time, gripping the edges of the sink, watching the physiological tears stream down my face. When I finally stood up, I didn’t call Simon. I walked back to the reception desk and made a different kind of appointment. 3. When I got home, the house smelled like a five-star bistro. Simon was in the kitchen, wearing the “World’s Best Husband” apron I’d bought him as a joke. The table was covered in my favorite dishes—pan-seared scallops, truffle risotto, a bottle of the expensive sparkling cider I liked. It was his classic move. Every time he let Lydia ruin something, he’d create a beautiful illusion of a happy home. He’d wait for me to soften, for the anger to fade into the background of his “kindness.” But the illusion was dead. I sat down at the table. I didn’t touch the food. I just slid the signed divorce papers across the placemat. He froze, his smile faltering. “Chloe, come on. I told you, I’m not signing those. I’m sorry about the other day. Lydia is my responsibility, but you’re my life. Why can’t you just accept her?” I looked at him, seeing the stranger behind the mask. “Your responsibility? Or your ex-wife?” The color drained from his face. “You… you know?” He let out a long, shaky breath, and strangely, he seemed relieved. “Okay. Fine. So you know. I can explain that, Chloe.” He started talking, his voice gaining momentum as he convinced himself he was the hero of the story. “Lydia and I… we just didn’t work out. We divorced before I ever met you. But after the split, she found out she was pregnant. She was so distraught she had a miscarriage. She can never have children now.” I watched him, my expression a mask of cold stone. “I owe her,” Simon said, his voice thick with self-inflicted martyrdom. “I destroyed her future. I have to take care of her for the rest of her life. It’s my burden.” Memories flooded back. The early days of our relationship. How he’d nursed me through the flu. How he’d hold the umbrella over me in the rain, letting his own shoulder get soaked. He’d told me that since I was alone in the world, he would be my family. He promised I’d never be second best. Every word had been a lie. He didn’t want to be my family; he wanted me to be a cog in his. “That’s your choice, Simon,” I said. “But I’m not a part of it. I’m not your debt-payment. Sign the papers. We’ll split the house and the savings, and you can spend the rest of your life making it up to her. I don’t care anymore.” When I mentioned the house, Simon’s eyes shifted. He wouldn’t look at me. “About the house, Chloe…” he whispered. “Lydia was so insecure. She felt like she had nothing after the divorce. So… I put the deed in her name. A few months ago.” The room went cold. My hand jerked, knocking a glass of water off the table. It shattered against the floor, but I didn’t move. When we got married, Simon had played the penniless romantic. He told me he’d lost everything in his first divorce and couldn’t afford a down payment. I’d felt so much for him. I told him it didn’t matter. I’d spent a decade saving every penny from my corporate jobs. I paid the down payment. I paid the lion’s share of the mortgage every month while he “invested” his salary. I thought I was building a sanctuary for us. Instead, I had been paying for Lydia’s retirement. They hadn’t just stolen my time and my fertility; they had systematically bled me dry. 4. Simon sighed, a sound of profound disappointment, as if I was being the difficult one. “Chloe, I know it seems unfair. But Lydia is fragile. She needs security. I couldn’t risk her having another breakdown.” “Besides,” he added with a sickening casualness, “I’m not leaving you. We can still live here. It’s just a piece of paper.” He spoke as if allowing me to live in the house I bought was an act of charity. Before I could find the words to scream, his phone buzzed. It was her. It was always her. He checked it, his face instantly twisting into a mask of anxiety. “Lydia’s not feeling well. I have to go to her.” He paused at the door, looking back with a patronizing smile. “Eat something, Chloe. You look pale. We’ll talk when I get back.” The moment the front door clicked shut, the bile rose in my throat. I tore through the house. I checked every drawer, every cabinet, every hidden nook. Finally, in Lydia’s room, tucked inside a jewelry box she’d “borrowed” from me, I found it. The deed. There it was, in black and white. Lydia Vance. Sole owner. My heart hit the floor. But then, another paper caught my eye, tucked into the back of the deed’s folder. A receipt. A five-piece designer jewelry set. Fifty thousand dollars. The date was exactly one year ago. I remembered that date. I had just undergone surgery for a lump in my breast. Simon had told me we were “tight on cash” and that we had to sell my engagement ring and some heirloom pieces to cover the co-pay. I’d cried as I handed them over, thanking him for “taking care” of me. He’d had fifty thousand dollars. He just hadn’t wanted to spend it on me. He’d spent it on her. The front door opened. Simon was back, and he’d brought Lydia with him. They walked into the living room and stopped, seeing the mess I’d made. Simon’s face darkened. “Chloe, what the hell is this? You’re acting like a crazy person.” Lydia didn’t bother with the “sister” act this time. She looked at the deed in my hand and her lip curled. “If you have something to say, say it to my face. Stop digging through my things.” I clutched the receipt so hard my knuckles turned white. “You stole from me,” I whispered. “Both of you.” Lydia stepped forward, her eyes flashing with a sudden, vicious energy. She reached for the papers in my hand. “Give those back. They aren’t yours.” “Don’t touch me!” I pushed her hand away, a reflex. That was all she needed. Lydia lunged at me, her fingers clawing at my arms. “You bitch! You think you’re so much better than me?” I was weak from the pregnancy and the shock, and as she shoved me, I stumbled back. I tried to find my footing, but she was relentless. She threw her entire weight into a shove against my shoulders. Simon’s face went pale. He finally moved, stepping forward to catch me. “Chloe! Watch out!” But Lydia grabbed his arm, jerking him back for just a split second. That second was everything. My back hit the sharp edge of the marble dining table. A blinding, white-hot explosion of pain ripped through my abdomen. Simon turned, his eyes wide with horror. And then he saw it. The bright, warm crimson bloom spreading across my light-colored skirt, staining the white rug beneath my feet.

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I returned from a three-day business trip just as the weekend was winding down, only to be greeted by a disaster. The moment I stepped into the foyer, I smelled it—dampness and standing water. The bathroom was a lake; the floor drain was completely backed up. To make matters worse, the sink was just as bad. The water sat there, stagnant and gray, refusing to budge even an inch. At the time, I figured it was just Lydia’s hair. She has long, thick chestnut waves that tend to find their way into every crevice of our lives. I called a 24-hour plumber and settled in to wait. While I waited, I mindlessly scrolled through a local community forum on my phone. A trending thread caught my eye, the kind of clickbait that usually makes me roll my eyes. The title read: “How do you guys dispose of used ‘wrappers’ so the spouse never finds out?” One comment was pinned at the top with hundreds of upvotes: “Whatever you do, don’t use the trash. Too risky. Take it from me: flush them or shove them straight down the drains.” The original poster had replied underneath: “Pro tip: Just do it in the shower or on the vanity. It’s a rush, and cleanup is built-in. I’ve been doing it for a year under my wife’s nose. She hasn’t suspected a thing.” I frowned, a flicker of disgust crossing my mind. People are pathetic, I thought. Probably just some keyboard warrior making up stories for digital clout. Right then, the plumber gave a triumphant grunt. He pulled a disgusting, tangled mass from the pipes and tossed it into his bucket. He looked up at me with a lopsided, knowing grin. “Man, you young guys really go for it, huh? Once or twice is one thing, but this kind of volume? You’re asking for a flood.” I looked down at the bucket. It wasn’t hair. It was a mountain of used latex. My entire body went cold. The air left my lungs, leaving me standing in my own designer bathroom, paralyzed. 1 I stared at the contents of that bucket, a dull roar building in my ears. It wasn’t possible. Lydia was the embodiment of grace. She was a respected professor at the university, gentle, soft-spoken, and endlessly attentive to me. I’m the CEO of a private equity firm; my life is a relentless cycle of high-stakes meetings and late-night red-eyes. She was my anchor. She had even gone as far as restructuring her entire teaching syllabus, moving all her lectures to the mornings and early afternoons just so she could be home to have a hot meal waiting for me when I got back. I’d offered to hire a live-in chef a dozen times. She always shook her head, her eyes crinkling with that sweet smile. “A chef makes food, Pierce. I make a home. I want you to taste how much I love you in every bite.” How could someone who loved me like that do this? It has to be the neighbors, I told myself, my mind scrambling for any shred of logic. A plumbing crossover. A backflow from the unit upstairs. I forced my heart to slow down. I forced my voice to remain steady. The plumber didn’t notice the world ending inside me. “I’m gonna crank the hot water, give the lines a good flush. If it holds, we’re golden,” he said. He turned the shower on full blast. Thick, heavy steam began to fill the cramped space, blurring the edges of the room. As the heat hit the glass partition of the shower, the condensation began to form a white, opaque film. And as the mist thickened, shapes began to emerge on the glass. Handprints. Several sets, overlapping in the center of the door. They were positioned at a height that suggested someone leaning forward, braced against the glass. There were large prints and smaller ones. The contrast was undeniable. Man and woman. The steam continued to swirl, drifting over to the massive vanity mirror. As it clouded over, more prints appeared. Slid marks, frantic grips, palms pressed flat against the silvered surface. I stared at them, and the words from the forum post echoed in my head like a death knell. “Directly on the bathroom vanity… it’s a rush… a year and she hasn’t suspected a thing.” I had never once pressed Lydia against that mirror. In fact, she was always the “shy” one. Prided herself on it. In the bedroom, she’d blush if I was too vocal, or turn off the lights if I lingered too long on her body. The idea of her doing anything in a bathroom—let alone with this kind of primal urgency—was foreign to the woman I thought I married. “All clear,” the plumber said, oblivious. “Water’s draining like a charm.” I moved like a ghost, pulling out my phone and scanning the QR code on his invoice to pay. I barely felt my thumb press the screen. He picked up his bucket and the heavy trash bag he’d filled with the ‘debris.’ He paused at the door, giving me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Listen, kid. A word of advice? Stop using the drains. It’s a hell of a lot cheaper to just take out the trash.” “I’ll take that bag down to the dumpster for you on my way out,” he added. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. What could I say? Thank you, but those aren’t mine? Sir, I think my wife is a stranger? The shame was a physical weight. I simply nodded. I stood in the center of our empty, pristine living room and felt a wave of nausea so strong I had to lean against the wall. A few minutes later, the front door clicked open. Lydia walked in, breathless, a fine sheen of perspiration on her forehead as if she’d been running. “Pierce? I thought you weren’t back until tomorrow morning! Why are you here so early?” She kicked off her heels and moved toward me, already reaching out to straighten my collar. Her touch was as gentle as it always was. “Have you eaten?” she asked, her voice a soothing melody. “I’ve got some sea bass and asparagus in the fridge. I’ll whip up that lemon-butter sauce you love. Give me ten minutes.” She turned toward the bathroom. “Let me just wash up first. I won’t be a second, darling.” I stayed frozen, watching her silhouette disappear into the room where the handprints were likely still fading from the glass. Nothing had changed. Her smile, her tenderness, her devotion—it was all identical to a thousand other nights. And yet, everything was different. She looked like my wife, but she felt like a haunting. Then, a thought struck me. Before my trip, Lydia told me she had to stay late at the university every day to run remedial sessions for students who had failed their midterms. She said she wouldn’t be out until 5:00 PM. I glanced at my watch. 4:00 PM. She wasn’t just early; she didn’t seem surprised that I was home. My driver had dropped me off; my car wasn’t in the driveway. How did she know I was here? 2 Lydia was a whirlwind of domestic bliss in the kitchen. I could hear the rhythmic thwack of the knife against the cutting board. She was humming a light, airy tune. It was a scene from a movie about a perfect marriage. But I was seeing the flickering of the film. I walked to the kitchen and leaned against the doorframe, trying to keep my voice casual. “So, how did you know I was home? Psychic intuition?” Her hand paused for a fraction of a second before she turned to me with a radiant smile. “Something like that.” “It’s the last day of the long weekend,” she continued, effortless. “The students were all itching to get out of there. I wrapped up early and as I was walking to the car, I just had this feeling. I thought, ‘What if the universe wants to surprise me and brings Pierce home early?’ I guess I was right.” Her tone was so earnest, so sweet. It made my skin crawl. I retreated to the living room and pulled out my phone, finding a contact for a man named Trevor. He was the Dean of Faculty at Lydia’s university. I’d helped him secure a major endowment for their new research wing last year. Hey Trevor, quick question. Did the university schedule mandatory remedial sessions for the long weekend? His reply came back almost instantly. Yeah, we did. Why? Did someone complain about the holiday hours? I felt a brief, pathetic surge of relief. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe the plumber was wrong. Can you do me a favor and send over Lydia’s schedule for the weekend? Just want to see when she’s free for a surprise dinner. My phone buzzed again seconds later. Lydia’s schedule? Pierce, you must be confused. Lydia didn’t sign up for the remedial sessions. She’s had the whole five days off. I assumed she was with you. I stared at the screen until the words blurred. The blood in my veins felt like ice water. Just then, Lydia emerged from the kitchen, carrying a plate of perfectly seared sea bass. The aroma was incredible, filling the room. She set the table and waved a hand in front of my face. “Earth to Pierce? Come on, eat while it’s hot. This is your favorite.” “Aren’t you eating?” I asked, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else. A faint, flickering blush touched her cheeks. She looked away, adjusting a napkin. “Oh, one of my TAs brought in some gourmet cupcakes earlier. I had way too many. I’m stuffed. You go ahead.” I ate. Or rather, I swallowed. The food tasted like ash and broken glass. That night, lying in bed, she propped herself up with a book, looking like the picture of serenity. I lay beside her, my heart hammering against my ribs. I couldn’t stop myself. I opened that forum again. With trembling fingers, I found the thread and posted an anonymous reply to that top comment. Aren’t you afraid the husband will find out? Minutes later, my phone vibrated. Afraid? Honestly, bro, the risk is half the fun. My ‘playmate’ is actually a professor. You have no idea how hard it was to turn her from a shy, ‘lights-off’ housewife into someone who craves every kinky trick in the book. Took me a solid year of training. Her husband was away today, so we hit the local park for a thrill twice. We were going to go back to her place—her vanity mirror is legendary—but she got an alert on her phone. She has a GPS tracker on his car. He was back early, so we had to cut it short. Close call. I gripped the phone so hard I thought the screen would shatter. Every word was a jagged blade. I remembered the blush on her face when she said she wasn’t hungry. The “cupcakes.” I felt a surge of bile. I rolled over, away from her. Lydia noticed. She put her book down, her voice dripping with concern. “Pierce? Honey, what’s wrong? You look pale. Are you sick?” I turned back and stared directly into her eyes, searching for a crack, a tremor, a hint of the monster hiding behind the mask. There was nothing but clear, blue concern. “Lydia,” I said, my voice raspy. “Is there… anything you want to tell me?” She blinked, confused. “Actually, yes.” 3 My heart stopped. I sat up, waiting for the confession, for the world to finally shatter so I could start breathing again. “What is it?” She let out a soft, melodic laugh and reached out, cupping my cheek. “I want you to take a vacation. A real one. No phones, no firm.” Her thumb traced the dark circles under my eyes. “You’re working yourself into a grave, Pierce. It hurts me to see you like this.” I felt a sickening mix of grief and rage. How? How could she say those things while her skin was likely still buzzing from another man’s touch? I don’t know what possessed me. Maybe it was the jealousy, or the need to see her break. I leaned in close. “Lydia, it’s been a while since we… really connected. I saw a post today. Someone said that doing it in front of a bathroom mirror is incredible. What do you think?” The change was instantaneous. The warmth vanished from her face, replaced by a cold, sharp mask of disgust. She recoiled as if I’d slapped her. “Pierce! What on earth has gotten into you?” Her voice was sharp, dripping with condescension. “You know how I feel about that kind of thing. I’ve had a grueling day, and you come home and talk to me like I’m some… some pornographic fantasy? It’s degrading.” She grabbed my pillow and shoved it into my chest. “Go sleep in the guest room. I don’t even want to look at you right now. You’re being disgusting.” In the seven years I’d known her, she had never spoken to me like that. I didn’t argue. I didn’t defend myself. I just took the pillow and walked out. I felt hollow. The exhaustion finally hit me—a bone-deep weariness that surpassed physical tired. I spent the night in the study, the darkness a suffocating blanket. I smoked cigarette after cigarette, watching the smoke curl in the moonlight, replaying our life together. I remembered the girl in the white sundress I met in the university library. The girl with the hauntingly sad eyes who seemed to carry the weight of a secret tragedy. People always said she was the lucky one—the girl from a broken home who married a millionaire. But I felt like the lucky one. She was the only person who didn’t want me for my bank account. She took care of me. When I came home drunk and defeated after a failed merger, she was there with tea and silence. I felt like I owed her everything. I thought I had saved her from her sadness. If she loved someone else… if she just told me… I would have let her go. Not because I’m weak, but because I loved the person I thought she was. But I couldn’t ask. I couldn’t bear to hear the words. As the sun began to peek over the horizon, I made a choice. I called a contact in cyber-security—a guy who specialized in “discreet” digital footprints. I gave him the forum details and the IP info. I was a coward. I couldn’t face her, so I chased a ghost. An hour later, the text came back. Target: Caden Vance. Senior Psychology major, St. Jude’s University. I didn’t even wait for her to wake up. I saw the note she’d left on the kitchen island next to a fresh pot of coffee: “Let’s not fight. xx” The sight of it made me want to scream. I drove straight to the university. I waited outside the Psychology building until the morning lecture ended. I stopped a student coming out. “Excuse me. Is Caden Vance in this class?” The kid nodded. “Yeah, that’s Caden. You looking for him?” “Where is he?” “Oh, Professor Sterling kept him behind. Something about a group project PPT they need to finish.” Professor Sterling. Lydia. The hallway emptied out. Silence settled over the linoleum floors. I walked toward her classroom, my footsteps heavy. Then I heard it. The muffled, unmistakable sounds of a woman’s moan and the rhythmic thud of a desk hitting a wall. My brain felt like it was exploding. I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I kicked the door with everything I had. The door slammed against the wall with a deafening crack. The scene inside was my own personal hell. Lydia was on the edge of her desk, her blouse unbuttoned, her hair a wild mess. A young man was positioned between her legs. She looked at me, her eyes glazed, her face flushing a deep, guilty crimson. I expected to feel rage, but as they scrambled apart, Lydia threw herself in front of the boy. She was shaking, her face ghostly white. “Please, Pierce! Go away! Let’s talk at home… please!” “Get out of the way,” I growled, my vision tunneling. “I’m going to kill him.” “No!” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “Just go! Please!” I didn’t understand. Why was she protecting him like this? Why wouldn’t she even let me see his face? I shoved her aside. I wanted to see the man who had destroyed my life. But the moment I saw him, the world stopped turning.

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